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"They do not have kings," Uram the Chipper explained. "Not like your kind. Sometimes the smaller settlements (like this one that you now rule) have a chieftain, but most times the Rovaick are ruled by a council."
"Council?" Skagoth echoed. It was a strange sight to see the slave hain beside the ogre on his massive stone throne, the tiny shelled creature whispering into the ear of a brute three times his size, but most had grown used to it by now.
"A small group, of their strongest, their richest, their most magical."
The ogre nodded. "Like Ommok's sorcerers."
There was no answer. Since being rescued from certain death when his party had been ambushed by Stog's band, Uram had only witnessed two of these much-renowned shamans: there had been Grekogork, the one that had left to command his own army when the ogres had divided their horde, but Uram had seen him only briefly, and then somewhere among the ranks of Stog's army there had been a brutish shaman that they called Oruk. The air of fear and mystery that surrounded the ogre shamans was enough to inspire fear even if Uram hadn't beheld Oruk's power when he used magic to rip apart a grown urtelem even as the djinn bound to him had fended off more stonemen.
"So the troll that comes to me is a powerful shaman. We will need to be ready to slay him if he shows even the slightest intent of unleashing a djinni upon us."
"No, not necessarily. The strongest are not always the richest; the richest are not always the most magical; the most magical are not always the strongest. That is why they have a council, a group of rulers: they will have one or two of each."
Skagoth snorted. The Rovaick were all so strange, but he was beginning to see now that they were perhaps more civilized than the mudhole-dwelling rats that they had at first appeared to be. Few of them could match an ogre's strength, but their craftwork was truly exceptional--take for instance the massive bronze sword that laid by the general's side. Though it had seen enough use to already have its own persona of nicks and dents, it was still a mighty weapon as long as a hain spear, sharper than any flint axe that the ogres could make, and of good enough make to survive thus far. If ogres cared much for such aesthetics, they might have even praised the weapon's beauty and elegance. But alas, it was for this great craftwork and their immense wealth that the warlord had begun his conquest of the Rovaick realms. In Ommok's name, of course.
He had already sent the king several carts of tribute in the form of metal weaponry and armor and dozens of slaves, but Omokog needed more. Skagoth would see all of this delivered of course, one way or another. It would just be easier if this coming troll intended to surrender his neighboring realm.
Murkruhl had no intention of surrendering his realm. The presence of ogres at their borders, and the swift destruction of the plain hain with whom they had often traded, had not gone unnoticed. The rovaick of the western Ironhearts had prepared themselves. Reports from fleeing hain had made clear to them that these 'plains trolls' conquered not for land, but for riches and slaves. And Murkruhl could see a potential working partnership with anyone after riches and slaves...
Soon enough the troll had arrived at the looted outpost and saw for himself these plains trolls. They were just as large as the hain refugees had described. Perhaps not as evil and monstrous-looking as some suggested, and far less toothy than normal trolls, but he could see the overall physical resemblance. However, Murkruhl could see that - if they had ever been - were not rovaick, and certainly not trolls. Why, one glance into their uncomprehending eyes was enough to see that they were quite clearly imbeciles. A race of mostly-imbeciles who were adept at war. Why had the gods seen fit to torment him with such idiocy? Still, he maintained his calm as they led him into a small council-room. It had been emptied out, and all that remained was a large throne-like chair at the far end of the room.
'Greetings!' the troll hailed as he approached the figure on the throne. There was a little hain seated on his shoulder, and a glance at this particular plains troll alerted Murkruhl almost immediately to the fact that he was different. Though scarred like the other brutes, his flesh was adorned with tattoos and piercings; and where the others walked half naked, this one wore some plated armor. The bronze was of rovaick making, of course. If that was not enough to confirm it already, his eyes spoke of a brain. The fact that he had a hain with him betrayed also his wit - there was no common language between the rovaick and these plains trolls, but there were established methods of communication between rovaick and hain. And so the gods saw fit to torment him slightly less - the race of mostly-imbeciles still managed to produce leaders of intelligence.
The hain addressed Murkruhl, "Before you is Skagoth, a servant of King Ommok. He is warlord...general of this host, and now chieftain of this settlement. He will hear you speak."
'I am Councillor Murkruhl of the West-Ironheart Rovaick Confederation. I thank you, on behalf of the High Council for accepting our diplomatic endeavours. News has reached us of your... kingdom's rapid expansion. You conquer in search of riches - and it is well that you should. Riches and treasures are worth fighting for, no realm can call itself safe without them. The High Council has no interest in warring with your people. What has taken place here at this outpost is an unfortunate misunderstanding. Your people want riches - our people have riches. If you attack us, we will have to expend much of those riches to rebuff you, and many settlements - like this one - will be destroyed. Destroyed settlements produce no riches. But if you leave us be, we are willing to trade with you and supply you with all that you desire - for a price, of course, some quid pro qu- hmm, some give and take. We will prosper, and you will prosper. But if you attack us then you may win and loot our treasuries - but then they will be forever gone. And we may win, and you will have lost both riches and potential friends. We offer you friendship and trade - and that is the very best of routes. You seem an intelligent commander, I am sure you will see the merits of what I offer.' His proposal thus laid bare before the warlord, Murkruhl grew silent and waited as the hain finished translating his words.
But Uram was struggling, it seemed. He looked plainly to the troll and explained, "Ogres have little concept of trade."
Skagoth let out a low growl, irritated at the two conspiring together in a language that he could not understand, and so the hain immediately turned back to him and began to have some conversation. 'Here, explain it like this if it is difficult: trade is where I give you something that is in my possession and you desire, and in return you give me something that you possess and I desire. I see you have a sword there for instance. We make swords aplenty, more than we need. We can give you swords. In return, you can give us precious stones, or gold, or resources - things that you have in abundance and can do without, and we desire.'
Uram the Chipper tried to explain this to the ogre, and in the best light possible, for it was his desire to prevent bloodshed. He was not happy with his current station, but at the very least it gave him the power to do something good for all the beings that would inevitably find themselves at odds with the ogres. There were far crueler masters than Skagoth.
But Skagoth clearly saw little in so-called 'trade'. "The weak do not get to keep things; things always go from the weak to the strong. It is looting or raiding when the strong take it by force, and tribute when the weak give. This 'mutual tribute' that you describe is foolish. They will give us swords for other things? What other things? Things that we loot from other Rovik? Why not just raid these Rovik and take their swords? It is a stupid idea, and this is why these foolish creatures are better off under the king's rule."
Uram tried another approach. "You do not have to take things from other Rovaick to have things to trade with these Rovaick; ogres could make their own things to trade. Or you could have your slaves make things to trade. It would be easier than fighting a war, and the troll also says that this way you will have friends."
Skagoth snorted. "Stog will conquer them if I do not; especially if we were friends and did this 'trading'. They must pay tribute. If they submit to Ommok, maybe they can be permitted to keep their council's rulership, and Stog will not be able to wage war against them without defying the king. That is the only way. Tell the troll."
With no further choice in the matter, Uram looked back to the councilor after that long conversation in the ogre language. He chose his words carefully; perhaps the two could be fooled into each thinking that they had won. "There are other hordes of ogres, led by generals far crueler than Skagoth. Skagoth offers this trade: you provide him with regular shipments of weaponry and armor, and he will have his army see to it that the other ogres do not bother your realm." There was at least truth in what the Chipper had said; Skagoth truly was willing to give protection to the Rovaick if it meant thwarting the efforts of his hated rival, and Stog truly was impossible to reason with. This trade, if it could be called such, was not the worst bargain.
Murkruhl considered the hain's words carefully. It was clear that this was little more than a demand for tribute in return for protection. But it had some merits. Sending small shipments of weapons to one horde was better than having to outfit expeditions to deal with both this Skagoth and others who may come after him. But at the same time, how long would it be before these warlike plains trolls - ogres, had the hain called them? - grew dissatisfied with a small tribute and demanded more. How long before they began interfering with the internal matters of the Confederation? Agreeing to this would only provide a short-term solution.
'We have no need for protection. We are well able to protect ourselves, and if our nation is truly endangered, there are hundreds of thousands, millions upon millions, of rovaick across the Ironhearts who will leap to our defence if we request it. We are not small tribes on the plains, we are nations. What we offer is the opportunity for both our peoples to avoid bloodshed and loss. I assure you, Skagoth, you will not find victory if you pursue a war against us. I can see that your people are strong and used to war, but we too are mighty. War will only mean suffering and loss for all of us. Heed me, and accept our hand extended in friendship. If there come other warlords in future, we will deal with them accordingly. But at the least, let there be between you and us friendship and trade. And who knows, you may well find that we are good allies to have against those who may... threaten you.'
Throughout that monologue, Skagoth's beady eyes regarded the troll. He understood the body language, if not the words, and no matter how Uram tried to defuse the tension with his translation it did no matter; the ogre was not listening. He changed from his slouched recline to leaning forward, and when the troll had finished, Skagoth stood up from the throne and barked some orders to the other ogres in the room.
Uram's eyes widened at whatever they were saying, and his teeth chattered. "Skagoth has something to show you." The troll had been somewhat taken aback by the plain troll's sudden outburst, but it got no more than a slightly raised eyebrow from him. When the frightened hain spoke he nodded, though suspicious.
'Let him show it, then.' He looked expectantly to Skagoth.
Echoing from one of the adjacent halls was the distant sound of ogres shouting something, followed by a few loud bangs. And then there was a bestial, bloodcurdling, animistic roar like nothing a rovaick would have ever heard before. More shouting.
No less than four ogres dragged the thing into the room, each holding onto thick ropes whilst another two prodded at it with long spears. The twisted warbeast looked vaguely like the ogres around it, but it shambled on all fours and was far stronger. Its massive claws looked like they might have been able to rip apart a tedar, much less a hain. When it caught sight of the troll, a burning hunger filled its eyes and it let loose another roar made all the more terrifying by its presence. The four ogres held it back with the ropes, but the ravenous beast still struggled so hard to reach Murkruhl that one would have expected it to asphyxiate itself. But it only grew angrier by the passing moment.
"Skagoth doubts that you can stand against the armies of his king. This is but the least of their might, he says. All things, from savage beasts to proud djinni lords, have knelt before King Ommok." Murkruhl looked with disgust and fear at the monstrosity they had brought in. And yet Murkruhl, who in his time had had the misfortune of witnessing an Ogru, saw this as but a poor imitation of true horror. But Skagoth's message was clear to the troll's mind - you should be afraid he was telling him. Murkruhl did not deny that he was. There was no shame in that - fear was good, it kept you alive.
'Tell Skagoth that I have seen it and understand. I do not enjoy its presence and would prefer it be returned to its pen or cell or wherever you keep it locked away. Then we can continue our... civilised negotiations.'
The message was conveyed.
"Should we not have the troll watch them feed the jogre?" the warboss asked as he smirked and sat back down upon the throne. Uram was at a loss for words, but fortunately Skagoth had the kindness to at least order the beast taken out of the throne room. They dragged it away even as it bayed and slavered, but from afar the sounds of it feeding upon an unfortunate goat were still all too audible. But soon enough the meal had ended, and the crunching of bones made way for shrieks as they prodded it back to wherever it was kept, and then there was silence. Murkruhl looked down briefly, deep in thought. And then he decided.
'Tell Skagoth that we agree to his terms. We will provide small shipments of war equipment on a monthly basis, and he will see to it that neither his forces nor the forces of any other ogre warlord pester us. Tell him that.' The troll's beady eyes watched Skagoth carefully after his words were spoken.
Uram nodded with a look of relief about him. He said as much to Skagoth with a few brief words, and then the ogre smiled. He sat down the sword that he had been toying with in one hand, then stood again. He approached the troll and patted it with one of his brawny hands.
"He says that this is a good day for your people. You have saved many Rovaick." Murkruhl smiled slightly, clenching his fist and keeping a passive face at the ogre's condescending patting.
'Indeed we have. The gods be praised.'
Overhead in an otherwise quiet sky, there was the soft beating of wings as a flock of sparrows flapped across the sky.
Below there stood a small assembly of tribal leaders. "Even the birds flee from them," observed Makmud.
Another chieftain, called Eiyar, ruminated for only a moment. "But not the carrion birds; those follow."
There was a tense and grim silence as the small group looked out from their perch atop a cliff and across the sea of grass below. They had been fleeing for many months, those survivors that stood there then. The ones that had chosen to defend their lands or to submit willingly to plains trolls were all gone; probably crushed, their broken shells discarded like rubbish, or perhaps taken as slaves. Some had chosen to wage guerilla warfare, and with hit and run tactics they had delayed the advance of their monstrous enemies, but it seemed in vain. Those brave souls were likely soon to disappear as well.
One of the hain was the High Chieftain Inoch, and these lands were under his rule. All the others had led their tribes away from their ancestral lands and fled here to the Stone Bluffs. This was a place frequented by herds of their urtelem allies as well as the closest thing to a natural fortress that these flatlands could offer.
The Stone Bluffs were great towers of rock that suddenly rose from the grassy plains like fingers reaching for the sky. It was here, on this sacred site, that the tribes of the plain and their urtelem allies were to make a stand against the ogres.
"I have spoken with the urtelem," Inoch declared, "and they say that our enemy is no more than three days' travel away. Soon the first of their trailblazers and scouting parties will be meeting with our patrols. So speak with your ancestors and your spiryts and your gods; may they guide us in battle or show us the way to the wraithstones below."
Makmud looked taken aback. He was a young chief, the only one among his brothers to have yet underwent his second hatching, and an ogre warmaul had left him to inherit his father's title far too soon. "The plains stretch on to the south, for many leagues. There are still places to go; we needn't paint the clay any redder with our blood!"
The High Chieftain angled his head back as he beheld Makmud. Inoch finally spoke softly, "And beyond the plains there lay two certain deaths: a great lake that stretches to the end of the world and has a foul undrinkable water, and a plain of nought but sand and fire devoid of anything but raging djinn. This is the only place left to fight, the only high ground in a hundred leagues. Here my folk shall make their stand. The wind breaks upon the Stone Bluffs and has done so since the dawn of time, and so too shall these interlopers."
Down below, a dozen hunters worked together to drag the carcass of a great plains beast that they had felled with spear and bow. They were at once met with help from a score of spare hands; together, they butchered it, smoked the cuts, and carried them to the massive food stores that had been piled over the past fortnights.
Chief Eiyar pointed to the scene as it unfolded below. "Nobody called you a coward when you took your people and fled your lands," he told Makmud, "for you never stood a chance and ran from certain death. But here we have a chance. If you flee, the remnants of your tribe will be without the aid of the urtelem or your allies in us; you will be hunted down on the open plains like that animal below. You would be fleeing into certain death, and that is what a coward would do."
...
"My kindred stay and fight. I shall check that my spear is in good shape," Makmud finally said as he turned his back and left for his tent. When he stepped through the fold, he began to shake. He breathed deeply, then unfolded a bundle of felt to remove the bronze-tipped spear within; the spear that his father had bought from the rovaick for three stones of meat, the spear that his father had always carried so proudly and had promised to leave for him one day.
A drop of water fell upon the spear. Makmud wiped it away, then cleaned his spear for the sixth time that day.
Beads of sweat dripped down Orok's back. He ground his teeth together, balled his brawny fists so tight that it hurt, and dug his heels into the ground. All of that did little to help with the mental strain, but it showed that he was trying almost as hard as the djinni.
They had only barely been able to drag the stonedjinni up from the ground below where it hid; even now, it roared, it glowed, and it thrashed with a primordial rage.
Auzrog was not exerting himself as obviously as his fellow shaman, but he too was battling the spiryt. Orok was holding it down while Auzrog broke it.
Auzrog held an open hand outstretched. There was a thunderous crack as a piece of rock inexplicably cracked free of the djinni's body and fell to the ground, and from the open wound poured magical lifeblood. The tall grass swayed back and forth as the stream of magic flowed through it and into the shaman's hand. Though the djinni's wild roars grew even more enraged, its thrashing grew weaker. Bit by bit, its lifeblood, its flicker, was being unwound like a spool of string and its fortitude diminished for each passing length that its adversary pulled away.
"Your lord is not here, it cannot save you," Auzrog called out to it in a tongue that few mortals could speak. "I am your master now, and you will tell me everything."
Whatever answer the stonedjinni gave wasn't even heard by those ogre brutes and captive hain slaves that had assembled around to watch the scene unfold, but it had angered Auzrog. The shaman stepped closer to the djinni. Orok's knees buckled as he restrained the elemental and kept it from trying to strike with all its might.
Auzrog siphoned away more of the raging elemental's essence, and then when it was sufficiently weakened he laid a bare hand upon the djinni's body and the two of them became deathly still. Orok was finally able to rest.
...
Shaman and dominated djinni had rested side by side in silent telepathy for many long minutes. At last, Auzrog opened his eyes again.
There called out a voice from behind him, demanding and its tone so deep and guttural as to sound like a bestial growl. "What did it say?"
Stog.
"The heen ran to the rocky hills. They have more warriors than there are ants in a mound. There's stonies too, three herds of them. And this djinni's master rules the rock hills and will fight for the heen."
All eyes looked towards the short, scar-covered warlord whose mad fury and dogmatic belligerence had made the most feared ogre warlord to ever walk these steppes, save only for the King of course. Stog laughed without a hint of nervousness in his expression; if anything, there was only a bloodthirsty adrenaline. He spat upon the ground and stomped upon an ant hill. Even as the tiny insects scurried out and climbed onto his foot to bite at flesh too thick to feel their attacks, Stog held up his massive bronze axe and proclaimed, "With my bad foot, I'll crush the entire mound of heen bugs myself!"
Their wild roars shook the plains. The warboss glanced back to Auzrog. "You an' Orok'll handle the djinn," he declared as fact. It was an order, and a tall one at that; few would dare to ever speak in such a manner to one of Ommok's few sorcerers, but Auzrog nodded. "We'll do what we ca-"
The shaman was drowned out by the frenzied battlecries of an entire horde of ogres, and the deafening, bellowing voice of Stog that somehow resonated through the din with enough clarity to still be heard, "And that leaves three herds of stonies for you lot! And more slaves and loot than we can carry! More than the king will ever need!"
Auzrog and Orok bristled, but nobody noticed.
"Bash your weapons on the stonies 'til they all break! Broken stonies an' broken weapons!" The battlecries rose up once more. In the mess of screaming ogres, Maga the ogress roared too.
Sticks and Stones
"They do not have kings," Uram the Chipper explained. "Not like your kind. Sometimes the smaller settlements (like this one that you now rule) have a chieftain, but most times the Rovaick are ruled by a council."
"Council?" Skagoth echoed. It was a strange sight to see the slave hain beside the ogre on his massive stone throne, the tiny shelled creature whispering into the ear of a brute three times his size, but most had grown used to it by now.
"A small group, of their strongest, their richest, their most magical."
The ogre nodded. "Like Ommok's sorcerers."
There was no answer. Since being rescued from certain death when his party had been ambushed by Stog's band, Uram had only witnessed two of these much-renowned shamans: there had been Grekogork, the one that had left to command his own army when the ogres had divided their horde, but Uram had seen him only briefly, and then somewhere among the ranks of Stog's army there had been a brutish shaman that they called Oruk. The air of fear and mystery that surrounded the ogre shamans was enough to inspire fear even if Uram hadn't beheld Oruk's power when he used magic to rip apart a grown urtelem even as the djinn bound to him had fended off more stonemen.
"So the troll that comes to me is a powerful shaman. We will need to be ready to slay him if he shows even the slightest intent of unleashing a djinni upon us."
"No, not necessarily. The strongest are not always the richest; the richest are not always the most magical; the most magical are not always the strongest. That is why they have a council, a group of rulers: they will have one or two of each."
Skagoth snorted. The Rovaick were all so strange, but he was beginning to see now that they were perhaps more civilized than the mudhole-dwelling rats that they had at first appeared to be. Few of them could match an ogre's strength, but their craftwork was truly exceptional--take for instance the massive bronze sword that laid by the general's side. Though it had seen enough use to already have its own persona of nicks and dents, it was still a mighty weapon as long as a hain spear, sharper than any flint axe that the ogres could make, and of good enough make to survive thus far. If ogres cared much for such aesthetics, they might have even praised the weapon's beauty and elegance. But alas, it was for this great craftwork and their immense wealth that the warlord had begun his conquest of the Rovaick realms. In Ommok's name, of course.
He had already sent the king several carts of tribute in the form of metal weaponry and armor and dozens of slaves, but Omokog needed more. Skagoth would see all of this delivered of course, one way or another. It would just be easier if this coming troll intended to surrender his neighboring realm.
Murkruhl had no intention of surrendering his realm. The presence of ogres at their borders, and the swift destruction of the plain hain with whom they had often traded, had not gone unnoticed. The rovaick of the western Ironhearts had prepared themselves. Reports from fleeing hain had made clear to them that these 'plains trolls' conquered not for land, but for riches and slaves. And Murkruhl could see a potential working partnership with anyone after riches and slaves...
Soon enough the troll had arrived at the looted outpost and saw for himself these plains trolls. They were just as large as the hain refugees had described. Perhaps not as evil and monstrous-looking as some suggested, and far less toothy than normal trolls, but he could see the overall physical resemblance. However, Murkruhl could see that - if they had ever been - were not rovaick, and certainly not trolls. Why, one glance into their uncomprehending eyes was enough to see that they were quite clearly imbeciles. A race of mostly-imbeciles who were adept at war. Why had the gods seen fit to torment him with such idiocy? Still, he maintained his calm as they led him into a small council-room. It had been emptied out, and all that remained was a large throne-like chair at the far end of the room.
'Greetings!' the troll hailed as he approached the figure on the throne. There was a little hain seated on his shoulder, and a glance at this particular plains troll alerted Murkruhl almost immediately to the fact that he was different. Though scarred like the other brutes, his flesh was adorned with tattoos and piercings; and where the others walked half naked, this one wore some plated armor. The bronze was of rovaick making, of course. If that was not enough to confirm it already, his eyes spoke of a brain. The fact that he had a hain with him betrayed also his wit - there was no common language between the rovaick and these plains trolls, but there were established methods of communication between rovaick and hain. And so the gods saw fit to torment him slightly less - the race of mostly-imbeciles still managed to produce leaders of intelligence.
The hain addressed Murkruhl, "Before you is Skagoth, a servant of King Ommok. He is warlord...general of this host, and now chieftain of this settlement. He will hear you speak."
'I am Councillor Murkruhl of the West-Ironheart Rovaick Confederation. I thank you, on behalf of the High Council for accepting our diplomatic endeavours. News has reached us of your... kingdom's rapid expansion. You conquer in search of riches - and it is well that you should. Riches and treasures are worth fighting for, no realm can call itself safe without them. The High Council has no interest in warring with your people. What has taken place here at this outpost is an unfortunate misunderstanding. Your people want riches - our people have riches. If you attack us, we will have to expend much of those riches to rebuff you, and many settlements - like this one - will be destroyed. Destroyed settlements produce no riches. But if you leave us be, we are willing to trade with you and supply you with all that you desire - for a price, of course, some quid pro qu- hmm, some give and take. We will prosper, and you will prosper. But if you attack us then you may win and loot our treasuries - but then they will be forever gone. And we may win, and you will have lost both riches and potential friends. We offer you friendship and trade - and that is the very best of routes. You seem an intelligent commander, I am sure you will see the merits of what I offer.' His proposal thus laid bare before the warlord, Murkruhl grew silent and waited as the hain finished translating his words.
But Uram was struggling, it seemed. He looked plainly to the troll and explained, "Ogres have little concept of trade."
Skagoth let out a low growl, irritated at the two conspiring together in a language that he could not understand, and so the hain immediately turned back to him and began to have some conversation. 'Here, explain it like this if it is difficult: trade is where I give you something that is in my possession and you desire, and in return you give me something that you possess and I desire. I see you have a sword there for instance. We make swords aplenty, more than we need. We can give you swords. In return, you can give us precious stones, or gold, or resources - things that you have in abundance and can do without, and we desire.'
Uram the Chipper tried to explain this to the ogre, and in the best light possible, for it was his desire to prevent bloodshed. He was not happy with his current station, but at the very least it gave him the power to do something good for all the beings that would inevitably find themselves at odds with the ogres. There were far crueler masters than Skagoth.
But Skagoth clearly saw little in so-called 'trade'. "The weak do not get to keep things; things always go from the weak to the strong. It is looting or raiding when the strong take it by force, and tribute when the weak give. This 'mutual tribute' that you describe is foolish. They will give us swords for other things? What other things? Things that we loot from other Rovik? Why not just raid these Rovik and take their swords? It is a stupid idea, and this is why these foolish creatures are better off under the king's rule."
Uram tried another approach. "You do not have to take things from other Rovaick to have things to trade with these Rovaick; ogres could make their own things to trade. Or you could have your slaves make things to trade. It would be easier than fighting a war, and the troll also says that this way you will have friends."
Skagoth snorted. "Stog will conquer them if I do not; especially if we were friends and did this 'trading'. They must pay tribute. If they submit to Ommok, maybe they can be permitted to keep their council's rulership, and Stog will not be able to wage war against them without defying the king. That is the only way. Tell the troll."
With no further choice in the matter, Uram looked back to the councilor after that long conversation in the ogre language. He chose his words carefully; perhaps the two could be fooled into each thinking that they had won. "There are other hordes of ogres, led by generals far crueler than Skagoth. Skagoth offers this trade: you provide him with regular shipments of weaponry and armor, and he will have his army see to it that the other ogres do not bother your realm." There was at least truth in what the Chipper had said; Skagoth truly was willing to give protection to the Rovaick if it meant thwarting the efforts of his hated rival, and Stog truly was impossible to reason with. This trade, if it could be called such, was not the worst bargain.
Murkruhl considered the hain's words carefully. It was clear that this was little more than a demand for tribute in return for protection. But it had some merits. Sending small shipments of weapons to one horde was better than having to outfit expeditions to deal with both this Skagoth and others who may come after him. But at the same time, how long would it be before these warlike plains trolls - ogres, had the hain called them? - grew dissatisfied with a small tribute and demanded more. How long before they began interfering with the internal matters of the Confederation? Agreeing to this would only provide a short-term solution.
'We have no need for protection. We are well able to protect ourselves, and if our nation is truly endangered, there are hundreds of thousands, millions upon millions, of rovaick across the Ironhearts who will leap to our defence if we request it. We are not small tribes on the plains, we are nations. What we offer is the opportunity for both our peoples to avoid bloodshed and loss. I assure you, Skagoth, you will not find victory if you pursue a war against us. I can see that your people are strong and used to war, but we too are mighty. War will only mean suffering and loss for all of us. Heed me, and accept our hand extended in friendship. If there come other warlords in future, we will deal with them accordingly. But at the least, let there be between you and us friendship and trade. And who knows, you may well find that we are good allies to have against those who may... threaten you.'
Throughout that monologue, Skagoth's beady eyes regarded the troll. He understood the body language, if not the words, and no matter how Uram tried to defuse the tension with his translation it did no matter; the ogre was not listening. He changed from his slouched recline to leaning forward, and when the troll had finished, Skagoth stood up from the throne and barked some orders to the other ogres in the room.
Uram's eyes widened at whatever they were saying, and his teeth chattered. "Skagoth has something to show you." The troll had been somewhat taken aback by the plain troll's sudden outburst, but it got no more than a slightly raised eyebrow from him. When the frightened hain spoke he nodded, though suspicious.
'Let him show it, then.' He looked expectantly to Skagoth.
Echoing from one of the adjacent halls was the distant sound of ogres shouting something, followed by a few loud bangs. And then there was a bestial, bloodcurdling, animistic roar like nothing a rovaick would have ever heard before. More shouting.
No less than four ogres dragged the thing into the room, each holding onto thick ropes whilst another two prodded at it with long spears. The twisted warbeast looked vaguely like the ogres around it, but it shambled on all fours and was far stronger. Its massive claws looked like they might have been able to rip apart a tedar, much less a hain. When it caught sight of the troll, a burning hunger filled its eyes and it let loose another roar made all the more terrifying by its presence. The four ogres held it back with the ropes, but the ravenous beast still struggled so hard to reach Murkruhl that one would have expected it to asphyxiate itself. But it only grew angrier by the passing moment.
"Skagoth doubts that you can stand against the armies of his king. This is but the least of their might, he says. All things, from savage beasts to proud djinni lords, have knelt before King Ommok." Murkruhl looked with disgust and fear at the monstrosity they had brought in. And yet Murkruhl, who in his time had had the misfortune of witnessing an Ogru, saw this as but a poor imitation of true horror. But Skagoth's message was clear to the troll's mind - you should be afraid he was telling him. Murkruhl did not deny that he was. There was no shame in that - fear was good, it kept you alive.
'Tell Skagoth that I have seen it and understand. I do not enjoy its presence and would prefer it be returned to its pen or cell or wherever you keep it locked away. Then we can continue our... civilised negotiations.'
The message was conveyed.
"Should we not have the troll watch them feed the jogre?" the warboss asked as he smirked and sat back down upon the throne. Uram was at a loss for words, but fortunately Skagoth had the kindness to at least order the beast taken out of the throne room. They dragged it away even as it bayed and slavered, but from afar the sounds of it feeding upon an unfortunate goat were still all too audible. But soon enough the meal had ended, and the crunching of bones made way for shrieks as they prodded it back to wherever it was kept, and then there was silence. Murkruhl looked down briefly, deep in thought. And then he decided.
'Tell Skagoth that we agree to his terms. We will provide small shipments of war equipment on a monthly basis, and he will see to it that neither his forces nor the forces of any other ogre warlord pester us. Tell him that.' The troll's beady eyes watched Skagoth carefully after his words were spoken.
Uram nodded with a look of relief about him. He said as much to Skagoth with a few brief words, and then the ogre smiled. He sat down the sword that he had been toying with in one hand, then stood again. He approached the troll and patted it with one of his brawny hands.
"He says that this is a good day for your people. You have saved many Rovaick." Murkruhl smiled slightly, clenching his fist and keeping a passive face at the ogre's condescending patting.
'Indeed we have. The gods be praised.'
***
Overhead in an otherwise quiet sky, there was the soft beating of wings as a flock of sparrows flapped across the sky.
Below there stood a small assembly of tribal leaders. "Even the birds flee from them," observed Makmud.
Another chieftain, called Eiyar, ruminated for only a moment. "But not the carrion birds; those follow."
There was a tense and grim silence as the small group looked out from their perch atop a cliff and across the sea of grass below. They had been fleeing for many months, those survivors that stood there then. The ones that had chosen to defend their lands or to submit willingly to plains trolls were all gone; probably crushed, their broken shells discarded like rubbish, or perhaps taken as slaves. Some had chosen to wage guerilla warfare, and with hit and run tactics they had delayed the advance of their monstrous enemies, but it seemed in vain. Those brave souls were likely soon to disappear as well.
One of the hain was the High Chieftain Inoch, and these lands were under his rule. All the others had led their tribes away from their ancestral lands and fled here to the Stone Bluffs. This was a place frequented by herds of their urtelem allies as well as the closest thing to a natural fortress that these flatlands could offer.
The Stone Bluffs were great towers of rock that suddenly rose from the grassy plains like fingers reaching for the sky. It was here, on this sacred site, that the tribes of the plain and their urtelem allies were to make a stand against the ogres.
"I have spoken with the urtelem," Inoch declared, "and they say that our enemy is no more than three days' travel away. Soon the first of their trailblazers and scouting parties will be meeting with our patrols. So speak with your ancestors and your spiryts and your gods; may they guide us in battle or show us the way to the wraithstones below."
Makmud looked taken aback. He was a young chief, the only one among his brothers to have yet underwent his second hatching, and an ogre warmaul had left him to inherit his father's title far too soon. "The plains stretch on to the south, for many leagues. There are still places to go; we needn't paint the clay any redder with our blood!"
The High Chieftain angled his head back as he beheld Makmud. Inoch finally spoke softly, "And beyond the plains there lay two certain deaths: a great lake that stretches to the end of the world and has a foul undrinkable water, and a plain of nought but sand and fire devoid of anything but raging djinn. This is the only place left to fight, the only high ground in a hundred leagues. Here my folk shall make their stand. The wind breaks upon the Stone Bluffs and has done so since the dawn of time, and so too shall these interlopers."
Down below, a dozen hunters worked together to drag the carcass of a great plains beast that they had felled with spear and bow. They were at once met with help from a score of spare hands; together, they butchered it, smoked the cuts, and carried them to the massive food stores that had been piled over the past fortnights.
Chief Eiyar pointed to the scene as it unfolded below. "Nobody called you a coward when you took your people and fled your lands," he told Makmud, "for you never stood a chance and ran from certain death. But here we have a chance. If you flee, the remnants of your tribe will be without the aid of the urtelem or your allies in us; you will be hunted down on the open plains like that animal below. You would be fleeing into certain death, and that is what a coward would do."
...
"My kindred stay and fight. I shall check that my spear is in good shape," Makmud finally said as he turned his back and left for his tent. When he stepped through the fold, he began to shake. He breathed deeply, then unfolded a bundle of felt to remove the bronze-tipped spear within; the spear that his father had bought from the rovaick for three stones of meat, the spear that his father had always carried so proudly and had promised to leave for him one day.
A drop of water fell upon the spear. Makmud wiped it away, then cleaned his spear for the sixth time that day.
Beads of sweat dripped down Orok's back. He ground his teeth together, balled his brawny fists so tight that it hurt, and dug his heels into the ground. All of that did little to help with the mental strain, but it showed that he was trying almost as hard as the djinni.
They had only barely been able to drag the stonedjinni up from the ground below where it hid; even now, it roared, it glowed, and it thrashed with a primordial rage.
Auzrog was not exerting himself as obviously as his fellow shaman, but he too was battling the spiryt. Orok was holding it down while Auzrog broke it.
Auzrog held an open hand outstretched. There was a thunderous crack as a piece of rock inexplicably cracked free of the djinni's body and fell to the ground, and from the open wound poured magical lifeblood. The tall grass swayed back and forth as the stream of magic flowed through it and into the shaman's hand. Though the djinni's wild roars grew even more enraged, its thrashing grew weaker. Bit by bit, its lifeblood, its flicker, was being unwound like a spool of string and its fortitude diminished for each passing length that its adversary pulled away.
"Your lord is not here, it cannot save you," Auzrog called out to it in a tongue that few mortals could speak. "I am your master now, and you will tell me everything."
Whatever answer the stonedjinni gave wasn't even heard by those ogre brutes and captive hain slaves that had assembled around to watch the scene unfold, but it had angered Auzrog. The shaman stepped closer to the djinni. Orok's knees buckled as he restrained the elemental and kept it from trying to strike with all its might.
Auzrog siphoned away more of the raging elemental's essence, and then when it was sufficiently weakened he laid a bare hand upon the djinni's body and the two of them became deathly still. Orok was finally able to rest.
...
Shaman and dominated djinni had rested side by side in silent telepathy for many long minutes. At last, Auzrog opened his eyes again.
There called out a voice from behind him, demanding and its tone so deep and guttural as to sound like a bestial growl. "What did it say?"
Stog.
"The heen ran to the rocky hills. They have more warriors than there are ants in a mound. There's stonies too, three herds of them. And this djinni's master rules the rock hills and will fight for the heen."
All eyes looked towards the short, scar-covered warlord whose mad fury and dogmatic belligerence had made the most feared ogre warlord to ever walk these steppes, save only for the King of course. Stog laughed without a hint of nervousness in his expression; if anything, there was only a bloodthirsty adrenaline. He spat upon the ground and stomped upon an ant hill. Even as the tiny insects scurried out and climbed onto his foot to bite at flesh too thick to feel their attacks, Stog held up his massive bronze axe and proclaimed, "With my bad foot, I'll crush the entire mound of heen bugs myself!"
Their wild roars shook the plains. The warboss glanced back to Auzrog. "You an' Orok'll handle the djinn," he declared as fact. It was an order, and a tall one at that; few would dare to ever speak in such a manner to one of Ommok's few sorcerers, but Auzrog nodded. "We'll do what we ca-"
The shaman was drowned out by the frenzied battlecries of an entire horde of ogres, and the deafening, bellowing voice of Stog that somehow resonated through the din with enough clarity to still be heard, "And that leaves three herds of stonies for you lot! And more slaves and loot than we can carry! More than the king will ever need!"
Auzrog and Orok bristled, but nobody noticed.
"Bash your weapons on the stonies 'til they all break! Broken stonies an' broken weapons!" The battlecries rose up once more. In the mess of screaming ogres, Maga the ogress roared too.
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