Moments later, they returned with a grisly burden between them. It was another ogre, likely one of the guards, dead. The back of his neck had been ripped open, and for good measure his head had been twisted around and nearly off. Someone had then gone to the extra trouble of cleanly removing both his hands by means of a blade. Of the severed appendages, there was no sign.
With an odd gentleness, Thraas and the other male ogre set the corpse down in front of Stefan. Thraas barked something at his chieftain, and his furious gaze fixed on the human.
Atolgus, too, glared at Stefan, who was dumbfounded. The chieftain reluctantly nodded then rounded on his prisoner.
“D’ihra tu Shok G’Ran!” Atolgus growled ferociously. “Shelled one is to blame! How? What! Blood of Thraas slain coward! Kill like ji-baraki and take the warrior from him!”
Stefan did his best to comprehend. The guard was kin to Thraas, and the knight was accused of being his murderer, that much was clear. But that in itself was not the trouble; rather that Thraas was claiming Stefan had slain the ogre in a fashion considered base and cowardly even by the bestial race. Ji-baraki-which essentially meant larger baraki-were considered foul creatures by ogres. To be called a ji-baraki was a high insult and didn’t bode well for Stefan’s fate.
The chieftain turned to his mate, who had rushed up belatedly to join the others. He jammed an accusing finger at the captive then repeated, “D’ihra tu Shok G’Ran!”
As Atolgus and Thraas fell into another heated discussion, Torma and two guards took charge of the prisoner. The ogress avoided Stefan’s eyes, looking as though she were embarrassed by the human’s transgression and no longer wished to be associated with him.
“I did not kill the ogre,” Stefan tried to tell her, “but if I had, why would that be cowardly? I am a prisoner. Surely it is brave to try and escape and kill one’s captors.”
The ogress thrust up both hands in front of Stefan. “Hunter with no hands! Warrior with no hands! Craal’s spirit not to be hunter, not to be warrior! Must beg always!”
The human’s brow furrowed thoughtfully. “You are saying that because of this-because Craal’s-hands were cut off and taken away, his spirit will also have no hands and-”
“No hunt! No fight! No honor!” She spit at Stefan. “No honor, Shok G’Ran! Craal was cousin to Thraas. Personal insult to Thraas too. Very evil thing to do, even for human!”
“I did not slay him, and I would certainly not have taken his hands! When could I have done it? Where did I put them?”
She only shook her head. “Only Hada ky F’han answer! Shok G’Ran and Thraas must do Hada ky F’han! Death battle.”
“Hada ky F’han? A battle to the death? With Thraas?”
“Ke! Thraas! Shok G’Ran! Hada ky F’han!”
Despite himself, Stefan felt a deep fear. He wore no armor. Thraas was likely twice as big and heavy as he, and most of the ogre was muscle. The knight was tired and dazed; he had been walking without much nourishment for days, whereas Thraas was one of the few ogres who owned a horse and had been riding it on the journey. The odds were greatly against the human.
“How soon?” he asked Torma as she turned from him. “When the Burning comes?” Ogres called the daytime iSirriti Siroth-or Sirrion’s Burning-in their tongue. The phrase harkened to the god of fire whom they believed lived in the sun and daily tried to set the land on fire merely for his entertainment.
The ogress grunted. “Ne iSirriti Siroth! Byyn!”
He was suddenly grabbed by the guards and shoved back in the same direction where Atolgus and Thraas had gone. The ogres had no intention of waiting until daybreak. Whatever his condition, Stefan would have to fight Thraas right then… and likely die.
The entire clan had gathered in the center of camp. Even before Stefan reached the area, all the mature males other than his guards, including Atolgus and Thraas, had formed a crude circle several yards in diameter. All of those in the circle hefted thick, wooden clubs. Outside of the circle, torches held high by females lit up the area almost as bright as noon.
Memories of the stories a senior knight-one Tempion-had related came back to Stefan in a rush. Tempion had been among the Nerakans sent to help the ogres learn tactics in the early days of their fractious alliance. The older knight-a trainer of novices after having suffered a savage wound in one battle-once described a curious ogre ritual he and his comrades had been forced to watch.
When an ogre was accused of disgracing the honor of another ogre, the accused and the accuser were obliged to settle their differences within a circle of armed warriors. They each were given weapons and, at a signal, were expected to fight to the death.
But that was only one aspect of the ritual. There was a harsh penalty for stepping over or even too near the boundaries of the circle. The nearest ogre on the perimeter had the pleasure of taking a swing with his club at the trespasser and imparting whatever damage he could to the one who had made a misstep.
Thraas was already building himself up into an ecstasy of bloodlust. He whirled his club eagerly. Atolgus suddenly thrust a much smaller weapon into the human’s hand. Glancing down, Stefan stared in shock at the rusty dagger-Nerakan, by its markings-with which he was somehow expected to defend himself.
“Where is my sword?” the Solamnic demanded, almost sputtering. “I demand by right the weapon of my choice!”
Thraas let out a coughing sound that passed for ogre laughter. With a grunt, Atolgus said, “No right. Thraas choice.”
The Solamnic grimaced. “If I win,” he asked of the chieftain, “do I go free?”
Atolgus snorted, emitting more ogre laughter. “You live.”
With that, the lead ogre stepped back. Thraas struck the ground hard with his club then grinned at the puny human.
“Jeka!” shouted Atolgus, departing to stand outside the circle.
Thraas lunged forward, swinging as he charged. Stefan drew back then twisted to Thraas’s right just as something grazed the back of his leg. He had come too close to the circle of warriors. Another inch or two, and his leg would have been shattered.
Thraas grinned lewdly. Showing incredible dexterity for one so huge, the ogre reached quickly and managed to snag the human’s wrist, the hand with his weapon. The ogre’s grip tightened so much that Stefan nearly fumbled his rusty blade.
As the bestial warrior dragged Stefan closer, the knight did drop his blade and twisted and picked it up with his left hand. Before Thraas could react, the knight jabbed.
The human’s dagger penetrated the ogre’s thick hide but just barely. Worse, the blade snapped in half, the upper portion of it sticking out of the shallow wound.
Thraas laughed and grabbed for the Solamnic, but Stefan kicked up hard at the piece of metal sticking out of his adversary’s side. The dagger blade was forced in deeper.
At last Thraas felt pain, even if it was only minor, annoying pain. However, the surprise made his grip loosen, enabling Stefan to pull free and dodge around the ogre.
Eager, tusked faces eyed the knight and more than one ogre in the circle looked tempted to break ranks and strike out at him. Two or three steps in any direction would be enough to unleash them, but he kept his footing and stayed away.
Stefan spun around as Thraas came toward him again. Eagerly, the ogre raised his club-.just as Stefan threw himself shoulder-first as hard as he could into his giant foe.