Thraas was heavy, but Stefan had the propulsive edge. The impact of their collision sent the ogre stumbling back.
A club slammed into Thraas’s shoulder as one of the ogres in the circle took advantage of his clumsy maneuvering. He howled, dropping his weapon. Stefan attempted to seize the fallen club, but its weight was such that the best he could do was drag it away. The Solamnic shoved it behind him, where it rolled to a halt at the feet of some of the warriors of the circle.
Thraas recovered and started to lumber toward him again, then appeared to think twice about his strategy, for he suddenly hesitated and circled the knight with a fresh wariness.
“Kya i f’han, Shok G’Ran!” snarled Thraas.
“We shall see who death claims,” the knight retorted. His gaze darted around the circle at the bloodthirsty warriors, eager to bash either one of them if they drew too close.
Thraas lunged again. Stefan’s attempt to leap over the diving ogre fell short. The tusked giant managed to grab him. Rolling around on the ground, Thraas wrapped his huge arms around Stefan’s midsection and squeezed.
With both fists, the knight pummeled Thraas’s injured shoulder. The ogre let out a howl and let go. With some effort, Stefan pushed himself to the side.
He saw that Thraas’s side was dripping blood. Gritting his teeth, Stefan jumped on the ogre, who was slowly getting to his feet, thrusting his fingers into the wound and doing his best to push the piece of broken blade deeper inside.
His initial reward was a backhanded slap that sent him hurtling across the circle. As Stefan landed on his back, he looked up at a toothy warrior preparing to swing down at him. Reacting instinctively, the Solamnic pushed himself away just as the club came crashing down where his skull had been.
Another form loomed above him. Thraas grabbed for the twisting human, but the knight avoided his meaty hands and rose.
Breathing heavily, the ogre stomped toward him. Again, Stefan avoided the reaching, clutching hands. Then, all of a sudden, Thraas staggered, momentarily seeming to lose his bearings.
The ogre’s wounds were taking their toll. Stefan barreled into his adversary. Caught off guard, the injured giant was knocked back.
Thraas collided with several ogres in the line of the circle. They shoved him forward then began swinging.
The first blow fell squarely on Thraas’s already damaged shoulder. The second slammed into his legs. Under the onslaught, he buckled, first to one knee then to all fours.
Despite being their favorite, Thraas was clubbed eagerly, over and over, until he crawled away from his tormentors. Without his monstrous strength and tough hide, he wouldn’t have survived.
But survive he did, and somehow the ogre got away from the onslaught. Bruised and bloodied, Thraas finally straightened and again moved toward Stefan. Arms spread wide, the ogre herded his smaller opponent to one corner of the circle. Thraas looked battered and weary but still capable of great harm.
Taking a deep breath and making a short, silent prayer to the patron gods of the knighthood-Habbakuk, Kiri-Jolith, even lost Paladine-Stefan again surprised the ogre by charging straight at him.
The tusked behemoth waited, grinning. His thick arms embraced his victim just as Stefan smashed into him. Despite his injuries, Thraas absorbed the collision and held on.
But Stefan, his arm bent wildly, jammed his elbow hard into Thraas’s throat. The ogre let out a harsh rasp and couldn’t breathe again. He bobbled his grip on the human. Stefan elbowed him hard again, that time in one eye, and Thraas turned away, gasping frantically for breath and stumbling.
He almost stumbled within range of some of the guards-their jaws agape at the sudden turn of events-but fell down on one knee and tried to crawl away.
Stefan, himself panting, stepped up behind the struggling ogre. He grabbed Thraas by the head and twisted with all his might. There was a sickening crack, and Thraas struggled no more.
As he let the ogre’s body fall forward, the circle suddenly gave a roar and began to batter the ground with their clubs.
The battering rose in volume as Atolgus stepped into the circle, his own club in his hand. Although the Solamnic was too exhausted to defend himself anew, he nevertheless straightened, refusing to beg or die without honor.
Atolgus raised his club then turned to the other ogres and shouted something unintelligible in his own tongue. Immediately, the cries from those in the circle-from all the ogres present-increased tenfold. Grunting barks filled the air.
They were cheering Stefan’s victory.
“Ahgarad, Shok G’Ran,” rumbled the young chieftain, using his free hand to slap Stefan on the shoulder so hard that the human nearly collapsed. “Good fight!”
“I–I am honored by you-and your people, Chieftain Atolgus. Thraas fought well; I w-will remember his name.”
Atolgus slowly digested his words, making sure of their meaning. Then the tusked giant nodded. However, bearing something of a grin, he then added, “Shok G’Ran still prisoner.”
Maintaining a proud stance, the knight was marched away with Torma and his guards. As a mark of his victory, the guards did not tie him up until he was far from the circle. Torma then brought him a water sack and, using her own hands to guide the flow, let Stefan drink to his heart’s content. The clear liquid was a valuable commodity in that harsh land, and was the surest sign that Stefan had risen in the ogre’s eyes.
Torma left him, and the guard took up a position farther away. Bones aching as he stretched out, the captive human pondered the mercurial nature of his captors. He had no idea who killed the ogre guard or why. And it was as if the others had utterly forgotten his supposed earlier transgression.
There is no understanding ogres, Stefan thought. But understand them he would have to if he hoped to have any chance of escape.
And that brought his mind back to the shadowy creature who, he now understood, was seeking to unbind him in the dark, and he wondered just what that unseen creature wanted of the Solamnic.
The village was burning. Most of the males were dead, including his father, for whom he had never had much love. His mother, though, his mother was cleverer, far more clever. She would still be alive… if only he could find her in time.
It was ironic that his shorter, slimmer frame for once was of great advantage to him. Unlike his brutish brethren, he could hide better, run faster, and thus, avoid the killing blades. A horse snorted. Out of the smoke rising from another fiery hut, a black-armored figure emerged, mounted on a sleek, brown steed, and nearly ran him down. Although the face was hidden by the visored helmet, it was clearly one of the humans his mother called “Nerakans.” The word sent a chill through him, for he could never have imagined humans-only about as tall as he was, as a youth-so easily slaughtering muscular warriors who towered over them by several feet in height.
And yet it was happening to his village.
The rider swung at him with a sword far sharper than the rusty, pillaged one his father had wielded. Only swift reflexes saved the youth, and even then the tip of the blade left a burning cut in his left shoulder.
With nowhere else to go, he leaped into the burning hut. Flames licked at his body, and his kilt smoldered. He expected the human to charge in after him; then in an instant understood why he didn’t.
The roof of the hut came crashing down. It was only by a miracle that he was not buried under the burning wood and furs. In the background, the sound of hoofbeats receded. The Nerakan assumed he was dead, which would be the case if he did not hurry.