But just as his head cleared, a huge shadow rose up before him. For all its size, the thing moved without a sound. Its vague outline suggested it was a mastark, albeit an exceedingly thin one. The creature was barely more than bones.
There was something with it, something walking on two feet and about the size of an ogre. Tarkus recalled no knowledge of another patrol or other armed force in the region but knew that his information was limited. It was very possible that one of the nomadic clans simply happened to be crossing his party’s path.
Whatever the case, it behooved the ogre captain to identify himself and find out who the intruders were. Drawing his sword, Tarkus stepped up to where he could get a better view.
He nearly dropped his weapon. His hands shook, and it amazed him that he did not run away screaming in fear.
The mastark was not barely more than bones; it was only bones. What still connected them with the sinew and such all gone, he could not say. Despite its deficiency, the skeleton moved exactly as a living beast would have.
Yet even more terrifying than that was the figure Tarkus had also glimpsed. It was not an ogre, no, but the bones of one.
No, it was not merely the bones of one ogre, for behind that first ghoulish warrior marched another and another and another.
“Garduuk i solum if’hanosi!” someone in the camp shouted. That call was followed by a shriek that was cut off by the unmistakable sound of the clash of weapons.
Tarkus was shaken from his stupor. He and his warriors faced great danger: f’hanos-the dead that lived. The tales his mother’s mother had told him as a child all came back.
He started for the camp but found his way blocked, suddenly, by a skeleton with a badly battered, twin-edged axe. Instinct made the ogre captain dodge away and deflect the monster’s attack. The axe should have shattered, but instead it flashed silver-surely a sign that it carried magic.
Tarkus kicked at the skeleton and was grateful to find that the force of a strong leg was able to knock the ghoul back. He leaped over his grisly foe, hoping to make it to the horses.
But more undead blocked his path. They moved with a silent determination, surrounding him and swiping relentlessly at the captain, even if all they carried were rocks or what might have been the cracked bones of other creatures. Tarkus swung madly, somehow blocking most, if not all, of the hapless blows.
Yet the f’hanos’ numbers only grew. They pressed on him. Fleshless fingers grasped his arms, his body. Others seized his blade by the edge because the undead didn’t mind cutting themselves.
When at last they tugged his sword free, Tarkus let out a wail. He slammed his fist against the hollow-eyed faces, ignoring the cuts and bleeding that caused him. His frenzied effort enabled the ogre to create a narrow opening in their midst, and through that he blindly plunged.
Stumbling across the landscape, Tarkus sought some means to get away from the monstrous horde, and only then did he realize just who the f’hanos must be. It was the eve of the grand lord’s crowning. They were his slaughtered foes, streaming in the direction of Garantha.
Despite that realization, Tarkus wasn’t thinking much about the capital. All that mattered to him was his own life. The flickering flames of the campfire beckoned him. The horses surely could be not much farther.
In the camp, though, the scene was so terrible that he froze. Body parts from his troops lay scattered all about the vicinity. One warrior lay facedown in the fire, slowly roasting, the stench of his burning flesh filling the captain’s nostrils. Another had been almost flayed before dying, but skeletal nails, not blades, had clearly done the terrible task.
Recovering from his shock, the ogre headed to where the horses were kept. All he needed was one … just one.
But of their many mounts, there was only one left: a single ruined corpse. The rest had evidently made their escape. Tarkus shook his head, trying to will a different reality.
Something struck him in the back of the head. He fell to his knees but managed to rise again. Glancing over his shoulder, Tarkus saw that a score of f’hanos were swarming the campsite.
He started forward, but from the darkness a new line of undead approached. Tarkus spun in a circle, seeing nothing but horror wherever he looked. The ogre reached for his sword then recalled he had lost it. In despair, Tarkus seized the largest object he could find-the cut-off forearm of one of his warriors.
As the f’hanos converged upon him, he let out another wail and swung as hard as he could, caring only that he hit something, anything. He landed a blow that shattered one f’hanos, but his momentary exhilaration faded when the pieces simply reformed immediately into a fresh skeleton. Worse, his gory club began to come apart. The slickness made it almost impossible to retain a hold on what pulpy flesh remained.
The fingers grasped him everywhere. Tarkus saw nothing but shadowed bones.
Then he saw nothing.
The glittering runes leaped off the parchment, dancing before Hundjal’s eyes as he scoured them for anything of importance. One by one, the apprentice dismissed them back to the page, then summoned up fresh ones to read.
As before, he came up empty.
Rolling up the latest parchment, Hundjal sent it flying back to its proper place on the shelves of Dauroth’s personal sanctum. He extended his hand, and a thick black-spined book flew to him. His hopes were not high as he opened the book. Hundjal was not usually one to accept defeat, but he was coming close. The Titan had poured over his master’s previous attempts to circumvent the tomb’s protections without destroying the contents and found no fault with them. He would have even chosen several as his own, had not they already been tested and failed.
It had been an honor when the master had chosen him for the task of opening the tomb, but that honor was becoming a burdensome yoke on his shoulders. Those spells Hundjal had thus far created had fared no better against the ancients’ magic than any previously cast by Dauroth. Even in death, the High Ogres proved themselves again the greatest masters of the arts. After his fifth attempt turned out to be as much folly as the prior ones, Dauroth’s apprentice secreted himself in his master’s sanctum-not the library, which had works useful only to lesser Titans, such as Safrag-and pored over every tome, parchment, and artifact that he could lay his hands on.
That Dauroth left him to his task made Hundjal assume that he was being tested. He had to prove himself as he had back when the lead Titan had first approached him with the offer of apprenticeship. Hundjal swore that he would not fail in his task, just as he had not failed his master then … not ever.
His senses sharper than any of his brethren’s, Hundjal noticed Morgada’s unique presence even before she announced herself. The lone female in their ranks fascinated him as much as she fascinated Dauroth. However, Hundjal was very much aware of Dauroth’s intentions concerning a certain experiment in mating, and thus he kept a cautious distance from the Titaness.
“Dear, sweet Hundjal,” she purred. “Such a pleasure to have you here among us again.”
He did not look up from the ancient tome. “Fair Morgada. Forgive my less-than-appropriate discourtesy, for I am hard at work for the master.”
“And if there is anyone who can be trusted to achieve what the master desires, it is surely Hundjal.” She draped her arm over his shoulder as she pretended to peer at the book he was reading. “Has the clue been found to open the way?”
“As with all things the master teaches, the clues ever lie before us. We are but blind to their reading.”