His grin wide, the lead Titan casually gestured at the others. They felt their own power, their very essences, surge and bind with his greater power. More than one feared that they would be next to follow the late Hundjal, but Dauroth had merely brought them into the spell in order to take the next step of his plan, dealing with the situation outside Garantha.
And, most important, dealing with the Grand Lord Golgren.
Mounted on a tall, wide ogre horse, Sir Stefan tested the balance of his sword. Whether or not a blade would work against those fiends was a question that would soon be known. The f’hanos had no vital organs, nor even muscle or sinew. Skeletons were all they were, and there must be a way to stop them.
A horn sounded. A rider approached from ahead, his mount moving like a blur. The fear animating both the ogre and his steed was evident long before they reached the grand lord.
The scout barked something to Golgren in the native tongue. Golgren did not order him to repeat everything in Common, as the ogre’s transgression was forgettable, understandable, in the face of such calamity.
“They come,” explained the grand lord quietly after dismissing the scout.
The sun was only just beginning to rise, but the day looked to be oddly overcast. Many took that as an omen or some evidence of whatever mysterious evil possessed the f’hanos.
Golgren’s army spread out, deploying according to his instructions. Stefan had been impressed by the grand lord’s strategy. Golgren had his foot soldiers, cavalry, and archers arrayed in a manner that would have done any Solamnic commander proud.
But whether or not the most brilliant strategy would deter an undead enemy remained to be seen.
“They must come no farther,” Golgren proclaimed loudly, standing in the saddle for all to see and hear him. He adjusted his helmet slightly as he sat again then shouted, “Horn!”
Pulling the curled goat horn to his fat lips, the nearby trumpeter quickly blew the signal to advance. With one ferocious roar, the ogres let out a lusty challenge to any who would face them, then began marching swiftly forward. The banner of the severed hand fluttered everywhere.
Khleeg and Wargroch rode close to their lord, while lesser officers took immediate command of the rear ranks and flank troops. Idaria also rode near the grand lord. The elf still wore chains, and as far as the eye could tell, she didn’t carry any weapons but seemed entirely unconcerned about any danger.
Stefan had tried to talk some sense into her as they had mounted up. “You should not be with us! This is no place for you!”
“I go where my master goes,” she had replied evenly, her stern glance at him ending any further discussion.
As they rode, the dim, gray light revealed the first hints of something vast pouring over the western landscape. Stefan gripped the pommel of his sword and heard a gasp from Wargroch.
Golgren straightened. Again, he shouted, “Horn!”
The trumpeter let loose once more. Immediately, the ranks shifted, spreading out widely on both sides. The mounted warriors edged forward, preparing for a charge. Archers readied their bows, although of all weapons available to the grand lord, he had the greatest doubt about the efficacy of arrows. What could the missiles accomplish, save bouncing harmlessly off bone?
But then the signal changed and other ogres went over to the archers, bearing small cloth pouches that they bound to the heads of their arrows. Their task complete, those warriors fell back to be replaced by others bearing oiled torches.
“Neeska if’hanosi!” rasped Khleeg suddenly, shaking his head at the size and sound of the dark horde converging on them.
The enemy was coming close enough to be seen clearly, and some of the individual figures were frightening enough to cause murmurs and hesitation in the ranks.
They were just as the lone scout had described.
Skeletons.
There were ranks and ranks of marching, ghastly skeletons. They headed toward the ogres with a steady rhythm, their empty eyes gazing at the living enemy with what almost seemed jealousy.
Closer and closer the skeleton army advanced, and still Golgren issued no new commands. Several ogres glanced worriedly at their leader. Yet Golgren looked both confident and resolute. There was no sign of any uncertainty, certainly no sign of fear. Despite the superstitious nature of his race, the grand lord seemed unperturbed by facing an enemy of walking dead.
Idaria suddenly leaned close; one hand reached to her gown. “My master-”
He ignored her. “Fire!”
His simple, calm command almost caught the trumpeter by surprise. The warrior swiftly put the gnarled horn to his mouth and blew as hard and long and loud as he could.
The torchbearers lit small wicks dangling from the pouches. The archers immediately aimed high into the air in the direction of their foe.
A vast torrent of flaming arrows shot forth.
At a gesture from Golgren, other ogres began to pound a steady beat on the round copper drums that they carried, held by tanned leather straps reaching to their powerful shoulders. The ranks steadied as training and battle adrenalin took over.
At that point, the arrows descended and began exploding.
Shattered bones and mounds of ravaged dirt flew everywhere into the air. The legions of the undead walked into the explosions as if they did not have the minds to dodge or swerve. Not only were the first ranks utterly decimated, but continual rains of arrows tore asunder many of the skeletal ranks that followed.
An entire fleshless mastark erupted into flames, its scattering pieces taking apart scores of skeletal warriors surrounding it. Everywhere, bits of what had once been monstrous fighters lay strewn like a graveyard upturned by a huge worm.
“Cease!” roared Golgren, eyes flaring with relish. “Cease!”
Alerted again by the horn, the archers lowered their bows.
A victorious shout arose from the grand lord’s followers. Even Sir Stefan cheered, he hoped not prematurely. There were still many f’hanos marching toward them, though far fewer than before. A good sword or club would undoubtedly shatter the things to harmless bits that could be gathered later and burned.
But then the destroyed skeletons-the pieces of skeletons, the battered and broken pieces that had so cheered the ogres-suddenly whirled back up into the air, gathering here and there and reattaching themselves with ungodly swiftness.
“Kiri-Jolith’s horns!” the knight gasped.
The ruined skeletons were becoming whole again. It took barely more than a breath for each of them to reform, some with pieces incorrectly assembled, making them even more monstrous. And after reforming, the skeletons resumed their march, joining the others who were steadily approaching the ogre ranks.
“Not possible!” grunted Khleeg. “Not possible!”
An ogre soldier in the first ranks slipped away. Another followed suit, both of them racing away to the side of the battle. Golgren quickly gestured to the nearest archers. They glanced at him then raised their bows toward the pair.
Two expert shots brought down the fleeing ogres.
Stefan looked horrified. “Grand Lord-”
Golgren glared his way, his eyes so ruthless that the Solamnic immediately shut his mouth, recalling he was still a prisoner there and ogres had their own battle traditions. “There must be order and discipline,” the grand lord snarled, “if we are to survive.”
As the stunned ogre army stared at their approaching enemy, the f’hanos progressed toward them in eerie silence, save perhaps the occasional creak of bone upon bone. The distance separating the skeleton army from the ogres shrank by the minute.
Golgren sat in his saddle, watching the skeletons approach, wondering if they had any possible weaknesses.