Groal’s Tale

Grontha ran in a stumbling shuffle through the darkening woods, heedless of the sharp needles and whipping branches flailing her skin like a cat-o-nine. Behind her the glow of the fire was fading in the distance and she could no longer hear the guttural screams of her parents and the household servants and guards. In her arms, the contents of the small bundle she carried struggled weakly and the muffled cries of her infant brother went unheard beneath her labored breathing. The forest floor began to rise under her and she slowed until she passed at no more than an ambling walk. The pain inside her was becoming unbearable but still she strove onward, driven by fear and despair. She reached the top of the shallow hill and collapsed, falling down the opposite side, rolling in agony through the briars until she came to a painful stop half submerged in an icy stream. Whatever had been broken inside her chest finally gave up its siren of pain and she lay there outside of feeling. The armload of rags ceased its struggling and lay silent against her breast. She looked up at the star dusted sky and as a redness slowly colored the air around her she cried for the tiny ogre she had carried so far, so futilely. Her final thoughts came and they were of hate. Hate for the Clan Elders she knew were behind the betrayal of her family; hate for the uncaring fates that had led them all to such an ignoble end. Her last breath rattled from her throat and an impenetrable darkness enclosed her in a peaceful warmth.

A troubled moon looked down on the young ogre’s corpse as it lay there through the night. The clear waters of the stream gurgled by cheerily, uncaring and unhindered. Sometime past midnight a curious raccoon kit skittered about the huge body, sniffing and scampering over the dead hulk before running off toward the worried cooing of it’s mother. A nightingale sang beautifully from a branch hanging overhead but all in all the forest took no notice of the tragic figure. The sun rose slowly over the green canopy and its rays imparted life and warmth to the ground and trees and to everything except those forlorn remains. The noon came silently and awoke small fish that took turns nibbling tiny bites from the feast in their pool.

They scattered suddenly at a disturbance in the water. Silent footsteps ap-proached and a wrinkled and bony dark blue hand reached down to touch the cold flesh.

Jarel looked down sadly at the body before him. It was so badly bruised and bro-ken he barely recognized Grontha. He looked up the hill and discerned through the bro-ken brambles the path she had taken when she fell to roll into the stream. He looked down at her and saw that no fall had done this. The poor child had been badly mistreated long before she fell to her final resting place.

He thought back to the fire he had seen in the night and knew she must have es-caped from the terrible battle he had seen when, worried the forest may have been burn-ing, he had run silent and swift towards the orange glow at the edge of the wood. Arriv-ing there, he had seen a band of warriors attacking the old stone castle that stood just be-yond the walls of Oggok, the Ogre City. He saw and did nothing as the residents were dragged out and slowly tortured and killed. Though he knew even a dozen ogre warriors were no match for him, his oath prevented him from interfering. So he had hid in the night shadows and watched until the bloody task was done and then he had turned and walked back into the forest, doubting his inaction counted towards his penitence at all.

He spoke aloud. “Even ogres deserve a proper burial, Bethan.” He turned his head to face a small rodent gripping the epaulets of his faded and tattered tunic. “And this one especially. I knew that family. A noble family. They were, well, not exactly kind, but they were tolerable, as ogres go. I liked old Grumthor. He was a scholar, you know? Knew a dozen languages.” The little animal cocked its head at him as if in understanding. It scratched at an ear with its sole forepaw, balancing precariously. ” Let’s go get a spade and be done with this awful chore.” He grabbed Grontha under her cold arms and gently pulled her out of the water with strength belaying his small, thin stature. ” I shall be back soon, child”, he told her.

When he arrived at his humble but well-built cabin, he was surprised to see the door was open. He was always careful to keep it closed when he left to roam the woods. His sword hissed from its scabbard and he padded in silence to the back. Peering into the rear window, he saw the old woman feeding his latest batch of the injured and abandoned animals which he so diligently sought. He returned the sword and stood upright, sighing. Bethan chittered with delight.

“I know you love her, Bethan”, he whispered. “But she is a burden to me. Why can’t she just leave me be?” He threw the rear door open to bang it loudly against the wall, giving sound to his anger.

“Jarel!” She turned a toothless grin at him. “About time you showed up. Theesh poor thingsh are shimply shtarving.” She opened another cage and sprinkled a handful of grains from a leather bag she held in one claw-like hand into the bowl set before a quiv-ering Listcat kitten. It mewed and tried to dig itself deeper into the sawdust spread along the floor of its cage but failed, its broken back legs having been set and wrapped in splints.

“Chitchitchit”, the old crone tsked at it. “Eat, you shilly thing. Or Jarel shall be angry. And nothing shurvivesh Jarel’sh anger, ishn’t that sho, Shadow Knight?” She threw an evil seeming grin towards Jarel.

“The gods send a pox on thee”, he swore at her. “Listcats do not eat grains, you foolish old hag. Get away from there.” He stomped loudly into the room and grabbed the bag from the old woman. “Give me that and begone, you curse of the gods.” Bethan leapt from his shoulder and landed on a bony forearm. He ran up it and onto an equally bony shoulder, where he sat nibbling affectionately at the old women’s ear. “Traitor”, Jarel mumbled beneath his breath.

“Bethan, you little darling.” The old woman pursed her lips and kissed at the little wereshrew. ” I shee you’ve shurvived another day at the shoulder of ‘The Terror of Wesht Karana'”. She stopped at the look on Jeral’s face.

“Oh, Jarel. I’m sho shorry”. Her voice was like the screeching of ancient hinges. “Do you not like to be reminded? Or have you sho shoon forgotten? I assure you, An-tonius Bayle hash not.”

Jeral’s hatred and anger flashed in his eyes to be replaced by a despair as deep as Lake Rathetear. A soundless sigh escaped his parted lips and dropping the bag of feed, he sank on his knees to the pounded earthen floor. He held his head in both hands and sobbed with a sound such as the souls in hell might sob. The crone rushed to his side and Bethan nearly lost his grip.

“Oh, Jarel. I’m sorry, truly.” Now her voice was like that of a young woman in her prime; musical, sexual. “But this is my duty. Lest you ever forget.” Then she was gone, running with an animal speed through the open rear door and out into the wood-land, Bethan left to tumble head over heels in her wake.

The little wereshrew scampered up Jarel’s thigh and tittered at the tear-streaked face. The tiny sound brought Jarel back from his despondency and he stood up, looking down at the spilled bag of food. Wiping his sleeve against his wet cheeks he bent to re-trieve the leather bag and then went from cage to cage, depositing the dried grains into various bowls and broken plate shards or simply sprinkling them on the bottom netting. For the carnivores, he had a supply of freshly killed Corvorants. He repeated his rounds with water and finishing, took a rusty shovel from its hook and left the cabin, Bethan on his shoulder.

After arriving at the place of Grontha’s demise, he spent the remaining hours of the afternoon digging a deep grave. ” I am sorry I have no shroud, Grontha”, he told the corpse, ” but you shall have what little ceremony I know.” He pulled her as gently as he could into the hole he had dug and with a few whispered words threw the first shovelful of earth over the broken ogre. A small cry brought him up short, the shovel poised over the grave. He threw the spade aside and jumped into the hole. The bundle of rags Grontha carried was in motion. Jarel had thought it to be a pitiful collection of items she had tried to save but unfolding the stained wrappings he saw instead little Groal, the baby of the family, looking up at him.

“By the gods”, he exclaimed. “Grumthor’s heir. Alive!” He held the tiny ogre to his chest and leaving Grontha’s burial for a later time ran back to the cabin. Ogres were tough but this infant had been without proper care for too long and he feared for its life. Its small cries were weak and Jarel knew it must be fed soon or die. And there would be no more deaths for Jarel. Not one more. Except Corvorants. The world would do well without those evil beasts.

Back at the cabin, Jarel placed the little ogre in a drawer and put a bottle full of Gallkor milk to its mouth. The baby suckled eagerly and Jarel considered it may yet live. One more credit towards the repayment of his debt, he thought; a large deposit to that ac-count. He left the infant to its feeding and returned to his new graveyard to finish what he had begun.

As the years passed, little Groal grew rapidly. Jarel taught him to read and write as befitted a nobleman, ogre or not. He learned the history of his race, as well as Jarel knew it, and the history of all of Norrath as well. The old crone made her regular visits and helped in the child’s education, teaching him small magics, showing him what plant did this, and what herb did that. She seemed fascinated by the potential of the child as no ogre had before been shown the ways of the shaman. Jarel frowned upon this teaching but allowed it, though he spent all his time showing Groal the secular knowledge and martial skills he felt were of greater use. At the age of ten, Groal was fluent in seven languages and could quote freely from the works of the great philosophers of Norrath.

By his twelfth birthday (Jarel was guessing here), Groal was over seven feet tall and could no longer live comfortably in the little cabin and so Jarel built for the young ogre a log cabin adjacent to his own. The work went quickly for the young ogre could fell even the thickest tree with but a few blows from a sharpened Dwarf Steel Axe. A large portion of Jarel’s extensive library was transferred to Groal’s cabin for the benefit of the eager student and the youngster spent most of every evening re-reading the classics or working out some difficult math problem Jarel had set him. His days were spent full and enjoyable; helping Jarel rescue the injured or starving animals, taking fighting lessons from the wizened old master swordsman or wandering the forest with the old woman who at those times appeared in the guise of a spritely woodelf maiden, calling herself Myrlor. Yet, an inexplicable dissatisfaction found its way into Groal’s heart and he longed for something unknown and unnamed.

It was not for the company of his own kind that he yearned, for Groal had many times followed silently city guards on patrol and had heard their ignorant banter and had seen their senseless quarreling. Though they too were ogres, he felt no kinship with the rough troops and no need to be numbered among them. At these times, he was ashamed to be an ogre. When he expressed these thoughts to the Dark Elf, Jarel assured him the lowly soldiers were not the best of examples and that like any of the disparate races in-habiting Norrath, there were good and bad, smart and stupid ogres and it would not be long before Groal would find among his kind those to whom he could relate.

If this was so, Groal wondered, why did Jarel forbid his revealing himself to the patrols? Why was he not allowed to visit the City? He had been taught to treat all other ogres as enemies. From his earliest remembering, Groal had hid from all sentient crea-tures in the forest. Even the harmless seeming band of halflings who yearly stopped at Jarels’ cabin with books and medicines for the old Elf never suspected the ogre tenanted there. As he approached adolescence, his curiosity about other people grew to equal his fear of discovery by them.

Jarel was not unmindful of these thoughts and feelings, so one spring morning he handed a rusty pick to Groal. Putting the old shovel on his shoulder, Jarel took him to the edge of the woodland. Just past where the forest ended was a burned out ruin, the outside walls and scattered stone blocks overgrown with vines

“You were born there”, he did not look in Groal’s direction, ” where your family lived for generations. This happened not long after you were born”, he said, pointing down at the rubble. ” I know not what was the cause of it, but perhaps it is time we found out.”

They came out from under the shelter of the tall trees and approached the black-ened ruins. Nothing remained of the fine old castle except charred, rotting timbers and crumbling stone. Jarel directed Groal to pull away the larger beams and with his shovel, scraped away at the floor. Before the sun reached its zenith, they had cleared a large por-tion of the compacted ash, revealing the stained and broken tiles beneath, though they had discovered nothing recognizable in all the debris. In anger and frustration, Jarel swung the spade at one of the three standing walls and the blade shattered through. Jarel dug at the rotted stone until he had opened a fist sized hole, revealing a concealed cavity. Reaching inside he discovered a partially melted metal box. Groal took up the pick and soon they had freed the hidden case. A large lock had melted around the hasp and a little prying shattered the entire assemblage. Inside were several dozen tightly rolled scrolls. Jarel careful unrolled one of the brittle documents and saw it was covered in halfling runes.

‘Clever Grumthor’, thought Jarel. ‘Even if they had discovered your records, they could not have read them.’ Picking up the shovel and pick, he and his young charge re-turned home, the box carried under one massive arm. They had barely spoken all after-noon and returned home in silence, Groal’s mind filled with questions unasked.

In the days that followed, Groal would not see Jarel. The old dark elf remained secluded in his room, deciphering the encoded manuscripts. The care and feeding of the damaged animals fell to Groal alone and he went about the task gladly; the work helped relieve his burning curiosity. One morning as he came to attend to this duty, he was met by a haggard Jarel sitting at the little kitchen table, a plate of cold meat and vegetables before him and a stack of parchment on the chair next to him.

“So you’ve decided not to starve to death, eh, Jarel?” Groal had to bend at the waist to enter the elf-sized dwelling. “This must mean you have finished with my father’s papers.” Groal’s voice was a deep rumble, more like thunder than speech. Jarel looked up at the young ogre and spoke around a mouthful of goulash.

“Mostly, yes.” He swallowed without chewing. “It is written in an ancient dialect of the halflings.” The spoon dug deep into the stew. “There are many words I can not translate.” He filled his mouth. “Old Grumthor was even smarter than I guessed,” he managed. “Only the academics in Riverdale could accurately decipher these documents. “But I learned enough, Groal. I fear it is more than you will want to know.” He continued shoveling food into his mouth.

“Anything is better than knowing nothing at all. It was you who taught me even bitter knowledge is preferable to ignorance. And this is my family. I need to know.”

“Take these”, he gestured at the stack of yellow sheets, “and read them. Then we will talk.” Groal gathered up the pages of small, neat script and returned to his cottage.

Now it was Jarel’s turn to wait. In the days that followed he busied himself with the rescue and cure of Norrath’s wounded. A Firehawk managed to fly away into the depths of the forest not three months after Jarel had found it as a hatchling. Probably pushed from the nest by one of its siblings, it was fluttering painfully under the tree from which it had fallen, breaking both legs and dislocating a wing on the rock hard roots. Certain it would die, Jarel had nevertheless taken the mutilated bird back to the cabin, only to watch it thrive on a diet of mashed corvorant. Athough he could save but one leg, the wing mended nicely and one day during Groal’s self-imposed exile, it flew off to-wards Grand Mountains. He wished it luck. He looked over at Groal’s cabin and the hunched silhouette framed in the candle-lit window. ‘And luck to you, my child.’, he thought. ‘Such a burden as you now take on should not be borne.’

Groal had started his reading from the top page, expecting to read through the translated manuscripts as if they were one with the books on the shelves lining his cabin. He soon saw there was no order to them and that Jarel had transcipted the scrolls without regard for which dated early or late. He spent the first of many sleepless days arranging them into some semblance of order. A small portion dealt with his unknown father’s business transactions and these he set aside. His browsing discovered what appeared to be portions of a diary and this is where he started his reading in earnest. His father wrote:

” The Council is definitely keeping something from me. I came into the Hall last night to pick up a book I needed for my studies and accidentally stumbled upon Thrack and Barbergan in a secret meeting. I stood outside the door of their chambers and lis-tened. They seemed to be arguing over the details of a pact the Council was considering making with the Trolls. The subject was how many youths would be sent yearly to the Troll City. It sounded like some sort of tax or tribute to be paid. I have fought against any formal alliance with those green beasts for as long as I have had a voice in the Council and I’m not surprised to discover they are dealing behind my back. But, unless I am mis-taken, this is worse than anything I could have imagined. They were debating not whether to send our children to the Troll City, but how many! This is madness! Those accursed fools will destroy us.

“I heard the rear door of the chamber squeak open (note: get the slaves to grease those damned things). I risked a furtive peek around the door and saw Kinlack, the Troll ambassador walk in . I will try to reconstruct what I heard as best I can remember it.

Kinlack: Have you agreed to our demands?

Thrack: You may make no demands on us, Kinlack

Kinlack: Requests, then. Call them what you will. It makes no difference to me.

Barbergan: We do not find your…”requests”…unacceptable, but we will need more in exchange. The catapults and armor are satisfactory but we will require much more in swords, arrows and crossbows. All these must be increased. When the populace begins to suspect what we are doing, we must be prepared for insurrection.

Kinlack: The terms are negotiable, Barbergan. But we do have an agreement in principle. Never forget that.

“A door opened in the hallway where I stood listening and I was forced to retreat into the adjacent library as a Dwarf slave entered, carrying a hogshead of mead for the conspirators. I will meet with Dnag tomorrow and tell him of my suspicions.”

Other writings revealed a history of Grumthor’s dealings with the council and outlined in broad detail how the Council of Ogguk planned to betray the people. The last entries were ominous. The final sentence read:

“I suspect I have made an error in confiding in Dnag. I think he is in sympathy with the traitors. He has met a little to often with Ogra, Captain of the Guard, and I think it is time for me to fortify myself against what may soon be coming. I only hope it is not too late.”

Groal had no idea how long he had been studying Jarel’s work. The infamy re-vealed in his father’s diary had shocked him to his soul and he had read and reread the entire document many times, even the tedious accounts Grumthor had kept of his busi-nesses. In these ledgers, one name was mentioned repeatedly. Agkor. This was apparently Grumthor’s manager who had arranged the caravans and negotiated trades, kept the books and in general, ran Groal’s father’s business affairs.

It was an exhausted ogre who at last left the cottage. He very nearly stumbled over a rough hewn table set before the front door. On it were plates and bowls filled with exotic dishes he had never seen before. Without thought, he began eating, standing over the feast, his mouth watering from the alien aromas.

“I got bored”, he heard a woman’s voice. ” So I did some cooking. Been a long time since I’ve done that.”

“Where’s Jarel,” Groal mumbled between mouthfuls.

“Hmmmph. He could have at least taught you not to speak with your mouth full.” She was sitting on a stump off to the side of the cabin.”Eat. Jarel will be back soon enough.”

Groal looked up and saw the young woman seated there.”Why the ‘woodelf ‘ manifestation, mother? I thought that was only for our treks through the wood.”

“Oh, I’m just an old crone because it drives Jarel crazy. He was quite the rake in his youth, you know.” She stood and brushing the dust from her dress came over to him.

“I guess he’s really made a mess of things this time. Those scrolls are going to put you in grave danger.” She took a pastry from the table. “Mmm. I’m still a great cook.”

When Groal had finished the last morsel he sat cross-legged beside Myrlor. They talked through the afternoon and Groal was not really surprised to find she seemed to know all about the political intricacies revealed in his father’s journals. He had not slept in who knew how many days but he was not sleepy. Tired, yes, but the events that had unfolded in his father’s writings had ennervated him in a way he had never before known. These doings affected the future of his entire race, after all, and Groal was determined not to stand idly by while the perfidious Council destroyed his proud and mighty people for their own petty gains. He sought the wisdom of his other teacher now and she willingly spoke to him of things she would rather have him not know. She looked at him sadly.

“I suppose you are intent upon going to Ogguk, now”, she said. “They will kill you if they discover whose son you are. You must be careful.” She walked over to the stump and pulled up a small leather satchel hidden behind it. “I have something that will help you.” Clearing a space on the table, she set down the pouch. Untying the thong holding it closed, she opened the bag and set out three vials. Handing the red one to Groal she told him, ” This will render those who drink it unconscious for 48 hours. Only a few drops. More will kill.”

“Agraroot?”, he asked, holding the crimson urn at eye level.

“No, but it is derived from a similar plant. Now this”, she held up another jar filled with a viscous purple oil, “will bend anyone to your will. They will not lie to you and will absolutely obey any command. Again, only a few drops.” She pulled up a third vial stained orange by its watery contents. ” This will give you strength and endurance, but at a price. You will need to recover from its action so be sure you will be able to rest if you need to use it. Drink the entire vial.

Groal went into his cabin and returned a moment later with a field pack and some cloth in which to wrap the vials. He placed the protected vials in the pack and set it down beside the table.

“Do you intend to leave so soon?”, she asked him.

“It has been many years since my father was murdered and the Council has had all this time to impliment their plans. It is probably too late to do much about it already so any delay will just make things worse.”

“Do you think to just walk up to the gates and announce, ‘ I am Groal, son of Grumthor and I have come to save you’, like some prophet? Why not just slit your throat and be done with it”, she said in disgust.

“Well…uh….no, I mean…uh”, Groal stammered, taken aback by the young woodelf’s tone.

“Wait for Jarel. He is a crafty warrior. Listen to him, Groal. He will undoubtably invent some devious strategy. He is very good at that sort of thing. In his prime he was the greatest military mind on Norrath. Probably still is. His text, ‘Battle on the Plains’, is the most widely respected work of it’s kind. Entire cities have been planned and built ac-cording to his observations. I don’t suppose he’s let you read it?”

“He’s never mentioned it. But I have a copy.”

“Get it.”

Groal went into the cottage and came back out with a thin volume in one massive fist. He handed it to Myrlor. She turned it over in her hands and read the cover.

” ‘The Little Rabbit’s Child’ “, she chuckled at the absurd title. Opening it to the first page she saw it was indeed Jarel’s treatise on war, disguised as a child’s fairy tale.

“I had been working on an impossible problem Jarel had given me, solving cata-pult trajectories and to rest my mind I thought to take a break and read this simple child’s tale. Jarel must never have missed it after I took it from his shelf. I’ve read it many times but I must admit most of it is incomprehensible to me.”

“Almost no one understands it completely and any who do become Emperors and mighty Kings. A few have. Jarel destroyed them. He doesn’t approve of conquerors any more.” She leafed through the book until she came to the chapter she sought.

“Here”, she said, handing the opened book back to Groal. “Memorize this chap-ter.”

Groal saw it was titled ‘The Art of Assassination’. “I have most of the book committed to memory, mother. I know this part very well. But it means nothing to me. How can I apply these complicated musings? They seem so abstract.”

“Jarel will explain,” she told him. “He is coming. Tell him I will care for the ani-mals”, she said as she started to fade. Her form took on the aspect of fog or smoke and becoming as insubstantial, blew away in the slight breeze of the pleasant afternoon.

A rustling in the brush growing beneath the tall trees announced Jarel’s arrival. A brace of corvorants were slung over his shoulder as Jarel emerged from the depths of the woods. He threw them down on the table and sat on the stump where the young woodelf had been sitting. The sleeves of his tunic were torn and his face was bleeding from the scratches delivered by corvorant claws and teeth.

“A breeding pair”, he said. “Particularly nasty. Did she ask about the chapter on assassinations?”

“How….how did you know?” Groal was still amazed at his master’s ability to assess a situation.

“I smelled her damned cooking from miles off. I guessed you must have finished reading the translation. She has always spoiled you. Oh. You mean the writing. Well, I knew you had the volume and that is the chapter for what you are planning. You are planning, right? Or are you just reacting?” Jarel saw the look in Groal’s eyes.

“By the gods boy!”, he shouted. “Have I taught you nothing ?”

“By the gods, boy!”, he shouted. “Have I taught you nothing?” Jarel stood and walked angrily around the tree stump, throwing his arms wildly about him.

“What is the first rule of combat?” He stopped and gave a piercing look to Groal. “The first rule”, he barked.

“N..n…know your enemy.”

“Know your enemy! Yes! And who is the enemy?”

” The….the Council?”

“The Council!” Jarel was still shouting, his surprisingly loud voice echoing in the quiet glade they called home. “Who else?”

“The trolls?”

“The trolls.” He was quiet now, which intimidated Groal far more than the angry shouting. ” The boy is a genius. Oh, tremble in fear, mighty rulers of Oggok. Prepare to meet thy doom”. Jarel’s dark blue skin took on a purple hue and he sat, collapsed nearly, onto the stump. He rubbed his left arm and grimaced against the pain running up into his chest, breathing hard. “Damnit, boy. You’ll be my death.” His panted in short painful gasps for a few moments and then a blue coloring returned to his cheeks turned violet by his efforts. He sat up and looked searchingly into Groal’s small eyes.

“I have an idea”, he said.

Spring turned to summer. The warm days passed and as the first snows fell, a young ogre approached the gates of pulling behind him a small cart filled with dried herbs, bandages and arcane instruments of healing. He stopped at the sentry’s challenge.

Oggok “Hold, stranger”, the guard growled. “And what have we here?” He walked casually around Groal’s cart, limping slightly and slapping a truncheon against a muscular thigh. He lifted the tarp covering the contents and began pulling out various sacks and packages, throwing them roughly on the cobblestones of the single road leading into the city.

“A smuggler, eh?”

“No, Sir. I am a simple country healer, come to make my fortune in your great city.” Groal sounded shy and contrite, as Jarel had taught him.

The guard opened a sack and peering into it, smelled the dried contents. His head jerked back and he threw the sack down, scattering the powdered herbs about his feet.

“Innoruk take it!”, he bellowed. “Aaah…..ah….CHOO!” He dropped the nightstick, drew his sword and menacingly approached Groal. “Poison! Aah…Choo!”

“Sir”, Groal said, backing away. “It is not. That will cure headaches and joint pains. I swear to you. It is not poison. Let me show you.”

The soldier hesitated and Groal took the opportunity to gather up some of the spilled medicine and putting it to his face, inhaled deeply.

“See? I live.”

The guard looked suspicious but put away his weapon.

“I suffer great pain in my knee”, he said. “Will that foul dust help?”

“Oh, absolutely. Let me examine your leg.” Groal bent down and inspected the sentry’s knee. It was scarred and Groal saw it had been badly set after having been slashed and broken. The scar ran purple along the shin. He felt the tendon and determined that it ran improperly down the leg. He shuddered invisibly to think that the ogres had no better surgeons than the butcher who had done this.

“Sir”, he said, looking up at the guard. “I can fix this wound so that you have no pain and no limp. Come to me after I am established. No charge to you.” He picked up the sentry’s club and handed it to him.

The sentry looked doubtful. He had experience with “healers”. He scowled suspiciously at Groal as the strange young ogre returned his supplies to the wagon with an economy of movement the guard had not seen since fighting the elves in Kithicor. He’d keep an eye on that one, he would.

Groal struggled mightily to maintain an aloof visage as he passed the gates into Oggok. As he pulled his little cart up the street he saw butcher shops displaying the flayed limbs of Dwarves and Gnomes and filthy, hideously wounded beggars whose desperate pleas for succor presaged a slow death from starvation. He passed a market square where a one eyed auctioneer bellowed the virtues of slaves for sale. He saw a group of ogre children playing at a game he thought should be called “who can bite the hardest”. The gutters overran with filth and excrement, smelling of death and blood.

‘Welcome to Oggok’, he thought to himself.

He continued down the dirty, broken street into the heart of the city until he came within sight of the largest structure in Oggok, King Kilgor’s Castle, now the seat of the Council. He would set up his base of operations near here.

He found a vacant stall and with a little inquiry, the owner. After a bitter negotiation he rented the dilapidated structure for an exorbitant fee and set out the herbs and ointments that would announce his presence as a healer for hire. The first phase of Jarel’s Plan was nearly complete. In the weeks to come, Groal would roam and map the city at night and maintain his façade during daylight. By months end, he had a detailed map of the city for Jarel. All that was left to him was getting into the castle. The opportunity came just as the yellow moon of October lit the city with a diseased, shadow blurring glow, making of the streets paths of ochre fire leading to hell. The fates came in the form of a halfling servant, come to demand the young healer’s services.

He followed the tiny, starved thin slave through garbage filled alleys and onto the worn stone steps leading to the service gate of the castle. He was led through a kitchen hot as the caves of Kaladim and through a wide hallway carpeted with a rich thick velvet red and up a set of marble stairs banistered in hand polished Barrow wood and down another hallway. The halfing stopped and faced a wooden door, turning to Groal with a countenance devoid of expression, a face that had looked upon the abyss of utter fear and despair; a face that no longer hungered even for death. The little soulless man opened the door and gestured for him to enter.

Groal’s warrior trained eyes scanned the large bedroom from wall to wall and he almost unconsciously counted three swords, four daggers and a crossbow arrayed among the richly robed ogres assembled around the huge canopied bed that filled most of the room. The figures hunched over the thickly blanketed bed looked up in rapid succession, stepping back and making room for the young healer. On the mattress lay Barbergan, his face wet and pasty, eyes glazed.

Groal saw at once the Elder had been poisoned. He walked quickly over to the old ogre and placing a hand on the fevered brow said, “I need something from my shop. I can save him. Maybe.”

“If you think it is poison, young ‘ogluk’, we are all wasting our time.” An old but still large and muscular ogre in uniform pointed a finger at him, using a slang term for runt. “The food tasters have been ‘questioned’ and though none survive, they all proved their innocence. He has not been poisoned.”

An even older ogre in splendid yellow silk robes moved to stand between Groal and the ogre in military dress.

“So far, all we have done is make things worse.” He put a shaky hand on the soldier’s arm. His voice was a thin whisper. ” Let this young one try.” His face was a mass of scars, the trophies of wars now forgotten, his eyes empty as the halfling slave’s. “Go, ogluk, and return quickly. His life is now yours and you live because he lives. If he dies….” Thrack left the thought unsaid, the meaning was unmistakable. Groal stood and with bowed head left the room as quickly as he had arrived.

With a simple gesture of his hand, Thrack silently directed the old soldier to follow the young ogre.

‘Barbergan must die’, he thought to himself. ‘Then Ogra.’

Groal ran through the castle taking a different route from the way he had come, making a mental image of the floor plans as he went. He finally arrived at the kitchen and servants’ entrance from which he had first entered and bounding down the marble stairs two at a time, paused for a moment at the bottom to let the warrior catch up. He didn’t want to lose his stalker. As Ogra appeared at the top of the steps, Groal slipped into a dark alley, making sure the old ogre would see.

Ogra paused for a moment at the top of the back stairs to catch his breath. He was not as young as he used to be but by Innoruk, he was still more than a match for an ignorant country ogre like this young healer. The lad wasn’t all that bright, he thought. The young fool had gotten lost leaving the castle and Ogra had followed him through the maze of hallways. He was lucky to have made it to the streets, having found the kitchens leading to the rear gates by accident or just inevitably. Even Ogra himself had not known the ways in one of the wings the silly child had wandered about . Ogra saw his prey slip into a narrow alley he knew led into the merchants quarter. He drew a small crysknife stained black with the blood of countless victims and walked down the steps quickly. On the street he broke into an slow jog. He would take a shorter route and lie in wait. An easy kill awaited him.

By the silence behind him, Groal ascertained Ogra must be circling ahead to lie in ambush. He debated ending the life of the old soldier. He had never killed except in self-defense and even then only savage animals in the forest. Could he kill a sentient? Jarel had indoctrinated him on the evils of murder and Groal felt no lust for killing his father’s murderer, if this was indeed Ogra. But what other soldier would be in Barbergan’s death chamber? “If it walks like a mandrakor…”, Jarel was fond of saying. No, this was Ogra. He was sure of it. And he would kill him. His blood warmed strangely at the thought.

Coming out into the dimly torch-lit street, Groal heard the quiet breathing of his foe hissing from the shadows to his left. A clumsy ambush, he thought. Ogra is overconfident. Know your enemy. He pretended unconcern and walked noisily up to the hidden assassin, a crystalline dagger concealed in his right hand. As he passed, Ogra struck, swinging his knife in an arc aimed directly at Groal’s neck. With the slightest movement, Groal dodged and backed off three paces, crouching slightly and planting his left foot slightly ahead of the right, presenting the smallest target to his attacker and setting his balance perfectly.

The momentum of his swing carried Ogra into the street, off balance and open to a counterstrike. He whirled swiftly back into position only to feel the cutting edge of a very sharp knife slice a shallow wound into his side. An amateurish cut but painful nonetheless. His instincts, honed on a lifetime of battle, brought him around in a swift maneuver that would have left any other opponent lying bleeding to death at his feet. Instead, he struck only empty air while his target managed a cut to his shoulder, the blood flying out into the dark. The wound was deep enough to disable his left arm which fluttered uselessly at his side and he backed up hastily, putting the torch pole between himself and this surprising young ogre. He hocked a huge spit ball at the lamp and it sizzled out with a foul stench. In the sudden darkness he struck again and again felt the razor’s edge of Groal’s knife slice him open. He dropped his own dagger and held his arms to his belly, holding in the stomach and organs that threatened to spill from the grievous wound. He fell heavily to his knees in shock, looking up at the victor in astonishment. The pale moonlight revealed it was Grumthor, returned from the grave!

He died with that old remembered face gazing down at him, the eyes blazing red with a blood-lust he knew must have countenanced the victories of his own youth. How he had loved the deaths of others. Now, he must love his own. He embraced the falling darkness eagerly, accepting this honorable end of life. He had died in battle and Innoruk would meet him in the plane of power and lead him to his rightfully earned station at the right hand of the dark god in the land of the dead.

An evil thrill ran through Groal as Ogra’s lifeless body collapsed into the mud of the gutter, it’s insides spilling obscenely into a river made of it’s own red blood. Groal turned away and continued on to his stall. He felt exhilarated, alive. Something in the deed had awakened the ogre in him. His true nature that the sad old ShadowKnight (who sought redemption through acts of salvation) had tried to train out of him could not be washed away by the kindness or the discipline he had learned beneath Jarel’s gentle hand. Groal felt strong. He felt…right. There was no shame nor remorse in depriving your enemies of life; there was joy. Revenge was like the wines of Toxxulia, sweet as honeypie and intoxicating. Groal was drunk with death. Death was life.

Back at his ramshackle lean-to in the merchant’s quarter, Groal washed his hands of Ogra’s blood and quickly sketched out the floor plan of the areas of the castle he had so far that night managed to explore. He rolled the tiny map up tightly and tied it to the leg of a small bird trained to return to Jarel’s aviary. He released the bird into the ominous night and gathering up a few sacks of herbs, returned in the gathering gloom of the setting moon to the castle and Barbergan’s bed.

The night sentry stationed near the kitchens followed him down the same worn and stained carpet and up the chipped stairway into the Elder’s bedchamber. The interior of the castle was not so impressive this second time he saw it. The guard left him at the door to Barbergan’s room and Groal knocked on the raw wooden door timidly. The door flew open and a large officer stood there, sword drawn. Groal quickly backed off, holding his package at arms length saying, “Sir, I have been summoned.”

“Let him in, Gork”. Thrack’s thin whisper of a voice carried with it a tone of command the officer obeyed without the slightest thought. Groal walked into the room, noting as he entered the guard’s armaments. Setting his supplies on a small night table, he placed a small quantity from each bag into a mortar. After a few minutes grinding the mixture with the stone pestle he turned to one of the Elders there assembled and said, ” I need water.”

“Morack, get some water.” Thrack walked up in an old man’s shuffle to the young ogre to inspect his work and a middle aged Elder left the room. “What are you preparing, young ogluk?”

“I do not know the nature of the poison so I have made what I hope is an all purpose antidote.” Groal spoke without looking directly at the Chief Elder. “Regardless of that Captain’s belief, it is poison that has caused this great Elder’s distress.”

“Hmmph. Yes, well. It is in your hands now, ogluk. We shall soon see if your reputation is deserved. If not, then your reputation is ended. As is your life. You are aware of this, correct?” Without waiting for a response, Thrack turned to the council members. “And where is the Captain of the guards? He should have returned by now. Gork, go find him. Now!” Thrack had been troubled at Groal’s arrival and was now concerned that Ogra had not made an appearance. He had expected the old fool to show up with some excuse as to why the young healer lived. He probably had lost him in the dark. No matter now. The damage was done. He could only hope the country lad could not possibly counteract the exotic potion given Thrack by Kinlack. For the sake of appearances, he must now let the ogluk attempt to cure his rival of the effects of the poison Thrack had so carefully introduced into Barbergan’s wine.

Gork, the guard who had met Groal at the door, hastily left the room in search of the missing Commander.

Morack returned with a skein of water. Groal took it and mixing in a few drops at a time made a thin green, evil smelling paste. He spooned this into the almost unconscious Barbergan. The old ogre choked and grimaced in distaste.

“Still trying to poison me, Thrack?” Barbergan’s whisper was audible only to Groal who had leaned over to place a dampened rag on the heated brow. This tidbit might prove useful as Groal now knew there was at least some dissension in the Council. ‘Divide and conquer’ was another useful saying of Jarel’s. Barbergan began sweating profusely and seemed to slip into a deep coma. Groal turned to the Council.

“He will sleep fitfully for a time as the poisons are drawn out. He will awake on the morrow. You must make him drink great quantities of water as he will drain himself of fluid as his sweat carries out the poisons.” He gathered up his supplies and started for the door.

“Where do you think you are going, ogluk?” Groal turned to see Thrack staring at him with his dead piggish black eyes. ” If Barbergan should die in the night you will have seen your last moon. You will remain in the castle until he is out of danger or dies. Guard, take him below and put him in chains.”

Every instinct honed through years of training strained at Groal’s attempts to control his overwhelming rage at this petty, traitorous tyrant. But he allowed himself to be led meekly away, the guard gripping his arm firmly and marching him down into the depths of the castle. Groal chanced a look at his captor and was surprised to see it was the sentry who had met him at the gates on his first day in Oggok.

“Hello, Bashra. I see you have healed nicely. You never returned for the follow up as I directed. If an infection had set in you might have lost that leg after my surgery.”

“Shut up, fool.” Bashra craned his neck to look behind them then glanced back down at the smaller ogre. “You done a good job, ogluk. Since you fixed my leg I been returned to the castle and my old job in the Guard. But I couldn’t pay you so I stayed away. Now look at you, about to rot in the dungeon.”

“These cells are ancient”, he told Groal as they marched down a damp dark corridor running below the castle. “The stones are old and rotted. Even the rats gnaw through them to freedom in the catacombs which surround the dungeon. If you are not careful, the bars will fall on you and kill you. Once I hand you to the Dungeon Master, my job is finished.” He quieted as they approached an intersecting hall dimly lit by flickering candlelight. An old and pale ogre sat behind a tiny table, head bowed, a bottle of wine in hand. A rack of large iron keys was hung on the wall behind him.

“Klaprok! Wake up!” The old man looked up with blurry red rimmed eyes. “Take this ‘nadrol’ and put him in cell 40. Understand?”

“Uh… wha….?” Klaprok tried to focus his wine smeared vision. ” Oh, it’s you, Bashra. Another one? If Thrack keeps this up there will be no one on the streets of Ogguk. They will all be here with me. Bring him along then. He looks very dangerous.” The old soldier’s laugh decayed into a phlegmy cough as he stood shakily and grabbed a ring of keys from the rack. The odd trio walked into the dark of the dungeon, coming at last to a thick iron door with a small window through which food and water might be passed. Inserting one of the huge keys into the lock, Klaprok twisted and pushed. The door screaled open on rusted hinges and Groal found himself pushed roughly inside.

‘That’s the last we’ll see of that one”, Klaprok observed as he locked the door.

We’ll see about that, thought Bashra. I think we shall see him again.

Never had Groal experienced a blackness such as that which now enveloped him. He lost all sense of direction. It was as if he lay within the abyss of time and space, falling endlessly through a stygian night devoid of place, without existence. Not even the hell of which Jarel spoke so frequently could be as empty of reality as this dungeon cell. After an indeterminate time Groal began to crawl forward cautiously, remembering the words of his teacher. ‘If you cannot see, listen. If you cannot listen, touch.’ This teaching Groal now practiced in earnest, feeling along the slimy floor until his outstretched hand brushed against a damp surface. He used this as a point of reference and guessing at a hundred and eighty degree turn crawled forward again until he met the opposing wall. ‘Thirteen feet’, he counted out the steps he knew he paced on his knees. He recalled the hated exercises Jarel had put him through, blindfolded and crawling in the mud beneath a fence of thorns the Shadow Knight had constructed. Then he thought his master cruel. Now, he praised the wisdom.

He continued his exploration of his prison, first on hand and knee then standing, arms outstretched, until he knew every inch of the cell. Bashra was right in that the walls were indeed rotted and the unseen bars set in one wall loose. One came out into his hand even as he felt about the moldy window frame. An almost undetectable breeze came from the opening carrying a foul odor. Groal guessed it must come from the catacombs Bashra had mentioned. He carefully and silently pulled a few more rods from the window and hoisted himself up and out of his erstwhile prison, falling a few feet into a cold repugnant smelling shallow river running along the wall. He followed it downstream for an hour or so and a faint light grew up ahead until it presented itself as the barred exit of the underground drain system. Dawn was fast approaching. Groal pulled at the gate but the bars were not as decrepit as the ones in his cell and he found himself trapped just as freedom beckoned.

He returned the way he came, the light fading behind him even as it grew brighter. Soon he was again feeling his way in the pitch dark. His unerring sense of direction and distance told him when he was back at the cell and he continued on, hoping the tunnel would ultimately lead to a more cooperative exit. Within a few feet he came to a bend and this he followed for a long time, passing adjoining tunnels and hearing the soft murmur of filthy water and muck slogging it’s slow way out of the city.

A faint light drew him on and he came finally to another large grate, this time corroded and rusting away. He easily dislodged it and entered into a wide passageway lit by torches placed at great distances along the walls. He walked slowly and silently down, descending ever deeper into the stinking bowels of Ogguk. A distant murmuring brought him to a halt and he strained to listen, breathing silently. It sounded like a chant coming from a great distance like a waterfall heard from miles away. He cautiously continued forward, listening with great intent. The rhythmic sound grew as he came closer to it’s source and the tunnel grew brighter as he approached another opening. The chanting was coming from somewhere just beyond this junction. He peered around the corner and saw a group of black robed Trolls marching in a solemn procession around a stone alter. A naked figure, bound and gagged was tied onto the slab of rock, struggling vainly at the knots. One of the dark marchers held a large, deeply curved dagger above his head, making slow downward motions at regular intervals. Around them stood a half dozen Trolls in grey garb. Groal was witnessing an ancient sacrificial ceremony, he guessed. And a female Ogre was the sacrifice.

Jarel finished attending to the animals in the cages stacked ceiling-high around the walls of his cabin and filled a pitcher with water from the backyard well for the injured birds in the aviary. The dawn was not far off as he approached the enclosure, already turning the sky a deep turquoise and bleeding from the blackness of night the principle beacons’ dimmer brethren.

A peeping from the top of the wicker cage drew his attention to where a small blue Arengal Pigeon sat chirping merrily, a tan package tied around one leg. Jarel had not expected another message from his “spy” so soon. He pursed his lips and whistled in imitation of the little bird’s mating call. The tiny thing fluttered to him and landed delicately on his outstretched arm. He undid the knots in the cord tying the message to the bird’s leg and carefully unrolled the scrap of sheepskin. Another map, this time the prize he had been awaiting: the castle! Or at least a portion of it. Any map of the castle was a signal Groal was ready to move. ‘So they have not yet clapped Groal in irons’, he thought. The risky venture upon which he had set his adopted son was nearing it’s conclusion. It was time to act instead of plan and worry.

Jarel returned to his dwelling and began gathering together the armaments he and Goal would need to finish this terrible business. It seemed the fates demanded Jarel remain a warrior despite his renunciation of his former ways. Surely there was some mitigating factor in defending his adopted son. Perhaps not. It didn’t matter. Jarel was well used to doing what was required of the situation regardless of the morality of his actions. ‘Hell be damned’, he thought. ‘Heaven be damned. The Gods be damned!’ There was only Groal to consider now.

Groal considered the odds. A dozen Trolls, each taller than himself, against his tiny assassin’s knife. And his Shadow Knight skills. ‘I must surely die’, he thought, ‘but I will not let this…atrocity…proceed’. Groal reached into his robe and pulled out an orange vial. He pulled out the cork and drained the contents. Instantly, an invigorating rush suffused his entire body and mind. He stepped silently into the underground cathedral and moving quickly and deadly to his left struck once, twice, thrice and three gray robed trolls fell. The clattering of the three massive trolls falling dead to the floor brought the entire ritual to a halt. Nine trolls turned their attention upon the intruder. The tall troll leading the marchers swung his ceremonial knife in a great whistling arc and in a voice hissing with outrage demanded his acolytes attack the blasphemer.

“Arguls ness fens wissrens gilssmanorsh!” He commanded in the hideous Troll tongue. In a rattle of metal the acolytes drew from their robes swords and daggers. They charged the squat shadow standing back-lit by the flickering light of the smoking lanterns hanging from the ceiling on wrought iron chains.

The initial attack was clumsy and Groal easily sliced open the throats of the first two trolls to reach him. As their black blood flew from his furious counter assault, he dove to the floor and rolled on his back around the trolls coming from behind and standing, flashed his small dagger with a preternatural speed, cutting them down. In a span of seconds, he had reduced his foes to five. The others kept their distance from Groal’s deadly blade, backing off and arranging themselves in an organized formation. These were warrior priests from Grobb, trained in the arts martial and spiritual. The advantage of surprise was gone and now Groal was merely outnumbered by warriors larger than he and nearly as skilled.

They pressed their numerical advantage, spreading to Groal’s left and right, attacking on two fronts. As they approached him, two to his left, three on the right, Groal leapt up to grab the lamp hanging directly over the altar; swinging himself on the chain in an arc around the trolls coming from his left and landing behind them. He had put one group between the other. Troll blood splattered the walls as he danced forward between the two closest warrior priests in a maneuver Jarel called the ‘Dragon Fly Mating’. Now he stood facing only three of the gray robed trolls, their brother priests lying dead at Groal’s feet. He remained unscathed, not even breathing hard. He smiled. They attacked.

The last of the warriors in gray were more cautious than their brethren. They spread themselves out quickly, and one bent to retrieve a sword to replace his small dagger. He never reached it for the small ogre’s knife spun through the dimness and embedded itself to the hilt in his neck. Groal, now unarmed, dove to the floor and rolled away from the remaining two, grabbing a blood slicked sword as he stood to face the last of the trolls. He placed his right foot in front of his left as he had been taught and sidled forward, driving the trolls into a corner. They slashed viciously at the flashing sword, seeking an opening. Groal feinted to his right and one of the trolls stepped into Groal’s trap. Switching the sword to his left hand he parried the attack and with a quick side step, plunged his sword through the troll’s mid-section. His weapon was pulled from his grip as the troll fell dead and once again unarmed, he turned to face the final foe. The tall warrior grinned a nasty grin and raising his own weapon over his head, prepared to deal the death stroke. The sword sung through the air, passed the space where Groal had been standing and rang against the stone floor, breaking in two. As a paralyzing numbness ran up the troll’s arm, Groal jumped at him and wrapped his powerful fingers around the muscular throat of his enemy. The grin never left the troll’s face as his throat was crushed beneath the little ogre’s hands. He made small gurgling noises as he lay dying at Groal’s feet. A shuffling sound turned Groal’s attention to the altar where the tall leader of the disrupted ceremony stood. He approached slowly, wary of the large blade still held in the green one’s hand.

“Hold, little one”, the tall priest spoke. ” You have no idea who I am. My death at your hands will hold grave consequences you cannot imagine. I am Kinlack, Ambassador to Oggok.” The thick trollish accent did not disguise the tall troll’s words and Groal’s heart leaped in his chest to find itself face to face with one of the architects of his people’s betrayal.

“Untie the girl”, he said.

“Yes, of course”, Kinlack said and bent to do as he had been instructed. As the final bonds were cut Groal stepped around the altar to face Kinlack.

“Now, Ambassador, we have something to discuss.”

Before he had a chance to respond, Kinlack found himself in headlock grip such as he knew the Shadow Knights of the Dark Elves were taught. Where did this strange and dangerous young ogre learn such tricks, he wondered. His mouth was prised open and he tasted a few drops of some bitter substance the little ogre dropped down his throat from a small purple vial he had produced from the folds of his robe. A dullness took over his mind and he sat quietly where the ogre dragged him, not even attempting to escape or move.

The sacrificial girl ogre was still trying to sit upright as Groal handed her a bloodied gray robe.

“Put this on”, he told her. His eyes avoided her naked form and as he turned from her back to Kinlack he thought her the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. A large wine red birthmark covered half her face in an intoxicating stain that added to her great beauty. Yellow teeth grew haphazardly behind thick purple lips and her small lashless eyes looked up at him gratefully. He tried to put her out of his mind and focus on what he must learn from the troll Ambassador. Groal squatted before the drugged Kinlack.

“Ambassador”. Kinlack’s eyes wandered aimlessly in his head as he tried to look directly at his inquisitor. “Tell me what the trolls are doing with the children the council lets you take back to Grobb.”

“Sweet ogre pie”, the Ambassador sang. “Oh, delicious young ogre roast. Or fried. So very, very tasty.”

“Why did they murder Grumthor?”

“Why? Because he opposed them, of course. He would have told all of Oggok and that would never do. Nope, nope, nope. Never do. Hahaha.” Kinlack’s head lolled side to side and he seemed to be trying to focus on something in the distance.

“Why is Thrack poisoning Barbergan?”

” So Thrack and Thrack alone will rule the council. Then, he will declare himself King. After all, the true descendants of the last King of Oggok are all dead now. After we killed Grumthor and his family. Hahaha. The old fool never knew of his relation to Old King Kilgor. Or his wife’s for that matter. Together, they produced the only rightful heir to that long abandoned throne. But they’re all dead now. Dead, dead, dead.”

“Is that why he arranged the trade with Grobb? Arms in exchange for ogre children?”

“Yup, yup, yup. How else could he build the army he would need to face the resistance he would face? And the children are sooooooo delicious. My, my, my.”

“There must be more than that in it for Grobb. What else did you hope to gain?”

“With Thrack as King of Oggok, we would make a mighty army of trolls and ogres to conquer all of Antonica. We would let the ogres take the brunt of the fighting, of course, and weaken themselves. Then, after the conquest, we would in turn conquer the ogres. Hahahaha. Soon, Grobb will rule Antonica and then all of Norrath. Hahahaha.”

Groal stood and looked down on Kinlack in disgust and horror. He turned his back to the tall troll and picked up the ceremonial knife from where Kinlack had dropped it. He turned it slowly in his hands. The edge was very keen and he cut his thumb feeling along it. He handed it to the nearly insensate troll and said, ” Cut your throat open. A deep cut. Try to remove your head.”

“Certainly. Hahaha. A most reasonable request.” Kinlack took the knife and without the slightest hesitation ran the blade under his chin. He slumped to the floor, his black blood gushing from the wound in great gouts of gore, his nearly severed head hanging unaturally from his shoulders.

“Is he dead?”

Groal turned a triumphant gaze in the direction of the altar from where the soft question had come. The young girl sat there, looking at him with fear and hope twinkling together in the small black eyes glittering like obsidian in the smoky light, large and afraid.

“They are all dead”, he said looking deeply into those dark pools before him. He forgot where he was, what he had done and been told. It was as though he had been cast into another prison cell and all reality was contained in those ebony eyes. “I…I…killed them. Are you all right?”

“Well, considering I’ve been kidnapped, gagged, dragged through the city in a burlap bag, tied to an alter and nearly killed, I’m fine. How are you?”

Groal stood there, dumbstruck. A little silence passed between them and Groal saw the slight smirk on the face of the lovely girl. Simultaneously they burst out in the hacking growl that passed for an ogre’s laugh. The ogress stood and wrapping both arms around Groal hugged him hard, looking up at him and whispering, “Thank you. You were really quite amazing.” She let go of him, holding him at arm’s length by the wrists.

Groal cleared his throat. He didn’t know what to say. He cleared his throat again. “Um…..”, was as far as he got as he tried to say something intelligible.

“Let’s get out of here”, she said. “My name is Dalgra. And you are……?”

“Groal. I’m not sure where we are”, he told her. ” I escaped from the prison cells just a short time ago. I found you while I was searching for a way out.”

“The dungeon, hm? Upstream from here or down?”

“Downstream. I already tried going that way.”

“Oh, no. Not downstream from the cells. That grate is new. My uncle put it up last year after old lady Grockick found me going in one day. ‘It’s not seemly for a daughter of the Ruling caste to be seen crawling in the sewers’, he told me. Anyway, if we are upstream from the dungeons we need to continue climbing and bear left. We’ll come out at the South Gate.”

“How are you so sure”

“I’ve played in these sewers and catacombs since I was a little girl. They’re fun. Or were until tonight. Come on.” She let go of Groal’s hands and started toward the opening from which Groal had entered. “Grab a lamp”, she said over her shoulder as she entered the tunnel

“Um… ok. Wait a second”, he said to her back. He reached up to one of the lamps hanging from the ceiling and took it off the hook. Holding it by the cool bottom, he followed her into the underground passage.

The old Dark Elf squatted in the concealing shadows of the forest just outside the southern walls of Oggok. This was the difficult part, finding Groal. As much as Jarel detested all things magic, it appeared he had no choice but to summon again those considerable skills he had so long held in abeyance.

Clearing away the newly fallen leaves before him, he began a casting. It had been many years since he had practiced these accursed arts but his great skills had not diminished through unuse. His finger traced a strange design in the damp loam and he began a quiet incantation in a tongue so ancient not even he understood the words or their meaning. He knew their effect, however, and as silver and red threads of brilliance started from his outstreched hands, he felt the familiar thrill of Power; ribbons of blood and moonlight bled from his fingertips like waterfalls of diamond and ruby into the choatic pattern, making an unearthly sigil in the soil. The magic moved with a life of its own, it’s colors pouring into the shallow grooves like streams of dancing metallic lava, overflowing and then melding into a swirling disc of shining veridian that glistened beneath the forest’s mottled shadows. The pool darkened and visions took shape within it. Jarel peered at the gathering images and he saw Groal walking up a shallow incline, his feet splashing in the liquid detritus flowing slowly past and behind him. He was apparently following someone deep beneath the streets of the city for Jarel could see a shadow dancing ahead, cast by the light of the lamp Groal held at arms length. He whispered into the glittering pool of alizerian silver.

“Groal. I have come.”

Groal stopped in midstep, almost dropping the lamp. “Jarel?” He looked about him, seeking the owner of that well known voice. “Where are you?” He heard the silence ahead of him as Dalgra too stopped.

“What? Who are you talking to?”

“Shh. It is my master.”

“You are a slave?”

“No. I mean my teacher. My…father. My friend. I heard him speak just now.”

“It is only the sound of the wind in the catacombs, Groal. We are alone. Don’t let your fear affect your mind now. We are close to the outside. I can smell it.”

“I am not afraid. But I heard him speak.”

“Impossible. These walls are too thick.”

“It came from nearby. He must have followed me in here somehow. He is very resourceful. But I don’t see how……”

“Groal. I am outside the city. It is time to finish this. I will meet you at the Southern Gates.”

“I am on my way there now, Jarel.” He looked up the tunnel to where Dalgra stood staring at him as if he were mad. “How much farther?”

“A little ways only. Who are you talking to? You said ‘Jarel’. You mean, ‘the’ Jarel? The evil ‘Bane of West Karana’? You are crazy. He’s long dead. And he certainly wouldn’t be helping you if he did live. My uncle Barbergan told me many frightening stories of that Shadow Knight. It is a name used to scare little children. A myth, a legend; the stories are exaggerations, at best.”

“No, Dalgra. There’s only one and he’s no myth. He raised me. He is all the family I know. Thrack, Kinlack and your uncle killed my true family. He found me as an infant near death in the woods. Now he has come to help me set these matters aright. It is why I am here.” He stared straight at her, daring the disbelief so evident in her expressive, perfect face.

“Let’s go”, he said into the quiet growing between them. “He is waiting for me near the Southern Gate.”

With a last puzzled look at her unusual saviour, Dalgra started again up the shallow incline towards the gate. He was very handsome, she thought, even if he was smaller than most of the ogres she knew. His accent was unfamiliar and he spoke as if he’d been educated. There was only one place that could have happened yet if he had ever attended the College where ogres of her caste were schooled she would have met him and having met him, she knew she would never have forgotten him. So who was he? Maybe what he had said was true. Any other answer would have to be at least as strange so until she was shown differently, she decided to accept him at his word. A lightening in the tunnel drew her from her thoughts. She halted and turned to Groal.

“We are at the Gate”, she whispered. “We must be very quiet now. There are patrols that pass by here.”

“Alright. Wait a minute then.” Groal’s small eyes squinted in concentration and he quietly said aloud, “Jarel, I am ready.”

“We must wait until the sun is down. Tell the girl to go home and say nothing about this.”

“No. You don’t understand. I saved her from the trolls and now Kinlack is dead. She can’t just go back as if nothing happened.”

“Kinlack’s dead? Stay out of sight. This changes things. I will contact you again after night falls.”

“As you say, Jarel.”

“What? Shh. C’mon.” She grabbed him by his arm and dragged him back into the tunnel. “There’s more to this than you know”, she whispered. “You think I was kidnapped just randomly? Thrack arranged it. My uncle died last night and I was to have died also.”

“I believe your uncle lives. The herbs I administered should save him but it’s not certain.”

Her grip on his arm tightened. “What do you mean? You saved Barbergan? Why? That ambitious fool has sold out Oggok to Grobb and he should die for that treachery. Oh, Groal.” She shook her head in exasperation. “You have no idea what is going on, do you?” She brought her head up and looked directly into his eyes. “Do you think all of Oggok is just standing idly by while Thrack and Barbergan destroy us?” She let go of him and stepped back a pace. “Myself and a group of students from the College have been secretly working with some influential merchants and a few high officers in the guard to stop this madness.” She paused for a moment then looked hard into Groal’s face, taking his measure; deciding what to tell, and what not to.

“Many of the ruling elite have lost sons and daughters to the trolls”, she continued. “Despite what the outside world thinks, we are not fools, even if the Council has worked hard at keeping most of us ignorant peasants. The caste system we have lived under since Kilgor’s death is not the natural order of things, Groal. It was established by Barbergan’s grandfather to further his own attempts to rule Oggok. Fortunately, the King’s Vizier was assassinated before he could consolidate his power. But that system has been perpetuated by the Council ever since, for their own selfish reasons. My group is going to put an end to all this and return the race of ogres to it’s rightful place as equals to any race in Norrath. That is why I was abducted. Thrack means to end all resistance and eliminating me would go far to further his ambitions. But with you now on our side we can at last make our move.”

Groal’s head swam in confusion. All this political intrigue he had learned of in the last few hours was more than he was able to assimilate. This lovely young ogress was involved with a group of counter-revolutionaries? Thrack was maneuvering to make himself King? He himself was a descendant of the last King of Oggok? All he had wanted was justice for his family and instead he had been thrown into the midst of the complicated politics of a people he knew only from his readings. He was not prepared for this and wanted no part in it. He stepped away from Dalgra.

“Enough! I have no part to play in this. I seek only what is right for me and my dead family. It was just an accident that I stopped Kinlack from killing you. It is my father’s death I mean to avenge. I won’t get involved in this.”

Dalgra returned his angry glare. “Fine. You just sit here in the filth of the sewer and wait for the command of your ‘father’. With Kinlack dead, we can begin our plans and eliminate the Council. The trolls and traitors will not rule Oggok as long as I still live.” She turned from him and ran swiftly up the tunnel, disappearing around the bend.

“Dalgra! Wait!” His call was answered with silence. She was gone, leaving him alone within a flickering sphere of yellow light that cast thick shadows made from the darkness around him. He staggered slightly and the flame danced about the wick, shedding sparks he barely felt as they burned themselves to ash on his wrist. A deep fatigue possessed him and he sat heavily. Myrlor’s warning came to him as he fell asleep; the orange colored extracts were demanding payment. Groal passed from the world of the waking into a place of absolute silence where neither light nor dreams intruded.

The sounds of distant armor clashly faintly far away etched themselves in his field of vision like strikes of lightning against a low October sky. His head felt as if it were in a dwarf’s vise; like the iron between the anvil and the hammer. Gods, he was thirsty.

“Groal…”

The gentle sound floated through the pain throbbing behind his eyes. A familiar word. He wondered what it meant.

“Groal, wake up! Now!….”

His eyes opened, startled. He found himself back in the dark corridor beneath the city, looking up at a beautiful young ogress and her seven…no, eight… companions. …Sixteen, he thought, as his vision doubled. Or thirty two. He shook his head.

“Groal! Wake up.” She slapped his face. “The entire garrison is looking for you. Come on!” She pulled him to his feet, holding him up with one hand while reaching down with the other to pick up Kinlack’s dagger which he had carried away when they had fled. “Bashra, pick him up. We’ve got to get him out of here.”

The clattering of soldiers’ armor sounded nearer and almost he could hear bellowed commands echoing around the stone walls of the catacombs.

“Wait”, he said. “I’m alright.” He staggered back from dalgra and the huge shadows hunkering behind her. “Who….Wha….?”

“We don’t have time for this. Carry him, Bash. C’mon!” Her voice was a harsh whisper as Groal felt himself lifted over a massive shoulder.

Groal awoke to find himself lying on a worn and dirty mattress. A hush of subdued yet insistent voices filtered through his still aching brain but the agony he had felt before had settled down to a dull throb. He sat up and looked about his surroundings. In the dim light of a single large candle he saw a group of ogres sitting around a large table, deep in a heated argument. He sat silently and listened.

“It’s time, I tell you. We have waited long enough. With Kinlack and Barbergan dead Thrack will move quickly. We must take action now or never.”

“No. It’s too early. We have yet to acquire the forces or broad support we will need. If we strike too soon, all will be lost.”

” I agree with Natog. We must get the support of the new Captain. Ogra’s mysterious death must be the work of Thrack but he has appointed a new Captain who is not as sympathetic to him as he thinks. Baltor’s nephew is one of the ‘disappeared’, though Thrack doesn’t know this. Still, Baltor may not want to jeopardize his new position. Natog needs time to find where his loyalties lie.”

“Bah! You are as timid as you are old, Agkor. We know we can count on nearly half the guard to support us.”

“Our support comes from the lower echelons, Dalgra”, Natog said. “How much help will they truly be? Will their men follow them if the high officers contest us?”

“If we wait now, Bashra, Thrack will tighten his grip on the city. He has already sent news of Kinlack’s death to Grobb. An army of trolls will be here within days, maybe as early as tomorrow. What then? Do we wait until he has declared himself King? Do we wait for Grobb to occupy Oggok?”

A silence fell over the conspirators. Dalgra tapped her fingers on the table in a rhythm that reflected her frustration. Groal spoke into the quiet.

“Is there anything to eat or drink?”

A chair scraped along the wood floor as Bashra rose to hand a skin of water to the little ogre. He drank in great noisy gulps, not stopping until he had drained it dry. Natog handed him a large piece of dried meat. Groal sat there with his mouth full, chewing mightily at the tough but delicious chunk of black meat.

“This is really good”, he said at last to the group watching him in silence. “What is it?”

“Jerked Dwarf”, Agkor said from the table. “You’ve never eaten Dwarf? Who are you, anyway? Dalgra says you will be of help if we can convince you of the need but I don’t see how one ogluk could make any difference.”

“I already told you. He killed Kinlack and nearly a dozen troll warriors single handed. Don’t let his stature fool you, Agkor. He could make all the difference.”

“I also killed Ogra. And if Barbergan’s dead, I guess I killed him too.”

“No.” said Dalgra. “Barbergan awoke this morning calling for water. Thrack insisted on giving it to his ‘old friend’ and Barbergan died a few minutes later. Bashra was there and told us. Come sit here with us, Groal. We have much to tell you. I’ll think you’ll change your mind about helping us when you hear what we have to say.”

For the next hour Groal sat and listened as Dalgra and an old wizened ogre who introduced himself as Agkor, Master of the Merchant’s Guild, told him an abbreviated history of the ogre race since the death of the last great King. He learned how the Council and the Clan Elders and especially Thrack and Barbergan’s grandfathers had reduced the ogres from a mighty and proud people to a state of beastliness. How those two had consolidated their power with pogroms and the wholesale slaughter of any that dared question their authority. How their sons had continued the caste system set up by them and how it had deepened it’s hold on Oggok under Thrack and Barbergan’s leadership. The few who were still educated and privileged mostly had no interest in changing the new order but some were discontent and as the trolls began to sway the Council for their own uses they had formed a clique of soldiers, merchants and students to oppose them. They had been planning for years to bring down the Council and this was the situation in which Groal now found himself. He looked into the earnest faces and made a decision.

“I’ll help,” he said simply. “And we have a powerful ally outside the city. Jarel, The Dark Elf Shadow Knight, will lend himself and his great powers to this cause.” A shadow moved in one corner and a tall, powerfully built ogre in officer’s dress stood. He had not spoken during the entire time and Groal was not prepared for the deep growling that proceeded from the mouth twisted with the scars of battle.

“Jarel is dead,” he said. He scowled at the young stranger and placed a huge fist around the hilt of the largest broadsword Groal had ever seen. He doubted he himself would have the strength to even lift it, much less wield it in battle.

“Dalgra has told us of this claim of yours,” said Agkor. “That you were raised in the dark woods of Feerrott by the author of ‘The Battle on the Plains’ and that you claim to be the same Groal who perished with his family on Grumthor’s estates a dozen years ago. I admit you bear a strong resemblance to my old employer but the tale you tell is too fantastic. Do you have proof?”

“I know who you are,” Groal said. “You were my father’s business manager.”

“This is not unknown.”

“Is it known that once a caravan was lost to bandits in the deserts of South Ro and you managed to recover the losses by making a deal with a rival band? That you thought Grumthor was not aware of this?”

Agkor looked at Groal in amazement. “How…..how could you know of this? I never told anyone. It has long been forbidden to deal with humans.”

“I read Grumthor’s diary. Jarel and I found it in the ruins of the castle. That is how I came to be here now.”

“I should have known I couldn’t keep anything secret from Grumthor. Well, this much at least I believe, that you are truly his son. You must tell me more when we have the time. If we survive.”

“If you were truly trained under Jarel’s tutelage, then you must have an opinion about whether we should strike now or continue waiting. Tell us your thoughts, little ogluk.” The monstrous soldier sounded skeptical as he looked down disapprovingly at Groal.

“Now, of course. There’s no question. Jarel has written: ‘The assassin strikes when his enemy is in disarray. When the leaders contend or new leaders arise,” he quoted.

” ‘Before there is agreement and all is in flux, the assassin takes his opportunity’,” the soldier finished the quote. “You know Jarel’s works but this is not convincing that he still lives.”

“Kraal, it doesn’t matter. Whether it’s true or not we must hit the council now. Can we agree on this?” Dalgra looked at each worried face in turn. One by one, they reluctantly nodded in assent.

The next half hour was spent reviewing their plans and except for a few slight changes, Groal expressed his approval. The cell of revolutionaries was suitably impressed by Groal’s insights and their confidence in success replaced any hesitancies still harbored by the more reluctant of the group. They would make their move tonight. Bashra and Kraal left to gather the soldiers loyal to their cause and old Agkor left to inform his friends in the Merchant’s Guild. Natog departed for the College where the students would be organized to help where they could. The wheels were in motion and now there was only success or death. Dalgra stayed behind with Groal.

“How long before the evening meal is served to the palace guard?”

“In an hour or so. Why?”

“Can you get this”, he gave her a small vial wrapped in leather, “introduced into the water they are served?”

She took it from him. “I think so. Why? What is it?”

“A potion that will render them senseless. It should help if we are to assault the Council chambers in Kilgor’s castle.”

“I’ll have to go now, then. Wait here. The guard are still tearing the city apart searching for you.” She stood and walked over to the door. Before she opened it she came back to Groal and bit him on his cheek. Groal nearly fainted from ecstasy. She gave him a smile as she shut the door behind her. He wondered where Jarel was and what he was doing.

At the edge of the Feerrott, Jarel lay snoring. The watch for nightfall had proved too taxing for the old elf and he had fallen asleep. In his youth, it was not unusual for Jarel to remain awake as long as ten days, fighting or spying. But he was no longer young and had not been for many decades. The casting of Scorbad’s Scry had taken more out of him than he would have ever imagined and he had not been aware of the fatigue that had overcome him. A slight noise in the forest brought him to his feet before he had even woke, his sword singing from it’s scabbard and flying in a deadly circle around him. He opened his eyes, slightly confused, it taking a few seconds to get his bearings. Myrlor stood before him, a sly grin on her face.

“You’re too old for this, Shadow Knight”, said the young and beautiful wood elf. Her lilting soprano reminded him of Sarehlyn, his first wife and the only thing before Groal he had ever loved. He had always blamed himself for her death at the hands of the Qeynos guards who had scoured the Karanas in search of him. He shook his head to remove the bitter memories.

“What do you want? Go away. I haven’t time for your tormenting just now. If you care for Groal, you’ll leave me be or else endanger him further.”

“Me? Endanger him? You old foolish elf. I am here to save him. Look into the shadows around you.”

Jarel turned then and saw shining from every bush and high in the trees hundreds and hundreds of small eyes reflecting the cool light of the half moon glowing low in the early evening sky. In a soughing of leaves the animals came out from their hiding, some coming up to Jarel to sniff or lick at his boots. He recognized many as animals he had brought back from sure death. He looked down upon the strange creature whom he had always considered his curse. She spoke.

“The little ones can’t help much but Corvorants, Bears and Listcats are here also. And that old lion you and Groal pulled from the grotto last year is here with his pride of seven. What do you think of my army, Jarel?” She laughed quietly at the astonished look on his face. “No killing for you, Shadow Knight. You have worked too long and too hard. To anger now the gods you have sworn to serve would be a tragedy even you don’t deserve.”

“Damn your gods. I will not stand by while Groal is in danger.”

“A noble sentiment to justify the evil you plan in your heart. No, Jarel. It is my duty to guide you and protect you. I will not fail.”

“Guide me? Protect me? You have never been anything but a stone in my boot, a thorn in my side, a…a….”. Words failed him as he tried to express his disdain for the audacity of the supernatural being’s statement.

“Jarel, Jarel”, she said kindly. “How do you think it is that you always found those creatures in need of your services? You have no skills as a Ranger. No, Jarel. It was I who led you to them. Or them to you. Either way, you would not have completed your penitence without me. I won’t see you throw away all my hard work. If you go into Oggok, slaughtering ogres, all the good you have done will be for naught. Don’t you see, Shadow Knight? The time has come for you to collect your reward and find the peace you have sought and earned.”

“I can’t let Groal do this thing on his own. He will surely die. My life and my fate do not matter to me, Groal’s does.”

She laughed heartily. “Your life? Have you lost your elvish sight as well as your wits? Look over here Jarel. Tell me what you see.” She walked a little ways off and halted, pointing down at her feet. Jarel came over to see what she wanted to show him. There, lying on the ground, was himself, a grey pallor on his face. His mouth was suddenly dry. He looked up and into Myrlor’s eyes.

“Yes, Shadow Knight, Bane of West Karana. Your last act on Norrath was the casting of the Scry. It is time to go, Shadow Knight. Don’t worry about Groal. The gods have plans for him that do not include an early demise. The beasts of Feerrott will do their part when the time comes.” She turned away and walked slowly into the forest. Jarel took one last look at his material self and followed. A faint light grew around them, obliterating the green of the forest. Jarel found himself walking into light, through the light, until all there was of the world was light. He was not blinded as he should have been and in the distance he made out faint figures he somehow knew were waiting for him. Sarehlyn too, he knew, was waiting. The Mother of All had at last forgiven him his great crimes. The years slipped away from him like a snake sheds it’s skin and it was as a young elf he entered paradise.

Tale by Friar Piernaval, Holy Hermit of Kithicor

– Fan Fiction written by the EQ Beta Test Manager