by David C. Daoust
PARAGON
The cold breeze skimmed lightly over the tall grass of the open plains. The sky above was the color of steel between clouds of grey. There was rumbling to the north, though it seemed as though there was always rumbling to the north. For to the north was the great citadel; the three thrones of the ogre magi, the central point of the ogre nations.
The ogre gripped the foreleg of the stag, he had just killed, and ripped it free in one massive flex of his muscled arms. He lapped at the blood before ripping into the raw flesh. He grabbed up the other leg and flung the body over his shoulder as he continued on, through the grassy plains. He knew rain would be coming and he welcomed it, it had been a long while since the barbaric ogre bothered to bathe, and the stag blood, that now covered him, would get sticky soon.
Krum was a young ogre, born not far from the lands he now traveled. He had finally come of age and it was his intention to join the fighting to the north.
Ogres fought, it was what they did. Each other mostly, a giant if they found it, young dragons if they were foolish enough. Anything that proved they were worthy of the next life. The life the magi promised them in death. Those worthy warriors of the ogre nations were entombed in great catacombs for the day of the return. For the day when the warriors would be raised again, to fight in the end wars.
It was every ogre’s wish to be deemed ‘War-chief’; each fought for the right to be the greatest of their era. And so it had been for centuries. Only one warrior was named, remembered, out of hundreds of ogre warriors. These unbeatable warriors were to be the first to be raised, first to take up arms for the return. The champions that would lead those lesser. Krum would be one of these champions, he knew, deep in his ogre mind, simple as it was. He believed it in his heart, and knew it would be enough.
Thunder suddenly broke in the sky; the sudden startling noise invigorated the ogre to roar out in challenge to the sky, as though the universe heard his thoughts and made protest. He would be champion, and he would bring down the sky and star and all above to prove it. Casting aside the now stripped foreleg of the stag, still burdened by the corpse, he broke into a three limbed run. His massive ogre arm pushing him forward like a beast through the plains as the rain began to fall, cleaning the muck and sticky blood from his leathery tough skin. The dead stag still slung over his shoulder as his limbs pushed him through the open fields. The more lightning lit the sky, the more thunder filled the air, the more rage the ogre felt as he began to leap and jump through the storm, ever propelling himself forward, to the north, to the fighting, to his destiny.
It was by chance he heard the others, especially in the storm. It was only a ways from his current path. The ogre stopped, suspiciously, unsure what to make of what seemed a makeshift caravan of ogre. The barbaric race, while still nomadic in nature, had some rough idea of territories. Tribes tended to migrate through these same territories at different times in the years. Krum did not recognize these travelers, and he knew this was still his tribe’s territory.
For the most part fighting was saved for the citadel. The areas around the three thrones were a constant battle field; ever growing fields of dead in constant flux. Though from time to time, if tribes encroached upon another tribe’s territory, squabbles would erupt.
Krum sat back as he studied what he could make-out from his crouch in the distance. He ripped free more flesh from the stag, and slurped it into his mouth as he examined the camp. They did not appear as marauders, though he did not recognize their markings. And stranger, not all the markings matched- as one would expect of ogres traveling together. He made out women and children, maybe a touch more warriors than Krum would like so close to his home, though they did not seem intent on war.
Krum had had his fill of the stag, and expected he knew what to do with the rest of it. In one great heave of his overly muscled arm, he tossed the corpse into the encampment. A child noticed it first, and called to a female, who alerted the warriors. The child pointed in the direction the stag had come, and the warriors peered out into the rain. After words with the lass, she came and collected the offering, and went to work preparing it immediately.
Had they denied it, Krum would have left to collect more warriors. As it were they accepted it, showing gratitude. No ogre would attack one that offered to feed them and theirs. Krum stood up in the rain, showing himself amongst the tall grass, and the warriors moved closer to him, though did not look at him directly. He crouched back down and waited, someone would come to meet him soon.
His traveling plans would have to wait, as even after this parlay he would need to return to his village. It was his duty. He would lose a day, maybe two, before he could continue on to the northern fields, to his destiny as War-chief.
What hobbled out was not what Krum expected. It was an ‘old’ warrior. Old warriors were shameful, failures to say the least. Many times those that represented a tribe were runty shamanistic ogres or maybe wise old matrons; magic users able to speak more than one tongue. This was shameful; this ogre was clearly marked as a warrior, clearly had seen battle at the thrones. To be so far south could only be desertion.
Krum grimaced as the old-one approached. He was disgusted and thought of leaving outright. In his mind, this warrior should be dead at the heel of the citadel, to be bound for the catacombs to await the call of a true champion as a lesser warrior. He knew he could not leave though. Such action could cause strife for his family, his village, his territory.
The old warrior was not alone. Krum was shocked to see as the figure appeared in the tall grass and was suddenly confounded by what he found. A small human accompanied him. It wore a cloak and hood, though the size alone was proof enough that it was human, for ogres stood twice as tall as a man, and three times as wide.
“Hold Known-One,” the light female voice spoke from within the deep hood of the small human figure, “We hold no malice to you or yours.”
Krum was surprised to hear the ogre language, guttural and brutal as it was, to come out of such a small being. He accepted the greeting with a grunt, not yet ready to break any words with such an unusual pair. Though he could only wonder at the title of ‘Known-One’.
“I have awaited you, War-chief,” the small voice stopped for a moment.
Krum assumed that referring to him as War-chief was either a cultural misunderstanding or possibly an attempt to curry favor, maybe even both. It did not bother him though, to be recognized as such.
“…for I had foreseen your coming, and more. I have foreseen your life, your destiny, your end…
“Your second coming…” The small voice continued, “And your folly.”
Krum’s eyes narrowed as the woman approached. He knew he could crush her into oblivion without much effort at all. Though still, Krum was not one to trust anything in tall grass. He backed away and a low growl erupted from somewhere within his chest. The figure stopped, and the old warrior took no action, a sign that Krum was in no danger here, not from the warrior. If the old warrior had tried to rise against, there may have been much blood, as the disrespect Krum felt would only erupt into rage at any form of threat, from what the young ogre assumed was a deserter.
“Please, I wish only show what I have seen,” she said, “for your will alone can avert tides of death, Champion.”
The old ogre nodded to the young, still not speaking a word, the small figure approached again. Krum bowed, gently, as the small frail hand reached up to his forehead. Upon contact, his eyes clamped shut, with a flash of light he saw at last the truth to his destiny. The truth that he had always known in his heart, the path fulfilled that he had always dreamed. For he was the greatest of warriors, he had traveled the length of the ogre nations, defeating foe after foe, battle after battle, until finally he was named War-chief. The three ogre magi, at the prime of his life, sacrificed him at the altar between their thrones. As was the way of the War-chief ritual; no other could kill him but age, and to age was a waste. He was entombed away, to await the days of the return. All of which filled him with such pride and devotion, he could not wait to begin his trek once again, to see the completion of his life as it unfolded just as he had always willed it.
And then the end days came, and he gasped aloud, for it was upon him in such a way he never dreamed. The warriors rallied, centuries of warrior ogres resurrected by the magi at last. Like a tide of death the ogre armies crossed the land and seas, devouring all. And when all laid waste, the ogre War-chief could see not but waste. And then amongst it all, he saw clearly the truth. The truth of the magi, and the horror that filled him was expressed in a deep wallowing sound that erupted from his soul to fill fields of the tall grass and skies around him.
The woman stepped away as the ogre collapsed in a heap. His body shook as the full weight of the truth filled him. The old ogre now stepped forward and laid a hand upon Krum’s shoulder to comfort him.
“We leave this land,” the old ogre said in a raspy rough voice, “We travel west to the straits… and then across, to the lands unknown.”
“Accompany us, and wash this future away for good,” the tiny voice of the human persuaded the now shattered ogre, “I have foreseen the end of all life…”
and I’ve come to stop it.”
