The False Moon War: Chapter 4

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Chapter 4.  The Temple City

It was the first full of the Chaos Moon since the ogres had ventured into the jungle.  Even though it was invisible to them, above the tree canopy, the ogres felt it in their churning stomachs.

This was the closest Morrslieb had ever approached the earth.  The gravitational and magical tides which accompanied this event were threatening to tear apart the vortex of the Great Ritual over Ulthuan.  Already the laminar rotation of the magical tornado was breaking into swirls and eddies.  Before long the system would become chaotic.  In that event, this world itself would become Chaotic very soon after.

The Slann were not yet prepared to enact Tecciztec's plan to assail the Chaos moon.  To preserve the great vortex, the energy drain of the geomantic web was increased until the whole system was thrumming like the strings of a musical instrument.  Unprecedented amounts of magical, celestial and thermal power was tapped.  Each temple city and its environs were plunged into a local ice age.

The Slann streamed the greater yield of geomantic power into the Great Ritual.  This increased its rate of spin and stabilized the vortex.

This full moon crisis was averted, but what of the next, and the one after that?  As the Chaos moon spiralled lower and lower, the Slann would eventually find the limits of the power they had at their disposal.

The Skaven of the Under Empire were reputed to be without number.  That reputation had taken a blow in recent weeks.

Clan Catarrh, under the charismatic leadership of its Under Lord, Pickit Raw, had gone from being an insignificant vassal house to being a somewhat smaller insignificant vassal house. 

Infiltration, surprise attacks from without, and harassment had all proven to be of limited effectiveness against the ogre throng.  The tactic of disguising a troop of skaven assassins as jungle fruits to wait in ambush had been particularly ill advised.

It was testament to Pickit Raw's strength of resolve, or possibly lack of imagination, that his swarm had shadowed the ogres this far into the interior.

"Li-i-i izard-Things?  Not Ogre-Things?" 

Pickit Raw's gutter runner spy grinned,  "And only-ee-ee two of them, Under-Lord!"

The leader's face split into an evil grin, "Something we-ee-ee can defea-ee-eet?  Gather the swarm.  Pre-ee-eepare for a frontal assault!"

Ogres don't creep well.  Nor do they sneak or skulk.  Despite this Welhung Thunderloin and his lieutenant, Rodekhil Offaleater managed to reconnoitre the Lizardmen bastion unmolested.  They had observed two sentries on the rampart keeping a silent vigil over the jungle.  There was no other sign of life.

"Why 'ave we only seen two sentries?  An outpost this size should 'ave a garrison."  Welhung scratched his lumpy nose.  This new arctic chill was of no concern to the mountain dwelling ogre.  It seemed to have driven off the swarms of invisible bees which had been tormenting him.

"Maybe the sentries are really annoying," shrugged Rodekhil, "Anyways, we should just level the thing with round-shot.  Garrisons don't matter if they been blasted."

Welhung appraised the field.  "Naa, we can't bring the iron blaster cannons to bear with these trees so close.  It'll 'ave to be a frontal assault."

Rodekhil unlimbered his pair of iron falchions.  "Should we bring the rest of the lads?"

The Ogres formed their phalanx in plain sight, just out of bow shot from the redoubt.

"Those lizards must 'ave balls.  They ain't even blinked!"  Rodekhil observed.

Argsplat snorted with mirth, "Balls?  Lizards ain’t got none!"

Welhung scrutinized his iron gut captain.  "Wasn't you taller?"

"Well, yaa, Chief."  Argsplat glanced down at the heavily bandaged stumps where his feet and lower legs should have been.

"What 'appened?  Did one of the acid flowers get you?"

"Naa, Chief.  You said I should set my socks afire to keep them bities away.  Like my dam said."

"Ya should've taken the socks off first, ya stupid loaf!"

"Aaah."  Argsplat grimaced.  "I didn't think of that."

The Ogre assault line had been formed.  It was an intimidating wall of muscle and iron.  Still the pair of sentries did not quail.

"Bellower.  Do the ‘honours."  (Silent “H”s do not translate easily into the ogre dialect).

With a flabby salute to his general, the ogre sergeant major turned to release the full power of his formidable vocal cords.  "Righ' you 'orrible slugs!  Step lively on the left!  No!  The other left!  And…. march! Keep time, keep time!  Left ,two, three, other left, two, three!"

The bellower called the rhythm of the charge, gradually increasing the tempo until the line was rolling forward like a flabby avalanche.

Eighty yards separated the ogres from the outpost when suddenly the front lines faltered.  The ground before them had burst open.  A seething swarm of rat men had leapt upon the sward with their filth caked weapons at the ready.  They were facing away from the ogres.

The momentum of the ogre charge could not be checked.  Rank after rank of the massive warriors piled up and eventually spilled over the Skaven battalion.  The impact alone was enough to paste the numerically superior rodents into the ground.

From the battlements, two saurus warriors, one armed with a hand weapon, the other with a spear, and both frozen solid, bore mute witness to the impromptu victory feast that followed.

The ogres entered the city unopposed, but they did not abandon caution, nor discipline, while there remained any risk of ambush.

" 'eres another one of the statues, like the two in the outpost," Rodekhil observed,  "This one ain’t very impressive."

It looked like a statue of a wizened, shortsighted, crippled, stooped, toothless, reptilian god.  The efficient looking stone axe it bore was being used as an improvised crutch.  Its outstretched hand was reaching towards a glowing chamber at the head of a steep and narrow stair which clung to the precipitous side of the largest pyramid.

Welhung raised his mace as if to mimic the lizardman's gesture.  "Our prize is up there."

In the star chamber at the pinnacle of the Great Pyramid, a huge golden brazier cast a merry glow over an inert Slann Lord, a squad of six Temple Guardians and four worried skink priests.

Lord Taisteslaikch'ken appeared to be slumbering on his magical throne.

Since the Coming of Chaos, no Slann Mage Priest had risked their purity by setting foot on the Chaos tainted earth.  Instead they were carried on ornate palanquins.  In the sedentary millennia which followed, the undefiled Slann became morbidly obese.  The corpulent amphibians grew to rival the size of ogres.

It is unclear when (somewhere between 5th and 6th edition?) it occurred to the Mage Priests that using a scrap of their power to levitate the palanquins would save some effort for their attendants who had previously carried them around.  What is clear is that the Temple Guardians from that time hence had fewer work related back injury claims.

“Stone the crows!  That's the last of the wooden effigies!"  Dinki'dai,  the ruggedly handsome Australustrian priest, searched for more fuel for the brazier.  "When that burns down we'll need to chuck on some scrolls from the casket,” he declared.

There had been no recent spawnings of priests in Los’tmabo’tl, thus Taisteslaikch’ken’s four skink priest attendants were drawn from all corners of Lustria.

"Telmiwai, keep watch.”  The saurus champion who spoke was Tanqgoditzafrid’ai, Revered Guardian and leader of this unit of six Temple Guard.  As his brother guardian moved to comply, there was a worried chirp from the edge of the platform atop the highest pyramid of Los'tmabo'tl.

“Mon Dieu, there is activité down below!”  Animaux, the little Gallustrian priest was peeking over the edge.

Caneghem joined him.  “Well, that’s just great,” he moaned.  The Texustrian skink priest stood a hand taller than his companions.  Everything is bigger in the Lone-Star Province.

One of the guardians keeping watch called another spawn brother, “Aidontloqmundi, the city is breached.  Inform the Revered Guardian.”

“Ah noo!  We’re heaps breached!” wailed Tuatara.

This last priest was an émigré from the Baabed Sheepidon infested shaky isles of New Zealustria.

These insignificant islands, far to the south east are known for volcanic boiling mud.  New Zealustria is so isolated from the Lustrian mainstream that the inhabitants have formed what might be considered a “special” relationship with their Sheepidon flocks.

A party of ogres was visible crossing the plaza at the foot of the pyramid.  The largest of their number raised an iron bound mace and gestured toward the apex.

“We’re breached as, Bro!”

The ogres began to mount the vertiginous eternity stair. 

“You’ve got ’em sorted, hey mate?”  Dinki'dai asked Aidont’loqmundi.

“The cold slows our movements, but with the Old Ones' blessing, and your magical support, we will prevail.”

“Bugger.  We’re flat out like a lizard drinking channelling the winds, mate.  The flaming geomantic web is sucking them up like there’s no tomorrow.”

“Then we shall fail.”

“Nah mate,” the Australustrian was also quicker of wit than his skink brethren.  “This’ll bloody sort ‘em out!”

Dinki’dai hurled himself at a colossal obsidian sculpture in the shape of a great serpent.  “What about your arms, fellas?  Are they just painted on?”

Two of the guardians joined the effort and, together, the three toppled the statue.  It shattered on the eternity stair and showered the ogres below with dagger like shards.  Many stricken ogres were swept from the stair, but too many continued their relentless ascent.

“Ha!  Take that, ya drongos!” laughed Dinki’dai.

“And thus!”  chortled Tuatara, as he upended the brazier down the stair.

“No!  Ya boofhead…..”  but it was too late.  The embers showered the ogres and dislodged a few more, but the loss of their only source of warmth would soon cripple the cold blooded defenders.

Tanqgod’itzafrid’ai felt frost begin creeping into his bones.  He shook his bone helmeted head.

“We don’t have long before the cold will defeat us,” he murmured.  Then his voice rose in a rousing crescendo and he addressed his five subordinates, “Telmiwai, Aidont’loqmundi, Iwanashu’u, Ooteh’hoel, Daidoun!  We will do our duty!” 

Uniting their voices in a wordless roar, his guardians joined their captain in a headlong charge down the eternity stair.  The Temple Guard jabbed and swung their halberds and held their own, with the advantage of higher ground.  But the mass of ogres pressed ever upwards.

“ ‘Ow can we ‘elp zem?”  Animaux was wringing his bony hands.

The heroic and charming Australustrian priest, Dinki’dai, had helped himself to a metal tube from the Casket of the Cold Ones which was kept for emergencies in the temple inner sanctum.  The tinny cylinder contained fermented, malted barley. The frothy amber liquid was close to freezing point.  “You beauty,” he purred, “perfect temperature."

Beside him, Tuatara rummaged in the Casket of the Old Ones which was the repository of the mystic treasures of the temple.

“Bro!” he exclaimed, “Thus’ll  guve thum a touch up!”

He brandished the Forbidden Rod.  This arcane item did not draw its magical power from the winds of magic, but rather from the life force of its wielder.

The NewZealustrian ran to the edge of the platform and spoke the word of command.  The hand that clutched the rod visibly shrivelled as the cursed artefact absorbed half a century of life from the reckless Kiwi.

“Fight your way through thus!” he shrieked as he began the gestures to release the most reliable spell he knew.

“No!  Not that one!” hollered Caneghem belatedly.

Tuatara released a blizzard of shards of ice from his fingertips and hurled them into the combat below.  The ogres cursed and shielded their eyes.  Their blows could not find their mark while they were thus blinded, but the effect on the Saurus Warriors of the Temple Guard was far more devastating.

Every last guardian was immobilized by the wave of arctic chill.  They were frozen into ice crusted avatars of snarling hate.

“Oh, merde!” breathed Animaux.

The Ogres paused and rubbed the ice crystals from their eyes before continuing their merciless ascent.

“You bloody moron!”  Dinki’dai advanced on Tuatara with his claws balled with rage.

“Ut’s OK Bro, I’ll turrify thum wuth my turrifying war dunce!”  The New Zealustrian priest began a ridiculous display of stomping and chest slapping.  “Ka matae! Ka matae! Ka ora! Ka ora...”

Dinki’dai grabbed Tuatara by the throat and squeezed until the New Zealustrian's eyes and tongue protruded.  “Mate.  Do you have any flamin’ idea how stupid you look?!”

Meanwhile Caneghem had also rifled the Casket of the Old Ones.  With a whoop of triumph he produced a small cask of the precious Texustrian votive oil.  This he cast down the stair to broach upon the head of the uppermost ogre.  He followed up with a golden lamp fashioned in the form of a fire salamander.  The ogre ignited spectacularly and plummeted from the side of the pyramid like a comet.

“Sacre Bleu!  What are you doing?  That oil is précieux!”  Animaux was aghast at the waste.

The Texustrian snorted.  “Where I come from we’ve got so much of this stuff, it comes out of the ground.”

“Bien.”  The Gallustrian shrugged.  Then he was struck by an idea.

He hurried to the open casket and returned with a priceless flask of the Potion of Ebullience.  He loosened the cork stopper with his scaly thumbs and spoke the incantation of activation:  “Moet et Chandon, soixante-neuf!”

With a loud report, like a pistol shot, the cork was propelled by a foaming jet of potion.  Another Ogre fell, clutching his stricken eye.

The other priests gaped at his wastefulness.

“We have so many cellars packed with zese bottles in Gallustria” he explained to justify his extravagance.

Without a word, the laconic Dinki’dai tightened his grip about Tuatara’s scrawny neck and hurled the NewZealustrian from the balcony.

“Nooooo Bro-o-o....."  Tuatara’s voice trailed away into nothing as he dislodged another ogre and continued the arc of his descent.

The others gaped at the Australustrian. 

“Please don’t tell me you weren’t expecting that.” 

The other two priests shrugged in acquiescence and joined Dinki’dai in forming a cordon about the dormant Slann.  They prepared to make their last stand.

The ogre vanguard had now scaled the stair and were menacing the eternity chamber.  With a clamour and an oath, Animaux and Dinki’dai launched themselves at the ogres, only to be swept callously aside by an iron clad mace.  This left the dismayed Caneghem as Taisteslaikch’ken’s last line of defence.

“Get the chaff out of my way!” growled the ogre commander.

“Okay, Chief!”  The last thing the skink priest saw was a fat leering face and a meaty hand grasping toward him with greedy fingers agape, like the teeth of the Great Maw itself.

to Chapter 5:  The Pursuit, coming soon.

The False Moon War: Chapter 3

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to Chapter 2

Chapter 3.  Bees and Flowers

The majestic Temple Cities of Lustria share some common features.

The cities are dominated by massive pyramids commissioned by the Old Ones during their dominion of the earth.  These coincide with nodes of the geomantic web, granting the Slann Mage Priests access to power, telepathic communication and travel on the astral plane.  The greatest of the mystic amphibians perch atop these temples in their star-chambers.

Less lofty structures, which are no less magnificent, are dedicated to the worship of the Old Ones.  Newer temples raised to the upstart Sotek, the Serpent God are now to be found infiltrating the pantheon.

Some abandoned cities have been eroded by neglect but retain their stately grandeur nonetheless.

The living Temple Cities bustle with activity as the diverse sub races of Lizardmen toil like ants to continue the Great Plan.  Quick footed skinks scurry industriously, intent on the discharge of their duties.  Their oversized brethren, the kroxigor, provide the brawn to perform heavier tasks.  Saurus warriors hone their bodies, and weapons alike, for combat in service of the Old Ones.  In addition, monstrous creatures are press ganged into the Lustrian forces to serve as beasts of burden or living weapons.

At the heart of the cities lie the spawning pools.  From these underground basins spring the denizens of Lustria.  Sometimes ranks of saurus march fully formed from the waters.  At another time it might be a cohort of skinks.  Rarely, a single lizardman is spawned, touched in some way by the Old Ones and destined for leadership or sorcerous might.  Not even the wisest of Slann have the knowledge and ability to summon a particular spawning, let alone create a spawning pool.  They are content to accept that their gods generate each spawning for a purpose which aligns with the Great Plan.

Despite the uniform purpose of the inhabitants of Lustria, each Temple City and region has its own unique flavour.  Tlaxtlan - City of the Moon and seat of Mage Priest Tecciztec, specializes in astromancy and lunar counterinsurgency.  Beneath the Lone Star Province of Texustria, supplies of sacred oil, used for votive offerings, are drawn from the earth.  Gallustria distils the nectar of vine berries to produce cork stoppered flasks of the potion of ebullience.  The region of Australustria supplies the most talented and handsome generals from its arid heart.

Under the benign Leadership of the Great Slann Mage Priest named Taisteslaikch'ken, the inhabitants of the Temple City of Los'tmabo'tl were distinguished by oddness. 

To the outside observer, the legions of Lustria appear to be regular in composition and regimented to the extreme.  Lustrian forces act with a formidable singleness of purpose and mechanical efficiency as they prosecute adherence to the Great Plan.  In reality, any spawning pool in Lustria will occasionally produce what could be unkindly referred to as freaks.

These individuals rise from the waters with strange attributes such as enlarged eyes, or a proclivity toward flower arranging.  In Los'tmabo'tl these aberrations became more and more frequent, eventually becoming the norm rather than the exception. These individuals were not mutants, nor chaos tainted.  They were just... odd.

The existence of an entire city with a concentration of such eccentrics might be seen as a potential annoyance to the other regions, but in fact it was a boon.  Every other Temple City in Lustria happily sends its misfits to Los'tmabo'tl on urgent, but one-way, errands.  More conventional residents of the city gradually trickle away into the jungle to join other communities.

The convocation of Slann raised no objection to this situation.  They took the long view that the Old Ones would sort it all out.  When the Gods returned, everyone would have a good laugh, Los'tmabo'tl would be expunged with fire, and they all could get on with the Great Plan.

Taisteslaikch'ken, certainly had no concern, if anything could be read from the beatific smile which adorned his meditating face.

Thus it came to pass that the avenues of Los'tmabotl were filled with bickering saurus, incompetent skinks and frolicking carnosaurs.  The military leader of the Legions of Los'tmabo'tl was Oldblood Mossy, a saurus so ancient that he kept his teeth in a crystal decanter as he slept.

Some elements of society were too disruptive to stay within the city bounds.  There was really only one fit use for them.  Picket duty.

"Hand weapon!" 

"Spear!"

"Hand weapon!" 

"Spear!"

"Hand weapon!" 

"Spear!"

"Hand weapon!" 

"Spear!"

In their tiny outpost in the jungle, two saurus warriors of no special rank stood snout to snout and glared at each other with unblinking golden eyes.  They were unexceptional to look at, and near identical because they had come from the same spawning pool at the same moment.  They stood the regulation seven and a half feet tall and possessed the common blue scale colouration.  Their lashing tails were adorned with horny spines which ran in a jagged row up to the nape of their necks.  Each had lips drawn back to reveal double rows of serrated teeth.  The two had lithe, muscular arms and legs each digit terminating in a sharp claw.  Each sported a thick skull roofed with a bony crest. 

It was here that the twins differed.  One's head was adorned with a large half-eggshell, no doubt a relic of his spawning.

In their fists each held a brutally efficient  weapon constructed from obsinite.

"Hand weapon!" 

"Spear!"

"Hand weapon!" 

"Spear!"

"Hand weapon!" 

"Spear!"

"Hand weapon!" 

"Spear!"

This particular debate had been running intermittently since their first day of basic training.  The pair seemed to be unable to agree on anything, although they rarely came to blows.  The real problem was that their contrariness was contagious.

They had been banished from the city bounds when the entire population had taken sides in the magic "Lore of Life" versus "Lore of Light" debate.  Ultimately the convocation of Slann had to authorize widespread use of High Magic to hose down the impending civil war.

Although they may have grumbled about being left in each other's company, the pair were better off than most of their kin.  Outside the city, it was a little warmer.  The unnatural chill which had gripped the area was centred about the great temple itself.

Lizardmen are usually (but not always) inured to pain and discomfort, hence the cold did not cause distress, but, as with all things cold blooded, the Legions of Los'tmabo'tl became more and more sluggish.  The reptilian beasts of the jungle either moved away from the cold epicentre or found a comfortable hollow and slept it off.

Welhung Thunderloin was a legend among Ogres.  He was, without doubt, the most adventurous and successful raider of his generation.  His choice to delay the foray into the Lustrian interior was evidence of his canny leadership.

In his experience, cold blooded foes became slower as the weather cooled, and so he had bided his time until the turn of the Lustrian Winter.  This freak cold snap was just a bonus.  With his breath fogging the early morning air, he was confident that he would capture his prize.

Welhung did not adventure for glory or riches.  He did it for love.

His wife, Hellun of Troyargh was a magnificent specimen.  She was said to have 'the face that sank a thousand ships'.

Considering her husband's prowess as a pirate, this was probably no exaggeration.

Hellun's statuesque frame was reminiscent of the rugged beauty of the Ogre homeland, the Mountains of Mourn.  That is to say, she was massive and lumpy.

She was no mere beauty, though.  She was an Ogre princess born into the line of Ogre King Marbutt Hurrtz.

Welhung was devoted to her and showered her with gifts and affection whenever they were together.

If she had one fault, it was that she seemed to be perpetually pregnant.  Welhung had already sired a full horde of ogrelings from her.  He loved each of his progeny, in his way, but the expense of supplying their need of nutrition and replacement nannies necessitated his constant raiding.  There were just too many.

Through careful observation, Welhung had determined where babies came from, but he could not deduce how they might have got there in the first place, or what might prevent more from appearing.

Time and again, he had consulted the wisest Ogre elders of his community to gain insight into this puzzle.  They had just mumbled some vague words about "bees and flowers" or shyly evaded the subject.  At the time he had just shrugged and added this to his long list of unfathomable mysteries of life.  Later, as his brood grew to unsustainable proportions he resolved to take action to preserve what remained of his wealth and sanity.

He would eradicate every bee and flower, down to the last hive and bloom on earth.  Perhaps then his misery would cease.

The burden of child rearing was not his only concern with his wife's fecundity.  Ogre pregnancy is no joking matter.  Ogre Gestation is measured in years rather than months, and for the full duration each blushing beauty is transformed into a rapacious monster.

The first trimester is dominated by morning sickness, and an Ogre with an upset tummy is an upset Ogre, period.

In the second trimester, the cravings begin.  The gravid human female might unreasonably request strawberries out of season.  This is as nothing compared to the exotic demands of an ogress, let alone an ogre princess.  This kind of behest from his wife, delivered with a voice powerful enough to strip the hide from a bull Thundertusk, was the motivation behind many of Welhung's more hair raising adventures.  The episode with the self-regenerating hydra pudding was one would he would rather forget.

The third trimester sees the expectant maiden become corpulent to the verge of immobility and her appetite intensifies. This phase is of indeterminate duration because of a quirk of ogre reproductive physiology.  Labour does not commence until a worthy sacrifice is made to the Great Maw.  If a suitable offering is not made, both mother and unborn child will eventually perish.

So it was that love had brought Welhung to this Maw-forsaken shore with his wife's dulcet voice still ringing in his ears, "FEED ME A SLANN!  NOW!!!"

He had almost fallen over himself in his rush to satisfy her craving.  The memory of her request brought a tear to his eye.  He winced and shook himself out of his reverie.

"Argsplat!" he bellowed.

His trusted irongut detached himself from the assembled column of ogres and gnoblar camp-followers and lumbered to his side.  "Send the rest of those 'orrible little scouts ahead of the mob." He paused, "Wait, are you even uglier than before?"

Argsplat reached up and fingered a livid gash that ran from forehead to cheek, punctuated by an empty eye socket.  "Yaaa.  This one's new."

"You let one of them rats mark you?"  asked Welhung incredulously.

"Naaa. It was at the feast after.  I still can't handle them little sticks too well.  They oughta be called chop sticks."  Argsplat spun on his heel and bawled his leader's orders to the anxious gnoblar scouts.

The scouts crept cautiously through the first clumps of dense foliage and were soon lost to view.  After a few uneventful minutes, Rodekhil Offaleater ambled to the head of the column with his finger stuck in his meaty ear.  As he breasted his commander, he withdrew the digit and examined his prize.  With a grunt of satisfaction he flicked the hard lump of wax over his shoulder.  There was a yelp of pain as the projectile ricocheted off the oversized nose of a nearby gnoblar beast attendant.  One of the ponderous rhinoxen brayed and tossed her horned head.  These were the only sounds.

Before long, there was a commotion at the edge of the clearing.  A fraction of the scouting party burst from the undergrowth and scampered past, back to the ogre lines.  The tyrant plucked one into the air by the scruff of his neck.

"What 'appened?" he demanded.

"Flowers, flowers!" the little scout whimpered, "flowers got us!"

"Flowers, eh?" Welhung casually tossed the unfortunate gnoblar aside.  "I know 'ow to 'andle those!"

The tyrant's eyes glinted menacingly under his meaty brow.  My old enemy, he thought to himself, yet he did not rush to engage.  He held aloft one mail clad hand and made a fist, signalling the column to grumble to a halt.

His band had none of their usual exuberance.  The ogres muttered to each other in hushed tones and the gnoblars huddled close to the pack beasts as if they were islands of refuge.

There was no obvious threat, but all were oppressed by a sense of hostile vigilance from the surrounding forest.

Enormous jungle trees rose like columns, their soaring boughs intertwining to form the vaults of a dim green cloister.  This deep into the forest, the thorny vines at the margins had given way to a springy carpet of moss which deadened the sound of each footfall.

Here and there in the gloom were splashes of colour.  Welhung beckoned Rodekhil to join him and the pair crept forward to investigate what appeared to be an enormous bud about to burst into full bloom.

The other patches of colour in the gloom around them were also titanic flowers, some in bud, others wide open and exuding an inviting scent.  The petals of each flower were a fleshy crimson colour and covered a span of roughly eight feet.  At the centre of each bloom bright yellow stamen, laden with pollen, waved gently despite the absence of breeze.  The obscene purple pistils pulsated visibly.

"This one ain't bloomed yet, Chief"  Rodekhil indicated the bud before them.

"Oh, I think it 'as."  Welhung had noticed a tiny boot protruding from the seam between two leathery petals.  Rodekhil stooped to retrieve it.  It came away from the bud easily, trailing a gobbet of red goo.  The pair examined their find.

The boot contained a grey foot.  Attached to the foot were a polished tibia and fibula.  The ogres exchanged a glance.  Welhung nodded wordlessly towards the nearest open flower and Rodekhil lobbed the leg onto the petals.  In the blink of an eye, the petals closed about this prize with an audible snap.

"What've I been telling you, Rodekhil?  Flowers.  They've got it in for us!"  The tyrant turned back toward the ogre war band and bellowed.  "Firebelly!  Firebelly!"

The tyrant knew that his fire wizard would make short work of this grove.  He was surprised when Argsplat ambled up to join them.

"Where's my Firebelly?  I want these infernal flowers torched!"

" 'E's in the back of a wain and 'e won't come out.  Says 'e can't channel no winds since the cold set in."

Welhung growled.  "Then we'll do this the other way.  Bulls to the front!"  he roared, "Tear up every blooming one!"

Suddenly there was a high pitched buzz.

"Aaargh!  For the Love of Elevenses!"  Welhung clutched the area between his shoulders and head in agony as a frightful stinging pain seared that particular part of his anatomy.

"What's up? Let me see!"  Rodekhil pulled his masters hand away and saw an ugly weal which doubled in size as he watched.  "What's that?"  he scraped at the lump with a dirty fingernail.

He came away with a tiny barbed spine with a feathery tuft at one end.  It glistened wetly in the gloom.

Welhung blanched at the sight of the dart.  "Oh no no no no!  They're after us, too!" 

"What?"

"Bees!  Bees are after us!  That's a sting isn't it?  You know!  Bees!  When they get you, they leave the sting behind!"

Rhodekhil scratched his head.  "I dunno Boss, I didn't see nothing..."

"You dumpling!  Didn't you hear the buzz?  They're quick these ones...  Owww!  Midnight Snack!"

Welhung doubled over and clutched his leg.  In the tiny gap between armour plates another feathery barb protruded.  "Did you hear it?  Did you hear it that time?"  He wind-milled his arms to fend away the stinging insects.

"Move out, move out!  Get moving!" he howled as he staggered deeper into the gloom.  Rodekhil and Argsplat shrugged to each other and trundled after him as the ogre column creaked back into motion.

"Picnic on a Rug!!!!"  Welhung yawped as he stopped and clutched his ample behind.

Welhung Thunderloin soon took to stomping at the head of his war band with a gnoblar perched on his shoulder.

The little grey servant's military career had, without doubt, hit an all time low.  Not for the first time, he cursed his ancestors for creeping into the Mountains of Mourn and swearing fealty to the ogres.  His present situation was uncomfortable, embarrassing and likely to end fatally.

The gnoblar clutched a large swatter fashioned from a rhinox tail.  His duty was to deter the invisible bees that had plagued the ogre tyrant since the first day in the jungle.

His guardianship was futile.  Each sting would be preceded by a high pitched buzz emanating from a nearby tree or bush.  By the time the gnoblar could move to intercept, another feathered barb would appear in a chink of armour or some other tender place.

The worst had been when the tyrant had stopped to relieve himself behind a thicket.

Every time a bee penetrated the gnoblar's questionable defence, the ogre would curse and bray like a rhinox in rut and lash out at the forest around him.  The gnoblar would grimly hang on and try to stay out of his master's reach.

The greatest indignity was that some fool irongut with one eye had suggested that if the ogre tyrant smeared himself in rhinox dung, the bees might be deterred by the smell.  That experiment had failed dismally.

The end result was a terrified, resentful gnoblar perched on an itchy, enraged ogre tyrant.

With both of them covered in poo.

The diverse races of earth each have a distinct physical profile.  A stocky, bearded dwarf would not be mistaken for a green-skinned orc.  Nor would a man be confused with an elf, although the lizardmen of Lustria could not distinguish easily between elves of the high, dark or wood varieties.

Beneath the skin more fundamental differences existed.  An orc is an orc, all the way to his obstreperous core.

Some races might be known for exceptional bravery, others for animosity, dexterity or greed.  These attributes, which govern the motivation and characteristics of the races, are known as "species" or "special" rules.

Rare individuals who have been touched by gods have additional special rules of their own.

"Hand weapon!" 

"Spear!"

"Hand weapon!" 

"Spear!"

"Hand weapon!" 

The bickering saurus had company.  An imposing kroxigor and his skink spawn-kin were delivering a crate of provisions.

"Bob and Joe, are you two still arguing about the best weapons for saurus warriors?"  Rychek enquired.  "I  heard that halberds are becoming popular with saurus scar veterans."

The pair paused and gaped at him.  The diversionary tactic had worked.

"Put it down there,"  Rychek gestured his kroxigor companion.  The huge saurian moved to comply and wound up stepping on Joe's tail.

"Waaa-aa-aaah!  Get that heavy lump of me!" shrieked the stricken saurus as he turned to lay hands on the brute.

Before he could push at the wall of blue scales, Rychek had interposed himself protectively between saurus and kroxigor.

"He ain't heavy, he's my brother!"

"Sorry, Joe,"   Mahtis removed the offending foot and lowered the crate.  "I'm clumsy today."

This was certainly true.  That morning his tiny brother had dressed him up warm with a woolly scarf and beanie to ward against the unnatural cold.  The mittens the kroxigor was wearing were joined together by a short cord to prevent loss.  The cord also prevented him from moving his hands more than a few inches apart, limiting his dexterity.

"Are you okay, Mahtis?"  Rychek gazed up at him.  From the moment these brothers stepped from the spawning pool, Rychek had been protective of his spawn-kin, coddling him and shielding him from harm.  Even in battle when the pair fought in a mixed unit of skinks and kroxigor, Rychek would attempt to selflessly use his body as a shield to protect Mahtis.

"Why do you do that?" asked Joe massaging his tail, "Why do you protect him from everything?"

Rychek shrugged. "It's a spawn-kin thing," he replied, as if that made any sense.

Bob pulled his egg shell helmeted head out of the new supply crate.  "Take the empty back with you."

As Mahtis stooped to comply, a tiny rodent fled from its hiding place beneath the box and skittered out of the redoubt.

"We must pursue!" whooped Bob.  Joe and Mahtis leapt to join him in running down and obliterating the hapless vole.

"Mahtis stop that!  It's embarrassing!  Why do you always have to pursue anything that flees?"  Rychek was mortified.

Mahtis shrugged. "It's a predatory fighter thing," he rumbled in reply.

There was a high pitched buzz.

"Aaaargh!  Snack on the Run!"

The ogre bivouac stirred to life in much the same way it had done every morning since beginning its trek across the Lustrian interior.  Every day the air had grown more chill and the dappled sun a little less bright, but aside from the invisible bees, which only seemed to target the tyrant, there was no menace in the gelid forest that the war band had any need to fear.

"Argsplat!  Assemble the hunters!"  Welhung Thunderloin was a picture of misery, covered in angry welts from head to toe.  His eyes were almost swollen shut.

His one eyed iron gut shambled forwards and regarded his chief with concern.  "The poo didn't work 'ey?  My dam used to say if you burnt socks, the smoke would keep the bities away..."

"Then go and burn your socks, you pudding!"  Welhung dismissed Argsplat angrily.

The ogre hunters trotted up to receive orders.  These were the handlers for the mostly-wild sabretusk pack which accompanied the ogre train.

These lion-like beasts sported dagger like tusks for taking down large prey.  Their thick, shaggy pelts gave them some measure of protection from retaliatory teeth and horns.

However, the greatest weapon they had in their arsenal was an instinctive team work.  Individual sabretusks would feint towards the flanks of their victims, keeping them turning this way and that until an opening appeared for one of the pack to clamp its vice like jaws around the victim’s throat.

"Alright, hunters.  We are getting close to the city.  I want your pack of 'tusks to form a screen ahead of the boys so we don't get no surprises.  I hope your cats are 'ungry and ready for battle!"

"Aah.  Sorry, Chief,"   the lead hunter apologized.  "They is well fed and contented this morning."

"What?  'Ow come you fed them?"

"WE didn't feed 'em, Boss.  Didn't you 'ear that godawful squeaking during the night....." 

to Chapter 4