Bawdy laughter and raucous conversation echoed through the massive clearing as the Oldblood took in their surroundings. Their warriors had followed enormous plumes of smoke through the sparse openings of the jungle’s canopy and had emerged into some sort of festival. A huge crowd of ogors gathered around under tents and around bonfires, singing drinking songs and feasting heartily. In the shadow of an enormous, ancient stone at the center of the festivities, a dozen of the drunken brutes brawled to the amusement of their peers.
Something else assaulted their senses as they stepped into the clearing, and it wasn’t the ear-splitting cheer of the ogors at the sight of a new band of visitors to their shindig. A sensation washed over them in waves, fraying the edges of their thoughts and driving ragged, panting growls from their throat. Their predatory instincts burned, threatening to drive them feral; only their hundreds of years of discipline allowed them to abate the feeling. They looked around again, the throbbing pulse of power surging through them every few seconds, a riptide threatening to pull their mind under.
The temple-host’s saurus warriors hissed and roared at one another, feral instincts awakening in the normally disciplined cohorts. Worst of all was Nax, Chatla-Raktoa’s prized champion. He was far too young to fight against such an influence, and his already hot-blooded nature only served as fuel to the primal blaze within. Chatla-Raktoa could see him, eyes blazing with savage, murderous intent toward the ogors. Despite this, the Oldblood was confident. There was but one alpha-predator here, and none of these warriors would act without their permission.
The skinks, for their part, seemed unaffected by the influence of the magic. The host’s starpriest stood next to her war-leader, staring intently at the stone. She lifted a taloned finger to point at the monolith, “That stone is driving your warriors mad. A font of Amber magic pours from it. I am powerless against it; we must leave at once.”
“The ogors have supplies,” Chatla-Raktoa responded, voice a strained growl against the force of the monolith. “They are in a good mood. We will treat with them.”
“Is this truly wise, venerated elder?” The skink asked, looking incredulously about at the corpulent brutes and their festival.
“You are too young to remember. These creatures would be hired by the humans of our desert against the forces of the Blood God,” the ancient Saurus reminisced, “They can be reasoned with. Take two interpreters, treat with them. We have things to trade.”
The Starpriest bowed her head in acquiescence and barked at the closest pair of skinks to gather her followers. Chatla-Raktoa watched the Starpriest and her messengers skitter toward a well-decorated ogor lounging on a wooden chair putting up a heroic effort to contain his enormous mass. The ogor lurched forward heavily and leaned his elbow on his knee to greet the diminutive visitor. They watched as for minutes as the skinks seemed to hold an amiable conversation with the brute before he reclined once again in his chair and the skinks returned.
“They want us to fight,” the Starpriest reported back bluntly. “They want us to fight each other and then they will give us food. It is entertainment for their gathering.”
The Oldblood snorted, incredulous. “Then we shall leave.”
“We will fight and take their food, or they will not let us leave.” The skink’s voice drifted off, dreading to deliver the news to their war-leader.
The outrage of the ultimatum was almost enough to shatter Chatla-Raktoa’s mental defenses, the influence of the Stone’s magic flooding through their mind. They took a moment between the waves to breathe deep and prepare for the next pulse. Recomposed, they looked over the camp. There had to be no fewer than several hundred ogors. Even at full strength, it would not be difficult and costly for the Blazing Starfall to fight their way out of this. With the meagre scouting force they led, it would be impossible.
There was a long moment of silence between the reptiles as the Tyrant looked on eagerly. “There is little choice. We will fight. Bring me Nax.”
The skink scampered away to the rear of the formation. The Oldblood thought hard, strategizing even as the influence of the stone frayed their mind. There is a way to minimize injury. We can ill afford to lose warriors to ourselves.
The hulking Sunblood stalked toward his commander and tapped his shield into Chatla-Raktoa’s. As much a greeting as a symbol of respect to his elder. Even half-feral from the stone’s influence, he had managed to keep his manners.
“Let me fight. I see the big one there. He laughs at us. I will feast upon him, and it will taste sweet.” Though Nax’s growls were low enough to constitute a whisper, the massive warrior still spoke with the register of an earthquake.
“We will not fight him. We will fight each other,” the Oldblood was barely able to start before being cut off.
“We cannot accept this disrespect.” The Sunblood seethed with contempt.
“They will kill us if we do not. All in service to Lord Huatlakoa.”
A moment of clarity in Nax’s eyes, understanding. “We must reach the temple-ship. By any means.”
“Split off the scar-veterans into pairs. They will duel one another,” they could trust those veteran warriors not to lose themselves to the stone entirely. He was not so sure about the young Sunblood, but only they could hope to match him. “You and I will duel, Nax. Do not hold back; they will know.”
Chatla-Raktoa left their warriors behind, waiting in the treeline. They strode confidently at the head of a pack of their mightiest warriors, met by a bellowing cheer from the ogors. They piled in close to one another, spread out in a great circle, their bodies forming a fighting pit for the reptilian champions. Chatla-Raktoa and Nax stopped in front of the tyrant, taking their stances. The rest of the scar-veterans wordlessly split into their pairs and spread out, to avoid interrupting each other and to ensure every spectator was satisfied; with any luck this would only need to be done once.
Duels between Saurus as matters of training or dominance were commonplace; though the fighting was savage and quick, every strike a potential killing blow that drew cheers from the ogors, each Saurus knew how not to truly harm the other. One by one, the duels ended, strikes to the leg with spears or gashes along the shoulder and chest with greatblades causing the warriors to yield.
The duel between Chatla-Raktoa and Nax was anything but quick. The ogors had gathered close to watch the final duel, and cheered with raucous excitement, betting on the outcome.
Each of the reptilian champions possessed monstrous strength, but these two were true masters of defense. Deftly dodging and deflecting each other’s strikes, the duel had drawn on for minutes. Both were winded and had taken a share of wounds, but neither would back down. Then, the final stroke; Nax allowed the stone’s Amber magic flood through him and launched a savage assault. His mace rose and fell, his pronged shield striking to cover for his recovery. Chatla-Raktoa struggled under the dizzying assault, caught here and there by glancing strikes they could not defend against. At last, they found their opening; the enormous Sunblood raised both his weapons overhead, hoping to crush his commander’s defense. Chatla-Raktoa struck out with his blade as the enormous weight of both shield and mace hurtled toward him. The teeth of the Oldblood’s blade touched their pupil’s armored chest, and everything stood still.
The Sunblood had stopped entirely, frozen inches before contacting Chatla-Raktoa. An avalanche stopped in its tracks, Nax lingered for a moment, looming over his commander before taking a step backwards and lowering his weapons.
The ogors unleashed a skull-rending cheer. The gamblers among them exchanged their wagers, while booze and food were passed around and consumed heartily. The Tyrant, having abandoned his seat, congratulated Chatla-Raktoa personally. The Saurus could not understand the ogor’s thuggish language, and they did not desire to converse with him. They simply pointed at the festival’s stash of food, then at their warriors in the treeline. A universal sign. Deliver what I am owed.
As soon as the food is delivered, they march their warriors quickly away from the clearing, eager to be gone from the influence of the stone and the brutes that had forced them to fight. Humiliation burned within them at being forced to offer up their warriors as entertainment. It did not matter; the truth was the ogors’ food could keep the host going for a week, and time not spent hunting was time that could be spent searching for the Xarlanth and its survivors. All in service to Lord Huatlakoa.
