Dragons of a New Age

28 Uninvited Visitors

Muglor was in the lead boat. Chieftain of the Strongfist Tribe of ogres in the hills near Palanthas, he’d chosen the largest longboat to ride in, as was his right. It was the boat that was most recently stolen and seemed the safest. Muglor didn’t care for the water, though he knew how to swim. The water only served to clean his hair and skin and chase away the smell of himself, of which he was quite fond and proud.

Muglor was a little larger than the ogres he commanded, his size being one of the reasons he had been put in charge. He was ten feet tall and weighed more than four hundred pounds. Like his fellows, his skin had a dull, dark yellow cast. It was inordinately warty, and sickly-looking violet patches dotted his shoulders, elbows, and fell across the backs of his big hands. His long, greasy hair was forest green, though it looked black this night, as the moon was hidden by clouds and obscured some of his more interesting features.

The darkness didn’t bother Muglor or his fellows. The ogres’ large, purple eyes were keen, easily taking in the peaceful Palanthas harbor and all the ships docked there—and the few men who strolled about on the decks.

Muglor motioned for the rowers to stop, to let the longboats drift in. Though it was late, and though nearly all of the sailors would be sleeping or carousing in town, the ogre chieftain didn’t want to take any chances that those few awake would sound an alarm and ruin their mission.

The ogre wasn’t so much worried about the townsfolk. He and his fellows could easily bash in the heads of those who might foolishly attack them. But he was concerned about the Blue.

The Storm Over Krynn wanted humans, and the Storm wanted the ogres to obtain them. Muglor had no desire to disappoint the dragon. Muglor wanted the Storm to be happy. And making the dragon happy would mean Muglor could continue to live and lord it over his tribe.

He knew the Dark Knights would help if it became necessary, but he wanted to do this job alone. They had already been insulted when they were instructed to bring the captured humans to a camp set up by brutes. Apparently the ogre camp was not good enough. The clannish brutes had moved right in on the ogres’ territory, accompanied by a few Knights of Takhisis. The tall skinny creatures were at the beck and call of the Dark Knights and even painted their skin blue. As if someone would mistake them for a blue dragon!

Muglor’s thoughts were disturbed as the lead longboat brushed up against a green-hulled carrack. There were words painted on the side, and Muglor strained to read them. Flint’s Anvil. He raised his greasy eyebrows. Had he read that right?

Flint was a piece of rock used to help start fires, and anvils sank. Of course he read it correctly—the humans simply chose a stupid name for their big boat. Muglor was also the rare chieftain who could read and who was intelligent—at least as far as ogres were concerned. He was the smartest member of the Strongfist Tribe.

With choreographed waves of his big shaggy arms, he directed the other longboats to different targets. Satisfied everyone was following his orders and being reasonably quiet, Muglor stood and tossed a net over one arm. He stuck a crude club, a carefully selected piece of hardwood he’d affixed spikes to, in his belt. Convinced it wouldn’t fall out and make a racket, he dug his claws into the side of the Anvil and started climbing. One ogre remained in the longboat to make sure it wouldn’t drift away. Three others accompanied Muglor. They were laden with nets and weapons and tried very hard not to make the slightest sound.

The dragon had asked for humans who were strangers to Palanthas, people whom the locals wouldn’t be attached to and wouldn’t be terribly concerned about if they happened to disappear. Muglor, being particularly smart, figured the best place to find such strangers would be at the port. The stupid people of Palanthas would think the missing sailors had drowned or left for work elsewhere—or were kidnapped by pirates, which they’d be afraid to pursue. No one would be the wiser if the ogres plucked up only a few, and the Blue—and Muglor—would be happy.

Muglor effortlessly vaulted the Anvil’s rail and landed with a thump on the deck. Squinting through the darkness, his eyes separating the shadows and locking onto objects that generated heat, he found a man. Sleeping? Must be, Muglor thought. He didn’t hear me. The chieftain and his fellows crept forward.

Groller sat facing the shore, his back against the mainmast. His neck brushed up against the wood and was sufficiently scratched to feel good. He was thinking about Fury, his friend who’d run off a few days ago. He knew the red wolf would be back soon. The wolf was prone to disappearances, sometimes for days or weeks, and he always managed to return.

The half-ogre sighed and inhaled the salty air. Tomorrow he would go back into the city, to the place Rig took him that was called Myrtal’s Roost. The steak he and Rig had there two days ago was delicious, and Groller had more than enough coins for several more. Maybe he would treat Jasper, teach him hand signs for different types of food.

Rig promised once they left the harbor they’d run along the coast of Northern Ergoth, stop at Hylo and pick up a hauling contract or two. The sea barbarian claimed the money would be good. The half-ogre grinned. He’d drink the best ale that coins could buy and live on a feast of steaks. He’d even buy some for Fury.

Suddenly, he stiffened, his wide nostrils picking up the scent of something unfamiliar and out of place. He stood and sniffed again, then whirled to face the Anvil’s starboard side.

Ogres! He reached for the belaying pin that always hung from his waist. But he was too late. The biggest ogre, a dis-gusting-looking yellow brute, was already on him, wrestling him to the deck and striking him with a club. Groller grunted and fought hard, but his foe was heavy and had the advantage of surprise. The club cracked up against the side of his head, and he felt himself falling, sinking. He felt a tide of warm darkness rushing in to cover him as if he were a rock along the shore being covered by the tide. Then he felt his hands being bound, his body being wrapped in something—a fishing net?

If I wasn’t deaf, he thought as the black tide continued to sweep around him. If I wasn’t deaf, perhaps I would have heard them, and I could have warned Rig and Jasper. Then the tide swept away his consciousness and blackness claimed him.

“He be human?” The smallest ogre posed a question, pointing at Groller.

Muglor bent over to scrutinize their prisoner more closely. “Be part human, at least. He’ll do,” the chieftain passed judgment. “Below you go. Find more.”

Muglor scooped up Groller under one arm and half-carried, half-dragged him to the rail. The chieftain pitched his burden over the side of the Anvil, and the ogre below caught him and arranged him roughly in the bottom of the longboat. Looking across the harbor, the chieftain watched other netted sailors being deposited into boats. He grinned, revealing a row of pointed black teeth.

“The Storm Over Krynn be happy,” Muglor beamed. He patted an empty sack that hung from his side and trundled below deck to see if there was anything other than humans worth taking, too.

Less than an hour later, Muglor and his flotilla of longboats sailed from the Bay of Branchala. The boats sat heavy in the water, laden with netted prisoners.

“He not be human,” Muglor said, pointing at an unconscious short-haired dwarf who lay on the bottom of the boat.

“Sorry,” a young ogre apologized.

Maybe the brutes won’t notice, Muglor thought. He’ll be put in the center of the pen.

The flotilla headed toward the northeast, toward the hills where the ogres made their home. Once ashore, the longboats would be carried to their camp. No evidence would be left along the water’s edge—in the event one of their prisoners might turn out not to be a stranger and someone in Palanthas would try to take steps to find him.