“It’s settled then,” Cyrus said, pulling his camel-fur cloak closer. “We subdue the warlock Ashtok Sarkis once he’s drunk, and cut his heart out if he doesn’t give up the secrets. There may be a market for that article of his flesh as a poultice.”

Jarius put his hand on the wooden door of the tavern, shuddering in the cold fall wind. “As limber as the old cuss is with curses, mayhap we should cut out his tongue first.”

Cyrus frowned, glanced back at their heavy cart full of covered cages. A sound like withered boards creaking emerged from it. “If we do that, how can he tell us where the gate is located?”

Jarius shrugged. “He can write.”

“Heh. Agreed.”

“What if we have to pry him off a whore?” Jarius asked, looking at the cart as a high pitched mewl escaped from the covering. “If that's the case, he won't be in a mood for talking.”

Cyrus then grinned darkly, his jagged smile appearing amidst his tangled black beard. He patted his hip. “Good steel will remove anything connected to a man and his harlot. Don’t fret, Jarius. Ever see a worker of magic concerned with women?” He gestured at the covered wagon, strapped down with a tarp. It sat amongst many horses tied up to the warped hitching posts. “I’d raid his wagon, yet I fear his magic would ensnare us with some eldritch trap. Better to wait until he's stewed.”

With a nod, Jarius pushed the tavern door open. “The secret of the gate is worth the risk. We'll be rich with that information. Witches, wizards and even bad men trying to rid themselves of their enemies or debtors will pay us to know the location of the gate.” Then he muttered, “Oh, damn, the ogre is here.”

Nostrils flaring at the scent of sweat and stale ale, Cyrus rubbed his hawkish nose. “We aren’t the ogre’s concern. Find me Ashtok Sarkis.” He scanned the dim tavern, well populated but faintly lit by candles, a few torches, and the hearth. “Let that mouthy-assed beast talk.”

Once they were inside, the ogre of the town did just that.

“I am the strongest one in all of Chanoch,” the huge individual near the end of the bar blustered. He loomed larger than any in the mead hall. “None is tougher, nor a lover of greater capacity than I, Tallis Shuruppak.”

The two travelers closed the doors and moved away from the bragging creature. They settled in beside a group of older men sitting with a single youth. All of them were shrouded in over-cloaks due to the chilly wind that evening. As the litany of Tallis’ continued, Jarius eyed a man in the far corner, away from the rest.

“I laugh at the shaking of spears!” Tallis ranted. “My manhood is longer than anyone’s here. Stand up and I will buy drinks all night if you surpass me. What? No takers? Cowards and women you all are.”

“But he is an ogre,” the young man near Cyrus said, his voice buried in the noise of the other revelers. “Stands to reason he would be the toughest or biggest one around.”

Many aged men nodded at the words of the young man. The two travelers looked the boy over and Cyrus asked: “You are a stranger here, yes?”

The foreigner nodded and said nothing more. He sipped a flagon and watched the ogre with irritation.

“He speaks the truth, outlanders,” an elderly man said in a low voice to the travelers. “But take care, all of you. Tallis would sooner torture a foreign-born youth than kill him.”

“I see.” Cyrus sized up the ogre, noting the wizard they hunted in the far north corner of the tavern. Jarius nodded at his partner, understanding that the stout, ginger-haired man in dusty trousers and faded jerkin was their quarry, Ashtok Sarkis.

“Yes,” a portly man with a balding head agreed as he looked at the young outsider. “Have a care. We get all sorts in here, but sometimes one must tolerate depravity to drink in peace.”

“I just came in to knock back ale,” the foreign youth said without lowering his voice, now glaring at the two rough men who'd just entered. He watched them staring at Ashtok Sarkis. “I never wanted to hear the braggings of that freak of nature.”

The young man had spoken during a brief lull in the conversation, and his words echoed dully through the crowded tavern. Conversations and games of chance ceased, and even young men discussing whorehouses held their breath. A pair of older gentlemen near the door walked out backward, their faces masks of terror. Another old man with gray hair and a white beard let his ruby-colored wine spill from his lips in astonishment. Even Ashtok looked up from his parchment and bottled spirits.

Tallis swung his great girth around, facing the section of the bar where the young man sat. Adjusting the belt under his great belly, Tallis asked, “Who values their life no more than that?” The flames of the hearth cast additional light on the hideous features of the ogre, prompting a few to look away in disgust. Tallis’ flesh, the color of deerskin, glowed purple in areas above his jaws. His jowls hung low on the cavernous skull, and his general facial appearance drew more kinship with a bulldog than any human. Tallis' face was longer than any dog's, though, and his grinding maw crowned a tree-trunk midsection.

Cyrus and Jarius flanked Ashtok, pretending to shift away from the scene. Ashtok never regarded them, but wore a bemused look, staring at the towering ogre.

As the old men scooted from the boy, one of them said, “We tried to warn you, puppy. He dislocated the limbs of the last man who crossed him, dragged him around town for hours, he did.”

The clear eyes of the young man seemed to glow inside his hood. “How long did it take for this man to die?”

Tallis drank more, showing his lack of concern as the balding man said curtly, “We don’t know, youngster. Tallis still feeds him and keeps him alive for taunting pleasure.”

“Who are you, whelp?” the ogre inquired, the hoggish ears back of his oblong skull twitching. The enormous jaw of the creature ground away as his red eyes focused on the outlander.

“One who wants to drink in peace, ogre,” the youth answered.

Cyrus and Jarius exchanged glances. Each look said, we could use this for cover.

Squinting at the stranger, Tallis replied, “Who are you and where are you from, auslander? I generally like to know where men are from before I kill them. If I never ask, I never can incorporate it in my next sermon to the bar.”

“The entire hall is exhausted of your mouth.” The young man straightened out his body. No more than twenty winters, this youth was indeed quite tall, well over six feet, though still a foot shorter than the ogre. “Only a Keltos man from the Caucaus Mountains would have the guts to say it.”

“Guts can be ripped out and used to clean between my teeth.” Tallis clucked heavily in his throat. “Usually it is a matter of no brains, youngster. You are but a feral savage who walks upright on a junket away from the mountains. . . to die here? You are dense, boy. Who are you?”

Loosening his heavy veneer, but not removing it, the boy responded, “I am Rogan, son of Jarek.” Under his cover, Rogan wore a thick belt, showing the metallic tips of various objects. “I tell you so that when you fall into eternity, you will know who killed your ugly ass.”

The patrons drew a collective breath, but Tallis laughed shallowly. He flexed his burly fingers. “Words from a barbarian? Are they your only weapons? How did you drag your self this far?”

Rogan said, “I’m a smith. I work in metals. I can find work anywhere.”

“No future in dying,” Tallis grinned, his rack of shark-like teeth drooling over his hairy bottom lip.

“I’m not troubled by your fantasies,” Rogan said plainly.

Tallis raised a curved eyebrow and started to reach for his sword. “There's a set of balls on you, that's for sure. Nevertheless, youth has clouded your judgment. That is a fatal error. Why, in the olden days. . .”

The barbarian dropped his cloak and bolted forward. Stunned at the move, the ogre still swung his arms together to block Rogan’s approach. Rogan ducked low. The immense, meaty thews of the ogre slapped only into each other. Rogan’s hands slammed into Tallis' face on either side of the huge maw. Blood gouted. When Rogan yanked and then released his hands, the onlookers could see he clasped curved blacksmith tools. He abandoned his utensils in an instant once they inserted deep in either side of the ogre’s face.

Balanced on Tallis' voluminous belly, Rogan would have fallen off Tallis save for the fact the ogre flailed, embracing him slightly. Constricted for but a moment, Rogan leaned forward with an open mouth and bit into the ogre’s nose. Not only did this move support the young man’s heavy body, it provided him the moment he needed to draw another article from his cincture. Rogan used his weight to his advantage and pulled back against the crazed ogre. Tallis, screaming in agony, seized Rogan’s arms. In all of his pain, Tallis never considered his next act. Rogan had clamped a small set of iron tongs under the ogre’s mouth. With Rogan repelling away from him with all his might, Tallis pushed him away and inadvertently ripped his own jaw out of his skull.

His flailing paws slapped the boy down as the massive being stomped frantically in every direction. Most people ran, save for the drunken warlock and the two travelers, who retreated from the scene, still watching in sadistic glee.

Rogan rolled on the floor. He drew no steel, but stayed out of the shambling path of the ogre. As Tallis moved, the first two implements, two pritchells, fell out of the hinge of his jaw.

Cyrus and Jarius jumped on Ashtok Sarkis. Cyrus hit him with a lead bludgeon concealed in his coat. The wizard looked confused, but collapsed under the attack. The two travelers would have made a fast exit save for the bloody exhibition in front of them.

Tallis howled and cursed, but the words were lost, for he could say little with no lower jaw. His agony made him stumble, incoherent, until at last his head cleared. The ogre drew steel and went after the youth.

“Tallis means wise or learned,” Rogan taunted him, leaping onto the bar, avoiding the heavy blade of the ogre. He squatted on his haunches like a cat. “Were your parents as stupid as you are homely, hanging such a name on a freak like yourself?”

Swinging his weapon, Tallis groaned in rage and swiped at Rogan. The barbarian leapt over Tallis, grabbed his shoulders and flipped over his back.

The ogre spun fast, livened by his distress, and struck the barbarian in the shoulder before he could set his feet. Rogan staggered, boots shifting, but did not fall as Tallis' huge frame shifted to face him. Tallis charged, arms outstretched. Rogan slipped out of his way at the last moment. Tallis collided with a table and two wooden chairs, splintering them. He lost his blade in the debris, sliding on his own blood in the process. He swung his head around to see where Rogan went, a long line of crimson gushing from his face.

Rogan laughed at the ogre, throwing a small table and then a mug of mead at the bleeding beast. “Brag to me now, you fat fool.”

Tallis flung himself at Rogan, sending them both through tables and chairs. Before the youth could rise up, the ogre boxed his ears. From the ferocity of the slap, the onlookers expected the barbarian’s head to burst. Rogan proved thickheaded and simply fell to the floor, limp.

Cyrus and Jarius froze in place, unwilling to cross the path of the brawl with their prize.

Those huddled at the door of the tavern watched Tallis rise over Rogan, legs on either side of him. Many sighed, knowing this would be all for the barbarian. Still bleeding profusely, Tallis looked down and interlocked his thick fingers. Raising his fists to the ceiling, Tallis lowered the bony bludgeon toward the pit of Rogan’s back.

The youth coiled to his right, curling his body around Tallis' shin as the blow hit the floor. With a thick forearm, Rogan struck the groin of the ogre. Tallis flinched, but never fell. His right hand swatted, clipping Rogan’s scalp. The shot knocked the youth head over heels, and set him upright on his buttocks, blood creeping from his scalp.

Tallis charged and Rogan ran to the bar. Rogan evaded him, trekking down the bar, laughing as blood trickled down his face. He darted about the enclosed space, laughing and taunting the ogre. With a liquid bellow, Tallis caught up to him at last. His huge hands enclosed Rogan’s head. Going to his knees on top of the barbarian, Tallis roared and fell forward. Rogan gasped and suddenly cried for help.

“Get this thing off me,” Rogan said, but there was not great fright in his voice. “Tallis Shuruppak is dead.”

Cautiously, a half dozen men peeled themselves away from the exit. They eyed the immobile ogre.

“Are you going to help me or screw his corpse?” Rogan grunted and lifted the body partially off himself.

As if that was the sign that Tallis was truly dead, the patrons of the bar pulled at Tallis’ shoulder. With enough wriggle room, Rogan escaped the death embrace of the ogre. Stumbling backward, Rogan hit the bar and stood up. He sucked air and let his hand rest on his belt.

Open-mouthed, Cyrus stepped forward, no longer holding Ashtok’s arm, and said, “Nergal be damned! The young pup never even drew steel.”

Jarius chuckled. “The barbarian bled him to death. Paint my ass red.”

Rogan looked at the returning bartender and asked, “Will that earn me a drink?”

Terrified, the bartender's yellowy eyes bulged. “Are you serious? Once his kindred hear of Tallis’ demise, we shall all die for this! You are a foreign-born man. You can run from this, but have sealed our fate.”

Rogan looked confused at the words, but dismissed him with a wave. “Bah, you deserve to die then. To live in fear of what is not at your doorstep. . .” Rogan then reached over and grabbed a skin of wine. The barkeep made no attempt to stop him. He was not about to tangle with a man to slew an ogre.

From the rear of the tavern, a new noise split the air. The bartender screamed, afraid his destiny was nigh. Rogan faced the future, and it was in the form of the old wizard Ashtok yanking both hands away from his captors. Eyes aflame, the warlock raised his arms and began an incantation.

Cyrus and Jarius, caught unaware by the wizard, were on the floor. They fumbled in their robes, pulled out ropes for restraints. Ashtok’s hands began to glow orange.

Abruptly, Ashtok’s spell stopped. His eyes flared as his incantation was trapped forever in his throat. A blade had flashed twice before him at lightning speed, trailing a spray of scarlet. Ashtok looked at his wrists; both of his glowing hands were gone, severed by what Rogan hid in the back of his robes.

Rogan reached behind his head and drew out a great two-edged sword. His overhand swing split the head of the wizard in two pieces, spattering his abductors with the mage’s brains. The left side of the face fell away, caught in the sword's downswing; the right side remained stiff for a few moments, frozen in a look of shock. Ashtok’s brains ran down his shoulder. Rogan kicked Ashtok’s left knee and the old one collapsed.

Wiping the blade clean on the wizard’s trousers, Rogan remained unaware or uncaring that most of the patrons had gone for good.

Both Cyrus and Jarius were on their feet and near to stuttering when they spoke to Rogan. Cyrus stammered, “What in the. . . why. . .”

Rogan shrugged and placed the sword in the sleeve behind his back. “He was a damned wizard. They all should hang.”

Jarius stepped forward, his finger extended, then decided against jabbing it under Rogan’s nose. He backed away, but rage spurred him to speak “You insolent pup! That old fool meant much gold to us. You've slain a man that had great secrets, powerful knowledge of the ages!”

Rogan checked his girdle to make certain his tools remained, gave the two men a mild shrug and returned to the bar for his skin of wine.

Cyrus exclaimed, “You say nothing to us? That’s your answer?”

The barbarian paused before drinking, saying, “My throat hungers for this wine almost as much as I lust for a woman. What do I care for a spell-casting man?”

Jarius blurted out, “But he knew the location to the gates of Hell itself!”

Rogan eyed him as he drank. He took a deep swallow, causing them to fidget more, and then said, “Who would want to know such a thing?” He then pulled his cloak tight about himself and headed for the door, wineskin in hand.

“Damn you!” Cyrus persisted, but Jarius held him back.

Once outside, Rogan looked down the street. Sensing that the two were close behind him where he stood, Rogan said, “You are fools to attack a necromancer and not slay him outright. Best to kill them where you find them. How in the name of Wodan would you secure his knowledge?”

Jarius blinked and murmured, “Wodan? You are from far away.”

Cyrus’ breath was ragged in his throat as he shouted, “You savage! If we couldn’t wring from the magus what we wanted, we know he would have bartered with us for the information.”

Rogan walked toward his horse, a great blood-red roan, and then eyed the two men. “Barter with a wizard? That sounds bad.”

Cyrus spat, “You know not the ways of the world or magic. You're not even curious about what he might have told us, are you?”

Rogan untied his horse and shrugged. “Not really. I have drunk my fill and need to leave this place. Raid the conjure man’s wagon if you dare.” He looked back at the tavern. The bartender pointed at Rogan and talked in low tones with a knot of people. The barbarian muttered, “Chanoch is no place for me, it seems.”

Jarius walked over to their carts and motioned Cyrus away from Rogan. Still Cyrus stared at him, angry over what he had lost. As Jarius untied his mount, a high-pitched whine rose from their carts. Jarius slapped the side of the wagon and swore.

Rogan looked at the cart and tilted his head. The mewling sound continued from the wagon. Jarius took a long walking stick from the seat of the cart and inserted it through the cages in back. A sharp cry stabbed the air and Rogan left his horse. He walked over to the wagons casually, although he frowned.

Cyrus stood by the cart and grinned at the barbarian. “You see, boy, even wizards have their needs.”

Rogan looked in the cart and saw a writhing mass of bodies, all clothed in rags. Their mouths were bound, their hands tied, their eyes streaked with tears. Not a one of them was over ten years of age.

“You would trade these children for your heart’s desire,” Rogan said without malice, “just to find the location to the gates of Hell?”

Cyrus said, “Old Ashtok is not as young as he used to be, barbarian. He cannot snatch up children for his sacrifices or means. Don’t look too shocked. Most cultures spill blood for magic.”

Rogan looked into the eyes of the children and asked, “They are from here?”

“You think us dimwits?” Jarius chimed in and laughed. “We took them from the southern city of Dolram.”

“Well,” Rogan sighed, stepping back from the cart. “Good fortune on your mission.”

Rogan watered his horse outside the main hall in Dolram. He looked into the face of the magistrate of that city and said, “You can keep the cart and horses of those assheads, if you so wish. I’d burn them to banish the memory, but that’s me.”

Climbing into the saddle, Rogan heard the magistrate say, “My thanks. You’re a rare man to do this.”

Looking at the faces of women, men, and the children, all weeping in joy as they embraced and crying out to gods and goddesses for thanks, Rogan said, “What would I do with a dozen crying children? Take better care of them. A ten-year old Keltos child would have killed the sorry excuses for men who stole this lot.”

The magistrate stroked a long black beard and asked with wry humor in his voice, “Need I ask what became of those dealers?”

Rogan looked down from his mount. “I gave them their heart’s desire, what they really wanted. I showed them the location of the gates of Hell.”

“Where is that?”

Rogan’s hands clenched into fists around the reins, but a smile played on this lips. “Could be anywhere.”