Chapter 1 The Legacy of the Wizard King

" He had come from beyond time.

Without sight, light mattered not. Without touch, matter was nothing. Adrift in an infinite void, the weight of eons passed as I slumbered.

Until he learned to feel through captivity.

The wizard-king Gergorix had risen in northern Garumna, plundering the secrets of the land and shaping them into spells that made the demon lords tremble. He found it in the astral world and called it That Which Hungers into existence.

By his edict, thousands fell to the sacrificial knife; feeding rituals that imprisoned That Which Hungers within a stone of gold, marble and jade, encrusted with jewels the size of fingernails. And so, his gilded cage came into being.

Gergorix's Egg was born.

That which hungers roared in its prison, straining the spells that bound it to their limits, but Gergorix had not only great power, but terrible cunning. He taught it sensation. Feeling, matter, and thought; things completely foreign to it. Clinging to them like a prisoner to his bread, it quickly became addicted, and so became a slave to its own desire. And to the master who controlled it.

Pacified, he offered all his power to the Wizard King, and he drew from him a magic so terrible that it shook the heavens and painted the lands with lightning. He shattered mountains and cast the jeweled lords of the earth into the darkness like rats.

Gergorix built an empire and raised himself and his gods to the heavens.

None could stand against him. None, my apprentice, except time. For while his slave was immune to its passage, he was not. Time bent the Wizard King’s back. It stole the strength from his heart. It burned his hair white. After countless years, it took hold of what no mortal or demon ever could. He had no heir, and his apprentices feared the powerful being within their object of power. It had grown too hungry for any of them to master.

They built a great barrow for Gergorix, where they buried his personal guard and all his treasures. His golden crown. His medallion, spun in platinum. His golden chalice, which had held blood as often as wine. His sword of silver, gold, and dragon scales. And also the Egg of Gergorix, which screamed when the vault doors closed.

It writhed in the darkness, so desperate from its addiction that it would have bowed to anyone who fed it. Ironic. Had Gergorix’s apprentices shown patience, they would have overpowered it next. Unfortunately for them, they did not, and it is said that its legacy still lies buried deep within the heart of the Giants’ Forest, in its lost city. According to legend, if a clever and bold wizard were to outwit the ogre tribes that rule the forest and claim the egg, then they would bring about an age where their will would be law!

The voice echoed through the cavern. The fire crackled, illuminating the rough paintings on the stone walls. A sinister light lurked in the old hag's eyes as she finished her tale.

Or at least, my young Lukotor, that is what the legend says. He banged a ladle against the side of a copper cauldron. A foul liquid hissed in the flame below. But what can we learn from this?

Across the fire and the twisting steam sat his apprentice, a tall, thin young man with fire in his eyes. The lanky youth leapt to his feet. Be brave! Stop at nothing like the Wizard King did, and you will gain power!

An eyebrow rose on the old woman’s weathered face. Is that so? When one is bold, one can attain power, that is true.

Yes ! she cried, her dark hair flowing freely over her shoulders. A single jewel glittered in one braid. I don’t care how long it takes! I will claim the Egg of Gergorix and with its power I will work wonders!

A strange smile appeared on his master's lips. Perhaps. Perhaps you will.

The door to the vault of Gergorix's tomb groaned.

Crack!

A terrible force opened it.

Moonlight spilled into the tomb, shining on its dust-covered treasures. A huge figure stood in the doorway, an obscenity too large and twisted to be human. It stared at the glittering treasures with a steady gaze and crouched to crawl inside, the mastodon hides that wrapped its frame leaving a rancid grease on the stones. The horns jutting from its skull scraped the ceiling, and stone dust fell, but it paid no attention.

Hands the size of shields explored brutally, disturbing ancient treasures as if they were mere river stones and scattering the skeletons of the Wizard King’s mighty guard everywhere. They made a clattering sound as they fell, scattering bones and bronze armor long since embedded in verdigris, and the ancient dust that rose caused a great sneeze that shook the creature. It sounded like a catapult stone hitting a fortress wall. When it raised its head, its eyes opened wide. A crowned skeleton sat upon a marble throne, and in its hand lay an egg of gold, marble, and jade, inlaid with glittering jewels the size of human fingernails. The huge figure was enraptured, and its hand shot out with careless greed, throwing the great king’s bones to the ground like trash.

She smiled, revealing dripping tusks framed by upward-protruding fangs, and her foul breath dispersed into the cold, damp air. Using a mastodon-hide cord, she bound the glowing egg and tied it around her neck. With a satisfied roar, the ogress crawled out of the chamber, leaving behind untold treasures to the elements.

And so, Gergorix's Egg entered the world once again.

Although not in the way many expected.

Chapter 2 The night of sacrifice

Lukotor the Wise had exchanged his decades by this hour.

Toiling under his mistress's fickle attentions, he remained by her side until he had gained enough of her knowledge to leave her. As he departed into the deep night, the old woman's wet laughter followed him long into the darkness.

She had gathered power. Sailing across the frigid northern seas to the volcanic island of Eldvioi, she had stolen an ember from its fearsome pyromancers. Mastering its fire magic, she used it to wrest the Vessel of Altak-Tur from a genie sultan, and spent years listening to its maddening whispers. Eventually, she bowed to it and learned to hear the thoughts of others whistling from its depths.

Armed with the power of flame and the magic to pierce the mind, he had returned to his homeland of Garumna. It had been decades since he had last seen its mountains, its mists, and its vast grasslands.

Lukotor worked hard to build a reputation as a wise man, earning his nickname and the trust of an ambitious tribal king, Avernix the Bloodbeard. At first, he merely read the state of the elements and advised on favorable days for raids, but soon he began whispering grand ideas of conquest into the young ruler's ear. With the monarch's ambitions fueled, Lukotor revealed the most closely guarded secrets of his enemies' minds using the prized Altak-Tur Vessel. Thus Avernix's triumphs were kindled, and the conquered were willingly sacrificed to his tribal demons, whom Lukotor fed until they grew powerful.

The wizard's foul magic guided the army from one victory to the next. Their invaders became a horde, their smoke blackening the skies. Bronze helmets and spearheads gleamed behind shield walls painted with the faces of their daemons. Fur-clad feet shook the earth to the beat of drums and the timbre of war songs.

Stones, wood, flesh, and even golden crowns were crushed by the bronze teeth of Avernix's ravenous horde. They consumed the ripe fields of wheat, barley, and spelt, and stole and enslaved all they could take. In trade, they left only fire and death to evaporate the autumn chill. In the end, all who could challenge Avernix's rule lay defeated or fled. He had gained absolute dominion over all mountainous Garumna.

As for Lukotor, his power was at its peak and his allies were prepared.

The time for his reward had come.

The Avernix war camp spread out before the Giants’ Forest, its bonfires wide and vast. A legion of colossal trees filled the western sky before them: towering mountains of wood and jagged, black bark. Each trunk was ten paces wide and ten times that high, their twisted branches reaching up to claw at the stars.

Its sword-sized leaves had long since withered and fallen to the withered grass below; the ancient branches above strangled the precious sunlight. Even the launching towers of the Cymorillian dragon princes would have been dwarfed in its presence, and between its bare limbs hung vines thicker than a man's waist like the webs of a demon spider.

The ancient canopy was filled with birds. Crows the size of dogs and even larger ravens. Bristly vultures hunched like old men, creatures both reptilian and raptor, with bright feathers over iridescent scales and beaks filled with sharp teeth.

But other things troubled the warriors. In the shadow of the ancient sentinels—long enough for it to fall upon the entire camp—they recalled childhood tales told by the crackling fire. Tales of beings who dwelled in the dark inner arbors and emerged to feast on human flesh. Tales of beings with gnarled hands and curved horns and a wicked, unending hunger.

Ogre Tales.

Even the Horde’s towering war-mastodons, swathed in heavy bronze chains and armed with shield-shattering tusks, were little more than timid mice near the tree roots. Steam rose from their great bodies as they huddled together, grumbling and shifting their weight, their ears twitching.

The warriors were brave, but the wolf could not help but turn cowardly before the saber-toothed tiger. However, in the middle of the camp, the horde was plotting its own evils.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

A deep drum beat and a tower of flames twisted over a bonfire that belched a column of black smoke. Depraved symbols marked the land around her and wild dancers pranced around her, clad only in the skins of albino does. They chanted guttural incantations in the vile tongue of demons that pierced mortal ears. Clasped in bony hands, they waved greasy torches that came from an unspeakable source in supplication.

The column of foul smoke pulsed with its monstrous invitation, and within it began to glow maddening shapes that twisted to the rhythm of the dancers' movements.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

The drum gained rhythm and the dancing became more frenetic.

A voice like the cracking of ice cried out above the din: Three who dwell in the ashes!

The shapes in the smoke stopped.

We come with sacrifice for your terrible blessing!

Lukotor the Wise stepped forward, his bone talismans clanking on his vulture-feathered cloak. Unnaturally tall and cadaverous in stature, age had not stooped him much, but it had withered what little girth he had had in his youth. His great height was akin to that of a corpse lying on the torture rack, and eyes that were pools of darkness swam above a crooked nose. Steel-grey hair fell to his shoulders, braided with the glittering jewels of dead souls. Between twisted hands and claw-like nails he held a jar of emerald-green clay, scrawled with symbols similar to those that mar the earth.

A vile whisper dripped from its depths.

Bring the offering. The wizard waved a clawed hand and two sweltering Ilian eunuchs approached, heads bowed. Their backs were scarred by the cruelties of the whip.

Among them hung a handsome Olubrian boy bound to a birch trunk, shrouded in white, gagged, and painted with symbols too disgusting to name. The sun and star symbol of the sky cult hung stripped from his neck. His eyes rolled in panic and he struggled so desperately against his bonds that the ropes had turned red. The eunuchs placed him before the flame, then hurried away from the circle.

Lukotor grinned widely, revealing a tangle of rotting teeth. Flesh to fill your bellies, he offered to the smoke. Blood to moisten your tongues. A soul of mortal race to bolster your power. He bowed so deeply that his jeweled tresses brushed the earth. Protect us and our warriors from the coming darkness. Confuse the eyes that watch us so we can traverse that forest. Grant us this favor, and our gratitude will be equal to a hundred sacrifices.

They all stopped, still, as if holding their breath.

The smoke thickened and the heat of the fire diminished.

The vapors grew darker, like water when something foul bubbled in its depths. Three huge silhouettes formed in the column. One mountainous. One slender. The last scaly. The light receded before their vile presence, and their auras held an ancient, primal terror.

The boy screamed into the gag, trying to break free, his clenched teeth tearing at his tongue. Smoke began to rise from him, and his body paled as if something too precious was being ripped from him. His form grew smaller, turning pale and more translucent with each breath as more of him vanished into smoke. His bonds and gag fell away, and a moan echoed through the air as his essence was absorbed into the column.

For a moment, a brighter spot floated through the smog.

Then the silhouettes were upon him.

The screams stopped.

The flame flared, retreated inward, and then went out, leaving only cold and darkness in its wake.

The blessing is granted! Lukotor shouted triumphantly. "Tomorrow we will walk the forest under the protection of the