Og-Grim-Dog left Darkspike Dungeon and went travelling in the Great Outside. There were no comforting grey stone walls and ceilings here, closing in on them, keeping the air just the right side of stale. Instead there was the wide, blue sky that stretched out in every direction. It stretched upward, as far as the eye can see, and then farther still. Grim tried not to think about it.
There was a certain system Og-Grim-Dog had developed when it came to travelling in the Great Outside. To understand it, we must briefly mention limbs. Og-Grim-Dog had two arms and two legs. The left and right heads, Og and Dog, had use of one arm each. Grim had use of the legs. It was a roughly fair division, even though it had its problems from time to time.
At Og-Grim-Dog’s belt, wrapped around a huge waist, hung two weapons. Close to Og’s arm was a pike. It was actually a human pike that Og had come by and rather liked. But whereas humans were required to hold the pole-arm two-handed, Og had the strength to wield it by himself. On the opposite side of the waist was a mace, this time ogre-sized, that was Dog’s weapon of choice.
As they walked, or as Grim walked, depending on how you choose to see it, both Og’s and Dog’s heads were covered in hemp sacks. To the extremely casual observer it looked like Grim had very large shoulders. By experience, they had found this was the best method of travelling. An ogre walking through human territory might often be the target of aggression. An ogre armed with pike and mace was generally left alone, in the hope that he was just passing through. An ogre with three heads, however, was almost always greeted with fear and hysteria. Treated as demon spawn or some such, the entire community would come together to exterminate it, perhaps in the belief they were doing their god’s work.
Whatever the reason, Og-Grim-Dog had learned, by experience, to travel with the sacks. Since Grim did the walking, it didn’t matter that the other two couldn’t see. It also had the added benefit of muffling his brother’s voices, thereby giving his ears a rest.
After walking across country for two days, Grim took them onto the road that led to the human settlement of Mer Khazer. No-one had tried to stop their passage—after all, they were just passing through. Grim decided it was safe enough from this point. Mer Khazer was a cosmopolitan town, attracting visitors from across the human lands and beyond. Three-headed ogres would always be on the edge of what was socially acceptable. But Grim judged that in Mer Khazer, they would get away with it.
‘You can take the sacks off now.’
Dog ripped his off, gulping in air. All that Grim could hear from the other side was a gentle snoring.
‘Og! We’re on the road to Mer Khazer!’
Og woke with a start.
‘I’m blind!’ he moaned, before remembering what was happening. He took his sack off, a flustered look on his face. ‘Where are we?’
‘We’re on the road to Mer Khazer,’ Grim repeated, keeping the pace up. If he kept at it, they’d reach it by evening.
‘Mer Khazer? Where’s that?’
‘You know Mer Khazer, Og,’ Grim said patiently. ‘We’ve been there several times.’
‘Well, I don’t recall it. What’s the plan when we get there?’
‘The trespassers meet in the inns of the town. We’ll go to one of them and try to find out why they keep attacking our dungeon.’
‘How about The Bruised Bollocks?’ suggested Dog, sounding enthusiastic. ‘They do a good quart of ale at The Bollocks.’
‘The Bruised Bollocks?’ asked Og. ‘I don’t remember us ever drinking there.’
As the three-headed ogre passed through the gates into the town of Mer Khazer, night crept in with them. It brought a chill to the air outside and the breath from three ogre mouths could be seen by three pairs of ogre eyes. Like so many others intent on staying awake after dark, the ogre headed to one of the many drinking establishments located about the centre of town.
The Bruised Bollocks was alive with the heat from the fire; with the sweet smells of roasted meat and yeasty beer; with the talk of the townsfolk of Mer Khazer, and of visitors from out of town. Og-Grim-Dog ducked under the lintel and entered the tap room. An array of glances were shot their way, from horror to amusement and everything in between, but the ogre was used to such reactions and ignored them, making its way to the bar and locking eyes with the man who served there. Keen to fulfil the order and keep his limbs intact, the barman soon deposited two quarts of ale into two hands, each the size of his head.
The third—Grim’s drink—was left on the bar. As usual, he had to wait his turn while the other two took long glugs, smacking their lips contentedly. It wasn’t unusual, when they were deep in their cups, for Grim to get forgotten about altogether. But this time, and without reminding, Og slammed his own drink back onto the bar and lifted Grim’s to his lips for him. It had a nutty aroma and a bitter taste, and was the best thing Grim had tasted in months. Satisfied, Og-Grim-Dog put their back to the bar and took in the room.
It didn’t take long to work out who was who. The townsfolk seemed naturally to congregate on one side of the room, and the foreigners on the other. It was the latter group that was of interest to Og-Grim-Dog. These were the trespassers: men and women who invaded and looted the dungeons of Gal’azu for profit. Warriors carried their weapons; wizards could be identified by their cloaks, hats or staves. Thieves, assassins and other rogues skulked about in dark corners; clerics wore the vestments of their holy orders, or carried the relics and trinkets of their gods on chains about their necks. It was an industry, a way of life, that attracted people from across Gal’azu, and even beyond. For the ogre could see other folk, too. Dwarves—short, stocky and bearded; elves—slim, with pointed ears and almond-shaped eyes; and there were other races—those allowed into human towns.
‘No green-skins,’ Dog muttered under his breath.
Grim began to mix amongst the trespassers, looking for a suitable group to talk with. Near the bar a group of young men spoke with the noise of those who had been drinking awhile. They were boasting, as young men do, of the creatures they had killed and the treasure they had won.
Killing goblins or orcs wasn’t a boast amongst this crew. It had to be a dead troll; dead fimir; dead ogre. Grim could feel the animosity of his brothers grow; were these humans too far gone to notice a three-headed ogre standing behind them? Still, such talk wasn’t new to Og-Grim-Dog. His brothers would control their anger. Wouldn’t they?
‘Next time we go dungeoneering, we need to step it up to the next level,’ one of them suggested, leaving a dramatic pause to encourage the others in his party to listen. ‘Next time, we find and kill a dragon.’
There was much agreement to this idea. In the comfort of an inn, miles from the nearest giant winged lizard, it’s an easy enough thing to agree to.
Dog, however, wasn’t impressed.
‘Where does this obsession with finding dragons in dungeons come from?’ he demanded, loud enough to attract the attention of the group, and many others in The Bruised Bollocks besides. ‘Think about it. What are the two defining characteristics of a dragon? One, they can fly. Two, they are extremely large. Why, then, would they choose to confine themselves in an underground dungeon? I have been to the high mountain kingdoms of Old Nahru, trekked through the Inky Caverns of the Lost Ones. But I have never come across, nor ever heard of, an actual dragon in a dungeon. Yet the bizarre association remains.’