Tonk’s head turned toward the sound of the roaring host of ogres. Tiller realized suddenly that his attacker’s expression was one of confusion. The confusion quickly became alarm.

  Tonk roared to his supporters, “Dammit! Lads, it’s Monk and the girls!”

  There were dispirited noises from the other ogres. A scream rang out as an ogre, distracted by the sounds, was speared by Huntress’s sword.

  It happened quickly then.

  From the darkness came the sounds of thundering feet. Tonk and his cronies had to split their attention. Some turned to face the sounds of the charge. Others continued their work.

  For Tonk, the course of action was simple and clear. He would finish off the farmer and then deal with this new problem. But finishing the farmer would be the next order of business, no doubt about that.

  He peered down at Tiller. Tiller could see in his eyes that he would prefer to have savored the moment. Instead, Tonk raised his arms, weapon high over his head, and prepared to do away with him in a quick and businesslike fashion.

  That lasted for the instant it took for Cutter’s glaive to come spearing in from the side.

  Somehow, Tonk managed to twist away from Cutter. Tiller saw a sigil glow on Tonk’s wrist. He knew Tonk wasn’t a fighter and likely didn’t have any fighting sigils. Tonk was on some kind of clerical path, if Tiller remembered correctly.

  Still, the sigil glowed and Tonk’s feet carried him clear of danger. Tiller rushed to his feet, shovel gleaming, to join Cutter in the fight. Cutter’s teeth were a panel of dangerous whiteness as he flashed Tiller a grin. “Nah. Leave this prick to me. Things are happening over there and they could probably use the other body.”

  Tiller hesitated, only briefly, then fled toward the sounds of violence that were erupting.

  The scene was baffling.

  Ogres fought ogres.

  Most of the newcomers were women—ogre women. They were nearly as big as the men. Their proportions were outlandish. Huge, impossibly huge breasts swayed beneath their tunics as they wielded their weapons. The weapons were improvised: pikes, hoes, hammers. The females fought savagely. What they might have lacked in physical power compared with their male counterparts, they seemed to make up for in sheer will and manic energy.

  Among them was a newcomer. An ogre of average size. He had long hair, much of it worked into long braids interwoven with beads. His clothes were brighter and more eye-catching than what Tiller had seen other ogres wearing. He wore a sleeveless jacket that had been made of colored thread. Blues, reds, pinks, yellows all showed faintly in the light of the moon. Tassels hung from his clothes; bracelets and necklaces rattled with colored stones and tinkling beads. He attacked with a staff, or perhaps a long walking stick.

  The entire affair seemed ridiculous. Now that Tiller could see ogre fighting ogre, he realized how inept the vast majority were. They didn’t move with the directed power of Cutter, the mysterious grace of Norris, or the deathly glide of Huntress. These were farmers, craftsmen. They were beings of peace, brought to war by circumstance and vitriol.

  Tiller filled his lungs, then roared, “STOP!”

  Cutter did pause when Tiller’s shout rang out. Tonk wasted no time and no opportunity, driving forward with panicked fury.

  Cutter took a glancing blow before he recovered. Then his sigils glowed and he parried the next attack; a moment later Tonk was backpedaling. Cutter, for his part, advanced slowly. As much as Tonk might have enjoyed toying with Tiller before his demise, Cutter was enjoying this.

  “You caused a lot of trouble,” Cutter growled. He nodded toward the spear bearing the patriarch’s severed head. “That’s your own dad, don’t you feel bad?”

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  Tonk spat on the ground between them. “He was old blood, and past time. The ogre way is for the young and strong to take their place when it’s time. Father had grown soft. The old gods won’t judge me for killing him. They’ll celebrate me!”

  Cutter shook his head, face flat. “You sound like a cliché from a badly constructed D&D game.”

  Tonk murmured, “What?”

  Cutter said, “Never mind. I can see you’re committed to the role. I guess there’s no turning back when you’ve gone psycho killer on your own dad.”

  Tonk snarled, and stabbed with the spear. Cutter saw the severed head lunging at him through the darkness. He flinched. He didn’t want to parry that. Some inner cringe let him imagine his parry splashing the skull like a pumpkin. Instead, he dodged back, a sigil flashing in the dim light.

  Cutter said, “But that’s another thing. The young and strong should take the place of the old? By violence, right? You’re a fucking accountant or something, aren’t you? And you’re small as shit by ogre standards. Why you? You’re not strong.”

  Tonk puffed and reddened. Cutter could see he’d struck a nerve. “I AM THE BEST OF US! That’s old thinking! It’s not might of arms, or size, that makes the next leader the strongest! I have a mind, you stinking hoo-man! And sigils! I can guide us, lead us!”

  Cutter poked an eyebrow skyward. “So, hang on. Let me get this straight. You’ll go with the old cliché traditions of gods and murder when it gets you to the top, but be all modern and shit when it suits you too. Fuck it, Tonk. I know guys like you. I fucking hate guys like y—”

  The spear flashed again, this time spearing downwards. Tonk had thrown it, to tangle his feet. That sigil on Tonk’s wrist was blazing. The ogre rushed in without hesitation, following the spear, ready to capitalize on Cutter’s disorientation.

  But Cutter wasn’t disoriented.

  Dodge glowed on his wrist and he danced easily out of the way of the clumsily thrown spear. The spear clattered away into the darkness. The head bounced free and rolled elsewhere.

  Tonk’s eyes widened in shock as Cutter stepped past his attack and shoulder-checked him. His Strength sigil glowed as they hit and, despite his greater mass, Tonk went hurtling back to land winded on his back.

  Cutter chuckled. It was a twisted sound, a sound of pleasure in the existential dread of another. “That sigil that’s been glowing? Some kind of strategy thing, is it? I saw it light up each time you tried a trick with me. Been using that to strategize other things? Been using that to push buttons back on the homestead? Is that how that sigil works? Lets you make decisions that have ramifications? Play on somebody’s old grievance? Twist some rejected lover into a hater? Play on greed and fear?”

  Cutter stepped closer, looming over Tonk. His glaive was heavy in his hand. He wanted this. He wanted to kill him. He needed to get on with it and get back to the fight. He just wished to God that the ogre was on his feet instead of his back when he killed him.

  Cutter growled, “Did you think it would let you take me on? That you could strategize your way into beating me? You know, I could see that happening if you were a few levels along. Do some Jedi mind-trick shit, chessboard stuff, be ten steps ahead. But you can’t get me. Not you. You’re a piece of—”

  The sigil pulsed again on Tonk’s wrist. Cutter’s eyes flared in alarm. He triggered Dodge just in time to avoid Donk as he charged. Donk spun, charging again, roaring.

  All around them was the sound of the fighting. It wasn’t a fighting retreat any longer. The new ogres were battling with the attackers. Huntress, Stone Robot, and Tiller were deep in the fray. Cutter glanced at Tiller, as the ringing of weapons met his ears, and saw his glowing shovel working to defend himself. Tiller’s voice echoed, “STOP! Stop this! It doesn’t have to end like this!”

  Cutter didn’t have time to process that. He used Dodge, twisting away from Donk. Tonk lunged for him, back on his feet. Cutter had a vague awareness that both of them were tied up with him when they needed the weight of numbers to counter the new ogres. He had the sense that he would be playing his part by just keeping them busy as the rest of the battle collapsed for the attackers.

  But that wasn’t what he wanted.

  Sigils flashed on his wrist like the lights on a Christmas tree.

  Donk came in again and Cutter surged to meet him. His Strength sigil flared, like a firework, as his shoulder met the gigantic chest of the ogre. Cutter gushed an “oof” as the wind was driven from him, but he ploughed through, and suddenly Donk was staggering back, arms flailing. The glaive flashed out, spearing rather than slashing, and the Fighter sigil blazed in the nighttime. The glaive pierced Donk’s chest, blood spraying, and the huge beast sank away, gasping, dying.

  Tonk was on him, his own sigil alight. Cutter didn’t care. He couldn’t hear his own cackle, but the others did. The others would remember glancing over and seeing him and hearing him laughing with insane glee as he ripped his glaive from Donk’s chest and turned, pulling the haft close to his body, then letting it explode forward like a pet viper.

  The blade of the glaive thundered into Tonk’s chest. It lifted him from his feet, despite all his mass. There came that moment when they were frozen, Tonk swaying from the glaive at the top of the momentum of the thrust.

  Cutter looked up at Tonk. Tonk had no words. He only coughed and spluttered, blood frothing from his lips.

  Cutter smiled. It was his patented savage grin.

  “Out-strategize this, you piece of shit.”