In a sudden burst of frustration at his inability to perform even that simple task, the mockery that had once been a powerful warlord hurled the jug to the side. It bounced harmlessly against the interior of the goatskin tent then struck the rocky ground hard enough to break, cracking open. The tuscru j’in ale spilled over the ground inside the tent.
Donnag rose to his feet, although he was far from the height he had once commanded. When younger, he had stood nearly ten feet tall; as a Titan, he had actually been taller than the others by a hand. That time seemed a long-ago dream, not any past reality; a period so short he could barely recall it.
A young female entered through the goatskin flaps of the tent to check on the disturbance she had heard. Her curved hips and smaller tusks enticed Donnag, but he made no move to grab lustily at her as he once would have done. The obvious revulsion and fear in her eyes were only part of the reason; Donnag was beyond the pleasures of the flesh, and his own shame at what he had become made him simply wish for her to leave.
That the female did the moment she had retrieved the pieces of the shattered pot. With one last, fleeting glance at the former ruler—likely from fear that he would after all try to clutch her—the other ogre vanished through the tent flaps.
Donnag let out a growl, which out of his twisted throat emerged more like a rasping cough. Spittle dripped over the thick growth that passed for his lower lip. With tremendous effort, he shoved himself up off the soiled animal skin upon which he had been resting and tried to straighten up. Unfortunately, his back was more malformed than ever, so he stood bent and looked as though he were contemplating his feet.
His first step nearly sent him tripping over the hem of the ragged brown robe he wore. The robe made him feel like an elderly female. He, who used to go into battle with his chest unprotected, covered himself from head to toe. His most ardent supporters could not bear to see his disgusting flesh, and even he was revolted by the sight of so many thick boils, the rampant scaly patches of skin, and worse sores.
How much longer any of his followers, even his kin, would continue to give him any support was a question he pondered every day. They knew of his connections to the Titans and, because of those connections, believed his assurances that one day he would be restored to beauty and power. They did not yet suspect the truth, that Morgada’s failure to convince the spellcasters to give him another chance spelled his certain doom … unless something no one expected befell the half-breed.
Yes, for Donnag to live, Golgren had to die.
“My poor, poor Donnag,” came the voice that he secretly hated as much as the grand lord’s. “I did all that I could for you, and this is the gratitude with which you remember me.”
“D-Dauroth!” The lead Titan loomed before him so suddenly and so tall that Donnag gave a start. He could not even see his face until the blue-skinned giant had backed up a few paces.
“You may save your breath, my old friend. I know how troublesome it is for you to speak.”
With a guttural roar, Donnag flung himself at the Titan only to be sent hurtling back in the opposite direction.
“That would have once been beneath you,” Dauroth reproached him calmly. “As is so much you have done of late. Did I not promise you once that there would come a day when you would be brought back into the fold if only you could be patient?”
“H-have! Patient, have been!” Donnag gazed past the other, wondering why no one had come running at his shouts. Once, a mere whisper by the chieftain would have brought a dozen able guards to his side. Apparently, they had turned deaf to his plight.
The Titan sighed. “Oh, I have blocked all sound from those without. That is why no one is coming to your aid. Really, Donnag! Have you forgotten so much?”
The grotesque figure spit. The ugly missile did not come even close to Dauroth, but the spellcaster nevertheless shook his head disapprovingly.
“You were and are ungrateful. Despite that, I have done what I could for you even in the face of Golgren’s wrath. He has condemned you now for attempting to slay him and all in the two lands are now to hunt you and bring you to his feet.”
“But I … d-did … nothing!” Donnag managed.
“I dare not rescind his command,” Dauroth replied, seeming not to hear or care about the other’s protest of innocence. “But out of a last gesture for our former friendship, I have done you a blessing.” The spellcaster held out his hand, and a well-worn, twin-edged battle axe that sat to the side of Donnag flew up into the Titan’s hand. Dauroth easily wielded it, testing its weight. “You will have need of this.”
The axe flew at Donnag, who, despite his twisted form, managed to catch it.
“Through other channels, I have let your kin know the news of your condemnation.” Ignoring Donnag’s grunt of outrage, the Titan added, “They know what aiding you would mean for them now.”
“But … I … did not—”
“What you did or did not do does not matter anymore.” Dauroth cocked an ear toward the tent flap. “Ready yourself, my old friend. I think they come even now.”
Reacting instinctively, the fallen chieftain swung at the giant.
His axe met only air. Dauroth was gone.
But another figure materialized through the entrance barely a breath afterward. Donnag recognized him as one of his cousins, a young and capable warrior whom he had once intended to command his personal guard.
The one who had been intended to protect Donnag’s life sought to take it instead. Wielding an axe nearly as great as that gripped by his adversary, the cousin—a lean, eager fighter in his prime—leaped at Donnag.
Yet although the latter was not the warrior he had once been, there remained residual skills and training that even the monstrous transformation could not yet eradicate. Donnag blocked one blow then a second then, using his shorter stature to his advantage, jammed the pointed axe head into his kinsman’s stomach.
The younger warrior let out a gasp. Eyes bulging, he dropped his weapon.
Donnag finished him off with a swift slash across the chest. It was the first pleasure that he had felt in a long time.
But as the one intruder fell, two more charged into the tent. One was distant kin, the other a warrior sworn to the clan.
“Du daka f’han iDonnagi!” shouted his blood relation.
“Jaro Gyun!” the elder ogre managed to rasp back, adding his spit to the insult. They dared demand that he had to die for their sake, he who had given them so much?
It was odd that, even as his fate was sealed, Donnag found his thoughts clear. He had been thinking clearly for the past hour or so. Perhaps the gods had played a final trick on him, letting him understand and be aware of his downfall. Indeed, that sounded like Sirrion; for was that god not the bane of all ogres, setting the sun so hot over the land?
His accursed blood and the other warrior came at him from opposite sides. The guard wielded a sword, which, thanks to the good deeds of the Grand Lord Golgren, was sharply honed and polished. Donnag had little hope of quickly smashing the blade apart, as used to happen often when he fought in the old days.
He met the blade dead on then blocked the other axe. Twice more, Donnag managed to deflect the pair’s blows. He began to feel like a real fighter again, aware that only his monstrous body kept him from easily dispatching the pair.
Indeed, Donnag succeeded in slicing his relation across the forearm, which caused the latter to momentarily retreat. Unfortunately, another pair of foes rushed into the tent, including one close cousin whose father had been Donnag’s father’s brother. Among ogres, such a male-linked relationship was akin to a brotherly bond.
“iKarnagi.” The former chieftain swung back and forth, clearing the path to his greatest of betrayers. If he could at least take his cousin to the grave with him …
The guard with the sword thrust. Unable to move as nimbly as in the past, Donnag could not entirely evade the attack. The blade sank into his side. Blood and pus spilled forth. The bleeding was heav
y; his reflexes would be further slowed.
His cousin Karnag stood before him, an axe in one hand, a sword in the other. Donnag had taught his cousin many of his tricks, and even then Karnag executed a move that the older warrior well recognized. Donnag countered it with one he had not shown his cousin and then, while Karnag was caught off guard, followed through with a lunge of his own.
But the warped body he was trapped inside began to betray Donnag. His swing went awry, and he stumbled to his knees. His usable fingers lost their grip on the axe.
Then Karnag’s axe swung true, burying itself in his shoulder. Ironically, Donnag’s transformation kept the weapon from sinking as deeply as it should have, for the blade found instead of soft flesh a hardened mass almost like stone.
But more was coming. First a sword pierced his other shoulder, then another axe all but severed his right arm. Crying out, his blood gushing, Donnag sprawled onto the ground.
“F’han, iDonnagi… dukara f’han,” his cousin pronounced.
Donnag forced his face up, meeting, as best he could, the eyes of his executioner.
Karnag’s axe cut through his neck. Donnag’s head fell past the cousin, almost but not quite rolling out of the tent.
Idaria waited for more than an hour after Golgren had drifted off before daring to sneak away and write her latest missive. There was far more to tell than the tiny parchment allowed, so she kept to the key details. The grand lord had nearly been slain, and his authority had been undermined. A culprit had been named, and his arrest and execution would have repercussions. Whether or not that would play well into the hands of those for whom she spied, only they could answer.
The moment she was finished writing, Idaria rushed to the window. By then, there were birds who expected her summons, be it day or night, and one came quickly in response to her quiet call.
“Thank you, little one,” the slave murmured as she kissed the bird lightly on the beak. “You are so brave.”
She attached the message by a string. That one especially could be trusted to carry her messages far and beyond the ogre lands, if need be. The bird loved her that much.
“Fly safely now,” she ordered.
The bird fluttered from her hand and out through the window. Idaria watched as it vanished into the night then turned back toward the bed of her master, who lay sleeping.
She was startled by a tall shape that materialized between the bed and her, nearly causing the elf to gasp. Only a long-honed sense of survival kept the gasp smothered in her throat.
Within the shadows of his hood, Tyranos smiled. In an overly innocent tone, he whispered, “I see you admire the night fliers too.”
The dagger appeared in her hand as if by magic. She lunged for the wizard’s chest, but he moved quicker than any human should have been able, even a spell-caster. Tyranos evaded her attack and seized her wrist, twisting it upward. The dagger fell free, but before it could clatter on the floor, the wizard grabbed it in his other hand, which for once did not hold his precious staff.
“Careful,” he murmured. “Mustn’t wake the master.”
Her eyes darted to Golgren, who remained still. “You do not plan to alert—to tell him?”
“Are you certain he doesn’t already know?” Tyranos pulled her nearer. “You’re a puzzle, Lady Idaria. On the one hand, you volunteer for slavery after escaping Silvanost in order to spy for those whom you should loathe nearly as much as the ogres. On the other, you had the perfect opportunity to let events take their course and see the grand lord die, yet you went out of the way to divert the griffon so Golgren could survive.”
She lowered her eyes. “I did it to save myself. Without him, I would be taken away by the Titans. You know the fate awaiting me—awaiting all elves—in their lair.”
“Huh. You know very well you could escape at almost any time.”
He released her hand, then, unexpectedly, returned her dagger to her. The wizard turned his gaze back to the slumbering form.
“Fascinating,” Tyranos rumbled, eyes flickering back to the elf. “Very fascinating.” He reached out to hand something else to Idaria. “When he wakes, give this to him. He should know what it means, but tell him that he ought to show it to the leader of the Titans—show it but not surrender it.”
The slave eyed the dark object in her palm: a ring, a very old ring.
Idaria, from a race nearly as ancient as the High Ogres, had little trouble recognizing its origins or its potential. Her eyes widened. She looked to the human for explanation.
But Tyranos was already vanishing. The mage said but one last thing as he turned into shadow then empty air. “Oh. I meant to tell you also; I don’t think your message is going to make it through this time. There are more gargoyles about, you see.”
And with that, he left Idaria holding the signet and staring narrow-eyed at the still sleeping form in the bed.
XVI
GOLGREN’S PLEDGE
Donnag’s death at the hands of his own kin did not sit well with Golgren, although on the surface he pretended to be satisfied with the news. The grand lord would have preferred to broadcast Donnag’s disgrace to all before he was executed. After the execution his corpse would be of no use, for the heat of the ogre lands would turn any dead body into something vile within a day or two. Much of Donnag’s transformation could be blamed on decay.
Golgren could not even punish the kin, for they had acted according to a tradition that dated back to the old days. There were traditions that he could and would change and traditions that he dared not. Worse, Donnag’s clan had bought its way into his good graces, whether he really endorsed their actions or not.
All that told him that he had to act as soon as possible with regard to the human. Golgren summoned Khleeg and Wargroch, giving them orders. He then had the Solamnic brought to him.
“We must talk,” Golgren bluntly informed Stefan. “But not here, not now. You have seen little of Garantha and all its surroundings! I would have you see its changes.”
“I’d be very interested, indeed,” Stefan admitted. “You are too kind—”
The grand lord waved off his gratitude. “It is my duty as host! Come.”
The mounts he ordered were ready within minutes, three instead of the two the Solamnic expected. In addition, some fifteen warriors also stood ready as the riders’ escort around the city.
Khleeg gave commands to the guards, but then, to the human’s surprise, the officer saluted them and departed.
“I am here,” Idaria’s voice softly called from behind the pair.
Stefan frowned. “She rides with us?”
“There is objection?”
“No, no.”
The elf solemnly mounted her horse as best as her shackles enabled her. Of necessity, the silver-tressed female rode sidesaddle.
Golgren grinned. “Like the females of a Solamnic court, is she not?”
“Only they are not chained, Grand Lord.”
The ogre shrugged. “Are they not?”
At his command, the sizable party entered the streets. Golgren set the pace, leisurely enough that the escort could keep up, but not so much that they grew lax.
Stefan had seen a good deal of Garantha from the gate to the palace, but Golgren led him toward the northeastern sector.
There the stone streets were cracked and worn from generations of neglect, but they were cleaner than under any previous grand khan. With the knowledge that he would eventually take the human on just such an excursion, Golgren had issued orders that that part of Garantha would be made as presentable as possible. At an intersection far ahead, he noted some of Khleeg’s officers urging a cadre of ogres to swifter and better cleaning. Using wooden brooms with bristles made from the stiff hair of sturdy Kernian horses, the workers attacked the street as though it were an enemy. The grand lord began to slow his pace and introduced the topic that most interested him.
“I have spoken of alliance but left you wondering about more, yes?”
“I’ve been curious, definitely,” the Solamnic cautiously replied. “I still find it hard to fathom what you might be suggesting.”
Golgren sensed that the human fathomed far more than he cared to let on. But he didn’t know as much about the ogres as Golgren knew about the knighthood and its goals. “It is simple,” he said, his hand retrieving a vial of scent from his belt pouch. “Solamnics and ogres, they have a common problem: the Uruv Suurt. They must be watched.”
“Uruv Suurt?”
Raising the vial to his nostrils, the grand lord bent open the stopper and inhaled. Memories of his childhood briefly drifted through his thoughts, although he gave no sign of his distraction to the human. “I think you understand a few of our simple phrases. I mean the minotaurs of course,” Golgren said. “The invaders of Ansalon … that is how Solamnia sees them, yes?”
Stefan Rennert nodded. If the knighthood had been blind to the empire’s slow but steady advance through Silvanost, then they could boast themselves greater fools than gully dwarves.
“As I said, a common problem. We, too, inhabit the mainland, and so the minotaurs also crowd our nation.” Golgren returned the stoppered vial to the pouch before adding, “But would not Solamnia enjoy to know that ogres will not march west? Ogres would certainly be pleased if Shok G’Ran did not try to seize ogre lands.”
“You speak of a nonaggression pact,” the bearded knight declared. “Peace between your kind and ours because of the minotaurs. But we have no designs on ogre lands!”
“And I can assure you we have no desire for knightly lands. But if the Uruv Suurt attack either, the other comes to the aid.”
Despite what Sir Stefan said, Golgren knew that the Solamnics would willingly enter the ogre lands if it suited their purpose. They might even establish a “permanent” presence. That didn’t really worry him, although a pact would definitely forestall such a possibility. Buying time was part of his plan.
The Black Talon: Ogre Titans, Volume One (Dragonlance: Ogre Titans, Vol. 1) Page 22
