He pulled back his hand almost immediately, his fingers wet with a familiar crimson moistness. The object lay mangled, but he recognized what covered most of it:
Flesh, gobbets of the flesh of an ogre.
Quickly recovering from his astonishment, Golgren inspected the object. Seizing it up, the grand lord wiped it clean on his own garment in order to see it better. It was a talisman of some sort, shaped into a small golden starburst. From what the ogre could see, it had once been fastened into the very skin in which it lay.
Was it skin from the throat of the third assassin?
Golgren turned it toward the light of the nearest torch, trying to better make out a symbol in the very center of the talisman.
That symbol flared to life, a brief puff of flame rising up from it, a momentary, living representation of the symbol.
Startled again, Golgren dropped the talisman. As it clattered to the floor, all hint of fire vanished.
Cursing himself for his carelessness, the ogre leader bent to find the piece and clutch it in his hand. Already suspicions formed in his mind as to its significance and why it had been worn on the throat of the assassin, a guard considered loyal by Khleeg.
Something swooped down from the dark corners above. It landed on two heavy feet, its wings nearly spreading from one wall to the other. It stood almost as tall as the ogre and certainly as wide as any of his guards, none of whom were around, thanks to Golgren having dismissed them.
It was a gargoyle.
The male gargoyle appeared to dwarf the one Tyranos had captured. It had eyes more aware than the other one too, eyes that stared intently, as if reading far more about the grand lord’s true self than the half-breed desired anyone to know.
Golgren poised to defend himself, reaching for the dagger hidden in his garments, always available as a quick and devious weapon.
But the gargoyle did a strange thing. It laughed—a coarse, mocking sound—then uttered in crude Common, “Fool of a ruler.”
And with that, it took to the air, flying directly at Golgren. The grand lord grabbed for the dagger, but at the last moment, the gargoyle veered above him. The winged creature soared past the ogre then vanished through a window.
The last thing Golgren heard was another short, mocking laugh.
All the Titans required the elixir to regularly rejuvenate themselves, otherwise they would enjoy the fate of Donnag. That eve of elixir-taking was a particularly momentous one, for it was none other than Dauroth himself who would imbibe.
All the Titans were assembled for the occasion, though if it had been other than Dauroth, a mere handful would have sufficed. Their leader stood in the center of the chamber, a small, square, stone pedestal with a flat face before him. Safrag stood behind him, empty hands cupped together. The rest of the Titans stood like pillars, their hands similarly cupped.
At the hour of midnight—as intuited by Dauroth—the Titans abruptly raised their cupped hands to the ceiling.
“The dream is the destiny,” Dauroth sang. “The destiny is the dream.”
His followers repeated the holy singing words, their chorus both wondrous and frightening to hear. They spread their arms wide as their leader intoned the second line.
“We are the dream; we are the destiny; the race will rise again, and the world will rejoice.”
“The world will rejoice,” they repeated, their expressions like innocent children. The white-blue globe above them added to the surreal nature of the ceremony.
Dauroth looked to the darkness on his left. “Let the gifts of the ancestors be brought forth.”
From the shadows emerged Hundjal. Even in so serious a ceremony, his pleasure at returning to his place as his master’s favored was apparent. He cradled the two small objects in his palms as if he himself were the one giving them as gifts.
In his left hand there was nestled a tiny ivory box that faintly glowed. Various runes had been etched upon its rounded lid. Anyone standing too close would have felt a heat radiating from it—not a terrible heat, but a noticeable one.
And in Hundjal’s right hand he carried a small onyx flask shaped like a crouching dragon. The curling, snapping head was the stopper. The detail was lifelike, right down to its dragon scales.
Stepping to the master’s side, Hundjal presented Dauroth with the flask. Dauroth accepted it, then placed the onyx container on the pedestal.
“Blood is life; blood is rebirth,” he called out in song.
“Blood is life; blood is rebirth,” the rest repeated.
Dauroth passed a hand over the flask. A faint crimson aura descended from his downturned palm toward the bottle.
The dragon’s head let out a hiss, then stilled again.
Ever so gently, Dauroth removed the stopper. He placed the dragon’s head to the side, but instead of taking up the flask, he stretched his hand to Hundjal.
The senior apprentice handed him the small ivory box. Dauroth let it sit in one palm while he passed the other over it.
The lid swung open. Dauroth removed the contents for all to see, at the same time returning the box to Hundjal.
The heart still beat. Slim it was, slimmer than the heavy organ inside an ogre or even the smaller but sturdy one within a human. It beat very slowly but not because of the magic that kept it animated. Had it remained within the body from which it had been torn by Dauroth and his apprentices barely an hour before, it would have beaten no faster. Elf hearts worked at a rate more sedate than most races’ did, perhaps because they measured years in decades and their lives in centuries.
“From the usurpers, we take back that which was ours.” He held the heart over the open flask and squeezed his hand tight. Rather than merely being crushed to a pulp, the heart became glittering red dust that trickled unerringly into the flask’s mouth. Dauroth held his hand over the mouth until all the dust had fallen inside. “From them is the heart of all Krynn ours again.”
He took up the flask, raising it above his head. The other Titans cupped their hands together once more, hands that began to glow red.
Dauroth downed the flask’s contents. He drank and swallowed until it was all gone.
A startling blue aura blossomed around him. He thrust the empty flask at Hundjal as the aura intensified. A smile spread across his face, a smile of ultimate bliss.
With a gasp, Dauroth slumped back into Safrag’s waiting arms. Those who could see best closely watched as the lead Titan’s face softened. There was a hint of youth in his visage that had been lacking before. When, with Safrag’s aid, the leader stood again, all there could have sworn that Dauroth stood an inch or two taller and was more muscular than before.
Returning to the pedestal, Dauroth sang in a voice stronger and louder. “The dream is the destiny; the destiny is the dream; the dream … the dream is the future.”
“The dream is the future,” the others repeated, their expressions still marveling. Although they had witnessed others among them—and they themselves had drunk the restorative elixir—its magic powers never ceased to astound them.
Standing proud and confident, Dauroth bowed his head to his followers. “I thank you for sharing with me as I share with you. The Titans go on. The Titans will go on.”
The back ranks began to filter out into the darkness until soon there remained only Dauroth and his two apprentices.
“How much remains?” he asked Safrag.
“Not enough for all among us to rejuvenate ourselves another time.”
Dauroth nodded then glanced at Hundjal. “It will be enough for now. Hundjal, we will talk.”
The senior apprentice bowed. “I am yours, my master.”
They strode off into the darkness, leaving Safrag to remove the few objects left. Last he took the ivory box, which Hundjal had casually set on the pedestal before departing with Dauroth.
Safrag eyed the box, studying its interior. Traces of blood still marked the spot. The heart had not been essential to the ceremony; Dauroth had merely used it for drama. Bu
t the drama was important, even Safrag understood.
Safrag imagined Golgren’s heart likewise stored for use. On the night the Titans crushed Golgren’s heart into the elixir, the ceremony would surely be something to remember.
On that night … very soon …
XVIII
F’HANOS
Tarkus had served the grand lord nearly as long as Khleeg, and while he had the utmost respect for Golgren, the ogre captain had to wonder if he had done something that merited punishment. Why else had he and the dozen warriors with him been sent out on such a long-range patrol? Who was in those parts for the grand lord to fear? All his enemies were dead.
The band was three days out of Garantha, and Tarkus hoped to complete his task in time to return just prior to Golgren’s coronation. There would be much feasting and many competitions of strength and skill. There would also be many young females eager to spend their time with a strong warrior such as he.
With those thoughts in mind, Tarkus pushed his small troop well into the night. They grunted and growled at that but not much, for they were as eager as he to be done with their job and return for the celebrations. Still, there came a point when even the hardy ogre horses demanded a rest. Tarkus chose a location near a toothy outcropping and had his warriors set up camp.
The sky was overcast, something rare during the summer season. The last time the sky had been like that, the ogre recalled, was when his lord had ordered the blue ones to deal with the rebellion. As superstitious as any of his kind, Tarkus ordered the others to stay close to the small fire and made certain that guards were posted at all times. The only reason for any ogre to leave the vicinity was if nature demanded it.
And for Tarkus himself, that demand occurred deep into the night. Stirred from sleep after such an arduous ride, the captain sought out privacy on the other side of the outcropping. The location was not far from and barely out of sight of the nearest guard.
However, without even the light of stars to illuminate his way, Tarkus failed to see the sudden drop just around the bend. His left foot only grazed the ground; then he stumbled. The ogre fell and rolled for some distance. He was so startled by his accident that he let out no more than a grunt all the way down.
Fortunately, the slope was harsh but not deadly. Tarkus wound up in a heap just shy of a pair of spindly plants with long, sharp needles covering their many thin branches. The captain lay there for a while, briefly dazed.
But just as his head cleared, a huge shadow rose up before him. For all its size, the thing moved without a sound. Its vague outline suggested it was a mastark, albeit an exceedingly thin one. The creature was barely more than bones.
There was something with it, something walking on two feet and about the size of an ogre. Tarkus recalled no knowledge of another patrol or other armed force in the region but knew that his information was limited. It was very possible that one of the nomadic clans simply happened to be crossing his party’s path.
Whatever the case, it behooved the ogre captain to identify himself and find out who the intruders were. Drawing his sword, Tarkus stepped up to where he could get a better view.
He nearly dropped his weapon. His hands shook, and it amazed him that he did not run away screaming in fear.
The mastark was not barely more than bones; it was only bones. What still connected them with the sinew and such all gone, he could not say. Despite its deficiency, the skeleton moved exactly as a living beast would have.
Yet even more terrifying than that was the figure Tarkus had also glimpsed. It was not an ogre, no, but the bones of one.
No, it was not merely the bones of one ogre, for behind that first ghoulish warrior marched another and another and another.
“Garduuk i solum if’hanosi!” someone in the camp shouted. That call was followed by a shriek that was cut off by the unmistakable sound of the clash of weapons.
Tarkus was shaken from his stupor. He and his warriors faced great danger: f’hanos—the dead that lived. The tales his mother’s mother had told him as a child all came back.
He started for the camp but found his way blocked, suddenly, by a skeleton with a badly battered, twin-edged axe. Instinct made the ogre captain dodge away and deflect the monster’s attack. The axe should have shattered, but instead it flashed silver—surely a sign that it carried magic.
Tarkus kicked at the skeleton and was grateful to find that the force of a strong leg was able to knock the ghoul back. He leaped over his grisly foe, hoping to make it to the horses.
But more undead blocked his path. They moved with a silent determination, surrounding him and swiping relentlessly at the captain, even if all they carried were rocks or what might have been the cracked bones of other creatures. Tarkus swung madly, somehow blocking most, if not all, of the hapless blows.
Yet the f’hanos’ numbers only grew. They pressed on him. Fleshless fingers grasped his arms, his body. Others seized his blade by the edge because the undead didn’t mind cutting themselves.
When at last they tugged his sword free, Tarkus let out a wail. He slammed his fist against the hollow-eyed faces, ignoring the cuts and bleeding that caused him. His frenzied effort enabled the ogre to create a narrow opening in their midst, and through that he blindly plunged.
Stumbling across the landscape, Tarkus sought some means to get away from the monstrous horde, and only then did he realize just who the f’hanos must be. It was the eve of the grand lord’s crowning. They were his slaughtered foes, streaming in the direction of Garantha.
Despite that realization, Tarkus wasn’t thinking much about the capital. All that mattered to him was his own life. The flickering flames of the campfire beckoned him. The horses surely could be not much farther.
In the camp, though, the scene was so terrible that he froze. Body parts from his troops lay scattered all about the vicinity. One warrior lay facedown in the fire, slowly roasting, the stench of his burning flesh filling the captain’s nostrils. Another had been almost flayed before dying, but skeletal nails, not blades, had clearly done the terrible task.
Recovering from his shock, the ogre headed to where the horses were kept. All he needed was one … just one.
But of their many mounts, there was only one left: a single ruined corpse. The rest had evidently made their escape. Tarkus shook his head, trying to will a different reality.
Something struck him in the back of the head. He fell to his knees but managed to rise again. Glancing over his shoulder, Tarkus saw that a score of f’hanos were swarming the campsite.
He started forward, but from the darkness a new line of undead approached. Tarkus spun in a circle, seeing nothing but horror wherever he looked. The ogre reached for his sword then recalled he had lost it. In despair, Tarkus seized the largest object he could find—the cut-off forearm of one of his warriors.
As the f’hanos converged upon him, he let out another wail and swung as hard as he could, caring only that he hit something, anything. He landed a blow that shattered one f’hanos, but his momentary exhilaration faded when the pieces simply reformed immediately into a fresh skeleton. Worse, his gory club began to come apart. The slickness made it almost impossible to retain a hold on what pulpy flesh remained.
The fingers grasped him everywhere. Tarkus saw nothing but shadowed bones.
Then he saw nothing.
The glittering runes leaped off the parchment, dancing before Hundjal’s eyes as he scoured them for anything of importance. One by one, the apprentice dismissed them back to the page, then summoned up fresh ones to read.
As before, he came up empty.
Rolling up the latest parchment, Hundjal sent it flying back to its proper place on the shelves of Dauroth’s personal sanctum. He extended his hand, and a thick black-spined book flew to him. His hopes were not high as he opened the book. Hundjal was not usually one to accept defeat, but he was coming close. The Titan had poured over his master’s previous attempts to circumvent the tomb’s protections without destroying th
e contents and found no fault with them. He would have even chosen several as his own, had not they already been tested and failed.
It had been an honor when the master had chosen him for the task of opening the tomb, but that honor was becoming a burdensome yoke on his shoulders. Those spells Hundjal had thus far created had fared no better against the ancients’ magic than any previously cast by Dauroth. Even in death, the High Ogres proved themselves again the greatest masters of the arts. After his fifth attempt turned out to be as much folly as the prior ones, Dauroth’s apprentice secreted himself in his master’s sanctum—not the library, which had works useful only to lesser Titans, such as Safrag—and pored over every tome, parchment, and artifact that he could lay his hands on.
That Dauroth left him to his task made Hundjal assume that he was being tested. He had to prove himself as he had back when the lead Titan had first approached him with the offer of apprenticeship. Hundjal swore that he would not fail in his task, just as he had not failed his master then … not ever.
His senses sharper than any of his brethren’s, Hundjal noticed Morgada’s unique presence even before she announced herself. The lone female in their ranks fascinated him as much as she fascinated Dauroth. However, Hundjal was very much aware of Dauroth’s intentions concerning a certain experiment in mating, and thus he kept a cautious distance from the Titaness.
“Dear, sweet Hundjal,” she purred. “Such a pleasure to have you here among us again.”
He did not look up from the ancient tome. “Fair Morgada. Forgive my less-than-appropriate discourtesy, for I am hard at work for the master.”
“And if there is anyone who can be trusted to achieve what the master desires, it is surely Hundjal.” She draped her arm over his shoulder as she pretended to peer at the book he was reading. “Has the clue been found to open the way?”
“As with all things the master teaches, the clues ever lie before us. We are but blind to their reading.”
The Black Talon: Ogre Titans, Volume One (Dragonlance: Ogre Titans, Vol. 1) Page 25
