Then Khleeg returned. “Great One,” he rasped, kneeling and respectfully averting his eyes. “There is warrior who begs audience. He claims blood of loyal servant, Nagroch.”
Golgren’s brow arched. “Yes? Very well. Give him permission.”
Idaria herself had started slightly at mention of the name, one that even she recognized. The elf glanced up at her lord, but Golgren only gestured for her to continue with her chore.
The guards stood at wary attention as Khleeg brought the newcomer inside. The warrior was slightly shorter and broader of build than most around him. He was clearly Blödian by birth and his grotesque, toadlike visage bore a striking likeness to not one, but two ogres who had served the grand lord early on.
Both of whom were dead.
The Blödian wore a tarnished breastplate obviously inferior to those supplied to Golgren’s warriors. His helmet was ill fitting. The Blödian carried no weapons, for they had been confiscated. Golgren didn’t pretend to think that all his race adored him.
“Great Grand Lord Golgren,” the ogre croaked in surprisingly good Common after he had sank down on one knee. “I am Wargroch, brother to Nagroch and also Belgroch, who served you well.”
“Their names are known to this one, yes,” replied Golgren smoothly. “And the name of Wargroch was mentioned by them, especially by Nagroch.” He gestured for Idaria to stop. The slave retreated to a kneeling position beside the throne. “And Wargroch is honored by this one in memory of his brothers’ deeds and loyalty.”
The other ogre beamed. “Great Grand Lord Golgren, I would serve as my brothers did. I would serve the true lord of Blöde and Kern, my weapons and life yours in blood oath.”
“Yes? So good a wish cannot be denied, but first, Wargroch must prove himself worthy, as his brothers before him did.”
Wargroch leaped to his feet, causing Khleeg and the guards to tense and shift nervously. Golgren waved them still.
“Hasag i iWargrochi un f’han!” Wargroch growled, pounding on his breastplate with his heavy fist. “I swear I will do whatever you wish, even to my death, if it must be!”
Golgren nodded his appreciation of the fighter’s ardor. “But such a waste that would be, to die so. Your chance, it will come. Khleeg, Wargroch is yours until his loyalty can be tested.”
“Ke,” replied the officer sharply, his eyes narrowed suspiciously on Wargroch. “Yes, Great One.”
Wargroch bowed with eagerness. “My axe will reap many heads! My sword will cut out many hearts!”
The grand lord granted Nagroch’s younger brother a benevolent smile as the latter was led out of the room. As Khleeg and his charge vanished through the entrance, Idaria brought a goblet of wine for her master. Golgren did not hesitate to sip from it, aware that from that elf he needed fear no poison.
Suddenly, however, the grand lord stiffened; only Idaria noticed. Handing her the goblet, Golgren rose and, without a word, strode toward the entrance. Encumbered by her chains, Idaria scurried to keep up. The guards stood at attention as both of them passed through the portal.
Like the chamber from which he had just departed, the hall through which Golgren strode was a sad reminder of past glories. There were cracks in all the walls and also in the fluted columns. Many of the cracks had been sealed over, but several were in need of fresh attention. Zharang had grown lax in his duty to upgrade the palace in keeping with his position, perhaps because he had sensed it would not be his responsibility much longer.
Golgren had his own plans for the palace’s improvement, but at the moment such mundane matters were far from his thoughts. His pace increased as he neared what had been his predecessor’s private sanctum. Once disposing of Zharang, Golgren had wasted no time in ordering all that had belonged to the grand khan removed—including the spoils given to the khan by those commanders who had served him best—and his own possessions installed.
Tattered tapestries hung along the walls, many of them scavenged from other races, especially the admired craft-work of the elves. None of the tapestries displayed ogre figures. Instead, the grand khans had chosen depictions that were more enduring: castles atop mountains, great creatures, such as dragons or griffons, even images of the coats-of-arms of human knights. Swords, shields, banners were exhibited too.
One tapestry caught Idaria’s attention as she hurried to keep up with Golgren. Once it had been a beautiful landscape of high green trees and mythic dancing beasts. A vast oak stood in the center and in a hollow in its trunk glowed a bright star.
The tapestry was one of the more recent prizes, she knew, taken in the fall of elven Silvanost. It had been taken, by sheer coincidence, from the house of Idaria’s family. Even Golgren did not know that fact, nor did he know how it marked her lineage—Oakborn. It was said that her first ancestor had been born in the hollow of such a tree and, thus, her family name. Since the Age of Dreams, the Oakborn had stood at the forefront of the elf culture, often as architects or as counselors to its leaders.
But no more.
Her expression set as if in stone, the slave moved on. Golgren had the faster stride, but her kind were swift of foot, even shackled. She caught up with him just as he reached the guarded doorway. The ogre giants on duty crisply saluted the grand lord as if he towered over them, not the other way around.
“Azaln!” Golgren snapped, momentarily slipping back into his native tongue. “Leave!”
The guards did not query or hesitate, rushing off as if a swarm of meredrakes were snapping at their heels. The dictates of the grand lord were not to be questioned.
Golgren entered without further ado, Idaria slipping in next and shutting the door after herself. Inside, shadows of the lost day filled the chamber. Some cast odd and disconcerting silhouettes.
Idaria went to light an oil lamp, but Golgren barked, “No!”
The elf quickly drew her hands close to her side and bowed her head as she waited for his next command.
However, Golgren said nothing else directly, at least not to her. Instead, the grand lord peered intently at the shadows, choosing the deepest of them upon which to focus. “Face me.” He commanded with a strong hint of annoyance. “Face me.”
Idaria kept still, watching carefully. Some of the shadows came together, coalescing into a figure not quite as tall as Golgren, but far broader in its shoulders. The shape further defined, becoming a hooded figure with a thick mane that gave him a considerable leonine aspect. That was all that either Golgren or even Idaria, whose eyesight was far sharper in the darkness than her master’s, could make out of the newcomer.
In a voice that rumbled like a bull’s, the shadowed figure said almost casually, “As you wish, oh Grand Lord.”
One hand emerged from the figure’s voluminous sleeve. As it turned palm down, a staff sprouted whose bottom tip just touched the floor. The top of the staff rose as far as the mysterious visitor’s chest, at which point a five-sided crystal the size of a fist abruptly flared into a silvery illumination.
In the macabre glow of the crystal, the stranger was better revealed. Human his countenance was, though his resemblance to a lion was even more evident. His hair was golden brown and thick, and his nose and jaw were broad. To any onlooker, he appeared more akin to a fighter than the mage he certainly was.
Yet his robes and cloak were not obviously a mage’s, for they were not white, red, or black, no color of any of the known orders. Rather they were colored a deep, rich brown.
“Play no games with this one, Tyranos,” murmured Golgren in an equally diffident tone. “Play no games.”
“But all aspects of existence are part of one grand game, Grand Lord, and our part in that game could be considered quite amusing, wouldn’t you say?”
The grand lord put his lone hand to his chest, clutching the larger object hidden beneath his garments. His grin was unnervingly humorless. “Oh, yes … very amusing.”
Tyranos’s expression tightened. He suddenly strode past Golgren, peering at the other shadows but not a
t all seeming to notice Idaria. The elf remained perfectly still, yet there was a hint in her eyes that she trusted the strange mage even less than the ogre who had tyrannized and enslaved her kind.
“A very theatrical performance earlier,” the mage commented dryly. “You were born to the stage. A born actor. A shame that in most plays you would only be cast as a monster.”
“Or conqueror,” returned Golgren, surprisingly not offended. He turned not to Tyranos, but rather his slave. He reached out to Idaria, who stretched her chained hands to his one and allowed him to guide her to his side in what almost appeared to be a protective gesture. “A glimpse there was of you in the chamber, caster of spells. Your own act of theater, which must mean there is news that needs to be passed on to me, yes?”
Tyranos abruptly glanced over his shoulder, teeth bared. “News, yes. The empire has managed to send a second legion to Ambeon this week. Your own spies will not know of this until at least a few days more.” The mage tapped the floor once with his staff. “That makes seven legions now, if you’ve bothered counting.”
That news was indeed important. After his ascension to the imperial throne, the former slave Faros had been forced to remove all but three legions from the mainland colony—formerly the location of Silvanost—to quell disorder among the eastern islands. Even after the death of the infamous Lady Nephera—widow of an emperor she had likely used her dark arts to murder, the mother of another who had been more beast than ruler—remnants of her once-powerful sect, the Forerunners, had tried to reorganize. There were even said to be a few Protectors left, those fanatical Forerunners willing to surrender their lives to wreak whatever carnage they could against the ones responsible for their mistress’s demise.
But from what Tyranos had just said, Golgren knew that problem was contained for the moment. Faros had shifted his attention to the mainland. The grand lord grinned wider as he said admiringly, “He is very capable, the emperor of the Uruv Suurt.”
“Very handy, indeed,” said Tyranos, emphasizing the “hand” as a taunting joke.
Idaria uttered a barely audible gasp, but Golgren merely cocked his head noncommittally in reaction to the robed figure’s cutting remark, responding, “Good one. ‘Handy.’ Very, yes.”
“And the Solamnics, they are growing more bold on your borders too.”
“Yes, so close entwined are the efforts of the humans and the Uruv Suurt. Fascinating, do you not think?”
Tyranos briefly eyed the grand lord as if he were mad. “So you still will persist in your plans?”
The grand lord nodded firmly. “And dear Tyranos will assist my plans because it is what he must do.”
That brought a dark chuckle from the spellcaster. He tapped the staff on the floor again, and abruptly both the stick and the crystal atop shriveled into his palm. As the silver light faded out, its last glimmers revealed a smile equally as broad and deadly as that worn by Golgren. “Oh, there’s no fear there, oh Grand Lord! There’s no fear there.”
And with that, the hooded form once more slunk into the shadows, gradually disappearing among them.
“The lamp!” commanded Golgren.
Idaria quickly scurried to the thick, round lamp, using a nearby tinderbox to light the wick. The rising flame illuminated the silhouette of a human knight on horseback etched into the brass. As with nearly all else the ogres owned, even that was the result of plunder, not skilled crafting on their part.
The shadows melted away into the farther corners. Though Golgren stared, he did not expect to see any further sign of his ally, if Tyranos could be called such. They had mutual goals; that was all. As with the late Hotak and his sinister bride—Nephera—their agreement would last only as long as those goals were mutually beneficial. There were, naturally, times when Golgren was tempted to dispense with the arrogant human, but magic was a weapon lacking in his personal arsenal. He had to be wary of the Titans, always chafing at having him, a vermin in their eyes, in control of them and leader of the race. If not for Dauroth, Golgren well recognized, the Titans would act upon their hatred of the grand lord.
Still, there would come a day when no advantage would be worth the mage’s insults and presumed superiority.
Golgren clutched his chest again, seeking not the larger object hanging there, but the smaller. It felt warm and alive next to his skin, not like the shriveled appendage that hung next to it, the mummified right hand he had lost to Faros.
Yes, there would come a day—soon enough, he vowed—when he would no longer need anyone else’s magic …
Not even where Dauroth was concerned.
There will come a day, the leader of the Titans swore to himself. There will come a day…
And that day would soon be dawning, the day when the ogre race would once more take its preeminence among the peoples of Krynn. No longer would the ogres be derided as degenerate shadows of their once-glorious ancestors. Ogres would be revered and feared, as was their birthright.
On that day, Dauroth, too, would be revered and feared by all. It would be his reward for all his hard work, his long diligence, his unrelenting faith.
Dauroth sat with legs folded in his private meditation chamber. Before him floated a pure, golden teardrop in which his own hallowed reflection peered back at him. Had one of the other Titans dared at that moment to enter, Dauroth would not even have noticed him, so focused was he on the hovering artifact.
Of course, had anyone been foolish enough to intrude upon him when he was away from the mortal world, they would have died quickly and horribly. Dauroth never left himself unguarded.
His chest rose slightly then stilled again. In his current state, Dauroth breathed but once every quarter hour. It was yet another sign of his advanced state that he could perform so miraculous a feat while retaining consciousness. Even Hundjal, who had been with him longest, had to breathe at least eight times every hour—and that, with luck and effort.
Learning to slow his breathing was part of why Dauroth spent so much time in his private meditation chamber. More important, there the lead Titan communed with his memories, drawing upon them to reexperience the glorious visions that kept his hopes alive and encouraged him to greater efforts.
It had all begun with the first vision, or dream—whatever it had truly been—the first time the ancient ogre spirit had visited him. Dauroth had been a weary mage in a world with little magic still remaining, back then. That was during the time of the single moon, when sorcerers were ascendant.
He had been wandering, seeking clues to the past secrets of his people, hoping to find some way to restore magic and his race’s glory. Ogres had once been so powerful, so commanding. Dauroth yearned for that age, wishing that he could have lived as one of the legendary spellcasters back in the time when ogres ruled Ansalon.
And one day, that wish of his had been answered. It had come about while he was scouring a historic site of the High Ogres deep in the wilderness. The ancient structure, long ago half buried by an avalanche, was little more than a shell. Dauroth’s search for relics was coming up empty and, in a fit of frustration, the normally stoic mage had let out a cry of absolute fury while banging his fist against a crumbling wall.
“Dauroth … ” a voice had called to him then, a voice that sang sweeter than a songbird. “Dauroth … there is no need for your despair and rage. Your pleas have reached us.”
Spinning around, Dauroth had beheld a magnificent image, the wondrous spirit of a handsome, perfect figure with blue skin and shimmering robes—a Titan. The ogre had no doubt as to the nature of his vision. He knelt before the robed form.
“Dauroth … ” the Titan said in a voice at once female and male. “We have waited your coming. We have waited for the one who shall restore to this world our rightful glory.”
He could scarcely believe it. “I?”
“There can be no other. We have watched long. You are worthy. In you lies our greatest hope.”
“But … what can I do? I am but one being of limited ski
lls in magic—”
The spirit glowed brighter. A complicit smile graced its lips. “That will change, Dauroth. You will inherit all the knowledge you need, all the power you need. We will teach you everything we know … everything you must know.”
As grateful as the ogre mage was, he wondered in his mind if he was truly worthy. How long would his education in magic take? The great knowledge of the High Ogres surely took decades of study and learning, possibly more years than he had left in life.
But as if reading his thoughts, the robed shade said reassuringly, “Fear not, dear Dauroth … the gifts we give to you will not take so long to collect and understand.”
Then the shade pointed a long, tapering finger ending in a black talon at him.
Dauroth let out a gasp as his head filled with incredible visions. The visions flashed one after another through his mind, sinking deep into his consciousness. Each lasted scarcely a second, yet the aggregate left a profound impact upon Dauroth. With each vision, his view of the world, of his place in the scheme of things, grew. He saw and understood, faster than he would have deemed possible, what needed to be done to achieve the resurrection of the ogre race. In a quick blur of time, he learned all the powerful spells that would need to be cast.
And most important of all, he saw how he himself could become as perfect as his ancestors had been. He saw how he could become the first of a new age of Ogre Titans.
The moment the visions dimmed and retreated, Dauroth cried out from gratitude. Tears flowed down his cheeks. He questioned nothing that the spirit had granted him, for never in a hundred lifetimes could he have learned all that he knew. The ogre knew the spells, the history … he knew it all.
“You are the beginning,” the shade proclaimed, slowly dissipating. “You shall be the end. You shall bring to Krynn the Golden Age again, and all will sing your name.”
The Black Talon Page 7
