Blöten, capital of Blöde, once one of the primary cities of the venerated High Ogres, was nestled high in the mountains of the north. Thousands of years earlier, its tall towers—some, according to legend, made completely of white crystal—and vast, extravagant manors were known the world over. Everyone came to Blöten; the riches of Ansalon flowed to it as if compelled. The marketplaces held exotic items from across the oceans—including rare essences taking years to distill and animals found in captivity nowhere else. It was said that if one could not find something in Blöten, it was because it did not exist. The capital of Blöde compared favorably with greatest High Ogre cities in Kern.
Like Kern, the ogres of the second kingdom fell into decadence then savageness. Abandoned by all but a few of the barbaric descendants of its original inhabitants, Blöten became a mockery of its once-mighty self. As the ages progressed and violence and natural disaster took its toll, the outer walls crumbled and many of the unique, wondrous towers collapsed. The glistening, polished cobblestone streets sank as tremors cracked open the earth, swallowing entire sections of the city. The sprawling dwellings left behind became broken shells, stripped of value and used by the ferocious heirs of the godlike race as homes for entire clans of bloodthirsty warriors. Blöten became a shadow, a ghost of glory lost because of the arrogance of its founders.
Of all the cities of the ogres, even Kernen to the northeast, Blöten had done its best to resurrect that magnificent past. What few towers remained had been repaired as best as possible or were in the midst of reconstruction. There were traces of the supposed crystal structures, and whenever bits of such marvels were found, they were skillfully incorporated into the new buildings, causing the towers of the revived Blöten to glitter in the sunlight.
Once the cherished symbol of the capital had been the brown mountain hawk, a fierce, red-crested raptor with a wingspan more than twelve feet. Most of the images of the avian had been lost to time, but now a giant marble behemoth stood watch over each of the four towering wooden entrance gates, wings outstretched as if Blöten’s fabled protectors were about to launch against its enemies. The four were but a recent addition, commissioned not by the great Donnag but by the true master of the kingdom.
In and around the towers, the remaining quarters of the capital had also been cleaned, polished, and touched up. The curved walls rose high again, the replaced stone covered in brown plaster. Here and there, slaves with a talent for carving restored or chiseled fresh images of tall, beautiful figures who seemed to descend from the very heavens. They were, in their way, as beautiful as the High Ogres, but taller, more imposing, and with a powerful cast to their expressions, they seemed almost threatening.
Golgren, who entered the city at the head of his army, only sniffed in disdain as his eyes swept past these images. Those who had ordered them to be made lived in a delusion they were allowed to keep only at his sufferance. The great column of warriors and beasts that passed through the arched gateway were but a fraction of those at his command, yet they made for a spectacle. The armored warriors, the helmeted mastarks, and the ever-hissing meredrakes impressed the many onlookers. Never in the history of the ogres had such power been accumulated by one figure, not even by the khans or chieftains.
The guards on the walls hailed him. The people flocked to demonstrate their approval. Clubs beat the battered street in unison, creating a thundering effect. Other onlookers barked, the harsh sounds honoring the Grand Lord’s might. A few southern amolaks—the shorter necks and yellow brown bodies of the lupine horses marking them as distinct from their taller, longer cousins in Kern—joined in the cries. Many of the well wishers were clad only in kilts, but some wore garments akin to Golgren’s. These bowed and acted in a more civilized manner. Several had filed their tusks in the fashion of the Grand Lord. His chosen were among this group, those who watched over his domain in his absence. In Blöten, there was much reason for vigilance.
The crystalline fragments in the high towers glittered brilliantly, Golgren noticed with satisfaction. He had timed his coming for this hour, aware that the sunlight would be at its brightest. To the crowds, the Grand Lord took on an almost celestial appearance, the glow surrounding him enhancing his prestige.
The wind picked up. The smell of so many filthy bodies would have caused anyone other than an ogre—or gully dwarf—to pinch his nostrils tight. Golgren strapped the reins to his saddle, then reached into a saddle bag and took out a small vial, which he held to his nose. The heady scent momentarily drowned out the stench of his people. With the bottle once more secreted, he seized his mount and steered it toward his destination.
Another smaller procession shifted to one side, as the Grand Lord passed on his way through the city. Clad in grey cloth robes, four massive ogres were carrying a wood and goatskin litter, upon which lay the body of a prize amalok. The beast’s throat had been cut and around its bound corpse lay small, round clay jars filled with its drained blood. The lids of the dusky brown containers had been sealed with wax to keep the contents from escaping. Behind the litter, five other ogres, also in grey, stood with their heads bowed. The lead figure, his hair tied in a tail, was a local authority favored by Golgren. Those behind him were members of his clan and also ogres of some high caste. The leader and one other had filed their tusks down. Each of the five carried a small, leather sack in which something squirmed.
Golgren glanced beyond the procession, beyond the walls of Blöten itself, where the high, jagged mountains stood as sentinels around the capital. Their snow-covered caps and the harsh outcroppings on many peaks made them resemble giant, helmed warriors, to superstitious ogres.
The other procession was heading into the ominous terrain to honor those warriors and ask their blessings. The amalok was a prize animal that had been sacrificed. Part of the ritual was making the journey barefoot while carrying such a precious sacrifice. The smaller sacks contained adolescent baraki, the fighting lizards so prized by the upper castes. Another sacrifice, and this one would be made fresh on the spot, so that the spirits would be most pleased. The baraki would die by knife as the amalok corpse burned on one of the rock cairns dotting the mountainsides.
It was not poor timing that caused the procession to cross Golgren’s path. By embarking on this arduous trek at this time, the other ogre did his duty in honor of the Grand Lord. The sacrifices would be offered for the continuing glory of Golgren.
As the master of Kern and Blöde passed, the Grand Lord reached into a pouch. From it, he drew a piece of broken tusk, which Golgren tossed to the feet of his follower. The other ogre dipped down and seized the offering. His head remained bowed at all times, but he clutched the bit of tusk with clear avarice.
The piece of tusk had been taken from a rival of Golgren’s long dead. The power of that dead rival was now the Grand Lord’s, and by giving a portion of the dead one to his follower, Golgren had granted the other a small fraction of a glorious death.
The other procession already forgotten, Golgren looked ahead once more. A structure more imposing than the great towers loomed in front of him. It was said that the palace of Donnag marked the birthplace of the High Ogres. It was twenty times the size of other palaces. The massive square structure appeared part fortress, part temple, with battlements and wide bronze gates. The main tower rose above all other rooftops. The palace looked almost new, but that was because it had recently been repainted and touched up, and now its color was a pristine ivory white. From the high windows hung lavish tapestries depicting tall, blue-skinned figures.
Donnag had begun working on his palace almost immediately after seizing the city some years past. The palace, indeed all of Blöten, was intended as a monument to Donnag’s greatness. Now, even though Donnag still nominally ruled, the palace and other official buildings would serve Golgren. Already he had ordered replacement tapestries—large, intricately-sewn pieces glorifying him, not the remote past.
“Ky i grul,” he commanded.
One of his subordinat
es raised a goat horn and blew a series of notes. The crowds grew silent. The vast army ground to a halt. Only the Grand Lord and Nagroch, who looked unusually dour, continued riding on.
Tall, massive warriors with breastplates and spiked helms stood guard at the palace. The guards were slimmer, more wary of eye, than most of their ilk. Their armor was polished, their weapons new and sharp. They came to attention with a crispness worthy of Solamnics. As Golgren dismounted, the ranks raised their weapons in salute.
“Juy i foroon i’Donnagi kyrst, ke?” muttered Nagroch.
“Fyan,” his leader returned indifferently.
At the palace doors—new, high, bronze doors that featured identical tall figures in mirrored poses of godliness—a pair of guards holding the chains of two slavering meredrakes watched respectfully as the newcomers approached. Nagroch, in turn, watched everyone distrustfully, his hand never straying from his weapon. In contrast, Golgren walked blithely along with the confidence of one certain of his safety even in the house of an enemy.
They were met by an ogre who, like Golgren, had filed down his tusks to mere nubs. Although he stood as tall as most others of their race, his figure was far slimmer. His mane was nearly as groomed as the Grand Lord’s, and he looked more like an inhabitant of Kern than Blöde.
“Herak i Jeroch uth Kyr i’Golgreni,” the servant uttered, bowing his head as he spoke. He launched into a litany of the Grand Lord’s titles, but Golgren dismissed the formality with an indifferent wave of his hand. The servant nodded, then gestured straight ahead, to the audience chamber used by Chieftain Donnag. “Koloth i Donnarin ut.”
Foregoing a reply, the Grand Lord gazed at the walls of the palace. Unlike so much else, they were conspicuously devoid of ornamentation, although there were marks that hinted of removed decoration. The floor and ceiling both had lines of silver trim.
“Ko jya,” Golgren finally rsaid. He pointed at a narrow corridor leading to the right past the audience chamber. “Mera i Daurorin ut.”
The servant frowned, saying nothing.
Golgren stared hard at the servant, who was much bigger and stronger-looking than the Grand Lord.
The servant looked away first. Bowing his head again, he muttered, “Mera i Daurorin ut … ke.”
With clear reluctance, the servant guided them down the side corridor. In contrast to the rest of the palace, the path was not well lit and grew darker with each step. The torches appeared to have trouble sustaining any worthwhile flame, almost as though they struggled for air. Nagroch’s hand rested on his weapon, but Golgren continued to stroll without the slightest apparent concern. The servant, meanwhile, grew more and more agitated and kept glancing over his shoulder at the Grand Lord.
At last, in the gloom, they came upon a small, bronze door. Before this door stood a brutish guard whose helm covered all but his eyes and mouth. He was twice as wide as most ogres and almost a head taller. Even in the dim light, the protruding veins in his arms and throat were impressive, and his eyes held a malevolent light.
“Haja,” began the servant. “Haja i’Golgreni ot mera i Daurorin ut.”
The monstrous sentinel remained impassive, save for a slight narrowing of his unsettling orbs.
“Haja!” repeated the servant, with more insistence. “Haja i’Golgreni ot mera i Daurorin ut! Haja!”
Nagroch let out a low growl and started to draw his weapon. However, just then, Golgren stepped past their guide, gazing solemnly up at the guard. The bestial figure’s breathing grew rapid, and at last he shifted aside. Recovering quickly, the servant stepped beyond the Grand Lord and touched a finger to the center of the door.
Of its own accord, the door swung open. Their anxious guide moved to one side, indicating the two should enter without him. Nagroch snorted at the other’s faint heart as he followed his master. They had no sooner stepped inside when a voice from the darkness murmured something in a language like pure music. Behind the pair, the door shut. A shadow glided ahead of them, vaguely hinting of tremendous height and perfect grace.
Something near Nagroch’s leg hissed. A reptilian form poised on its thin hind legs then snapped at the ogre. Nagroch snarled and kicked at the baraki. The fighting lizard jabbed at him once with its claws then receded into the dark, still spitting.
Again the shadow figure spoke, this time directly to Golgren.
“Jya uf heref,” returned the Grand Lord.
In reply, his unseen host answered with more in the same, lyrical tongue, yet despite its beauty, somehow the words and tone also conveyed menace.
“You speak the tongue of the ancients no more than I.” Golgren snorted. “If you wish this game to play, we will speak in Common then. Choose.”
The other spoke a single word. The chamber grew just bright enough to reveal another ogre, but one not at all like Golgren or Nagroch … or most others of their kind, for that matter. This ogre rose high over them, nearly fifteen feet in height. His skin was a brilliant blue, like an azure gem. If Golgren’s features hinted at possible elven blood, one could easily have mistaken the other figure for a giant of that race, so handsome was his face. Yet no elf was so perfectly and broadly muscled, none had eyes of pure gold that seemed to glitter from some tremendous force lurking within. Even more telling, there was no delicacy in this face, but rather a smouldering darkness. The smile that greeted the newcomers was tightlipped, secretive. His garments were richer than any they had seen thus far in Blöde—long, flowing, silken—and enhanced the idea of a being more akin to the gods than ogres.
There was no mistaking that this ogre was one of those depicted on the tapestries outside. The tall blue figure radiated a powerful presence that would have overwhelmed most ogres … but not the Grand Lord Golgren or his most trusted officer.
“If that is your desire,” the giant acquiesced, even his Common sounding elegant. With long, tapering fingers that ended jarringly in black talons at the tips, the blue one gestured to the door behind the Grand Lord. “We can speak more comfortably in the audience chamber—”
He received a knowing smile from Golgren. “With Donnag, I have no need for speaking. Donnag understands. Donnag knows his place and hopes. It is the other Titans I question. Do they know the lesson of Donnag, who smiles with me, slaps the back, and drinks as blood brother—who in silence curses this one, but still obeys?”
In a telling moment, the Titan’s lips parted. Instead of the perfection the rest of his face displayed, he showed two savage rows of teeth better suited for a shark.
“We … understand things very well, Grand Lord. The hand of the witch and your own maneuvering force us to understand. There will be no betrayal.”
“Even this from Dauroth?”
The Titan looked uneasy. “He is not here now. I would prefer not to answer for him, even in this—”
As he spoke, a mournful groan escaped from the shadows behind him. The blue figure gestured. His hand briefly flared orange. The groan immediately subsided.
“Many elves there are in Ambeon,” Golgren remarked, purposely using the minotaur name to add to the value of his point. “Few and fewer in Blöde, yes? Dauroth searches even now, but fruitlessly.” He studied the subtle shifts in the Titan’s expression. “Oh, yes … all is known. Dauroth comes empty-handed. Where once could be found many healthy, hardy elves, even one is harder and harder to find now.”
The Titan said nothing, though he bared his teeth. His hands trembled slightly, a sign of his pent-up rage.
“Not only elves, but certain plants, herbs … items. Very hard to gather all that is needed … especially in time …”
Clearly straining to keep control over himself, the giant reluctantly went down on one knee. “He only sought our survival! We will not strive against you, Guyvir.”
He had said the wrong thing. Golgren’s eyes almost burned. He eyed the kneeling figure with such vehemence that even the Titan edged back in fear. “There is no Guyvir!”
The Grand Lord snapped his fingers and pointed
in the direction of the moan. With sudden animation, Nagroch eagerly seized a dagger from his belt. He vanished into the dark, and a voice clearly elven began babbling fearfully. The Titan immediately started to rise, but Golgren’s furious gaze lowered him back to his knees.
“This was Dauroth’s doing, not mine! I have been obedient!”
“This is not for Dauroth’s folly,” the Grand Lord stated blandly. “This is to remind. I am Golgren … Golgren …”
In the shadows, there was a brief gasp and the mournful elven voice was cut off. Seconds later, the brutish Nagroch reappeared. He wiped blood off his blade with a piece of soiled, green cloth of elven make. With an evil grin at the Grand Lord, he thrust the dagger back into his belt.
“The elixir was not finished!” the kneeling figure whined, almost rising.
Golgren’s gaze, however, kept him at bay.
“Something to remember.”
“Where will I find another?”
Golgren smiled, showing his own predatory teeth. “Ask Dauroth.”
“But—”
“No more warning. All will obey or all will suffer.”
The Titan’s head slumped forward in defeat. He said nothing.
His smile still in place, the Grand Lord walked serenely out of the chamber. The massive guard crouched low against the corridor wall as Golgren passed. Beyond the brutish sentinel, the servant waited expectantly.
“Kyi ut i’Donnagi?”
Golgren ignored him. There would be no need to see Donnag. To ensure his own survival, the Lord Chieftain would see to it that none of the Titans attempted any trickery while Golgren was away. As for Dauroth, the lesson the Grand Lord had taught his underling would remind the Titans’ leader sufficiently of his proper place. There could be only one power among the ogres, and that was Golgren.
“Nya i f’han i’Titani,” muttered Nagroch with narrowed eyes as they descended the palace steps outside. He patted the dagger at his waist.
Empire of Blood Page 15
