Sudden movement in the far corner of the cabin startled Maritia. An elven slave, her hair bound like the minotaur’s, knelt with her head low. The creature was so ephemeral and blended so much into the background that Maritia couldn’t see her clearly.
“Please to sit,” Golgren offered.
The female minotaur found a place among the cushions near the setting. Maritia removed her sword, laying it within reach. As an afterthought, the minotaur also removed her dagger.
Golgren’s eyes admired the latter. “A most exquisite blade. Ivory hilt, fine steel. Legion, yes?”
“A gift from my father when I joined. I treasure it.”
“Of course.”
Nagroch tried to assist his master, but the Grand Lord shook him off and deftly seated himself. He didn’t seem discomfited in the slightest to maneuver with one hand. The bodyguards and Nagroch took positions close to their respective leaders. Maritia caught Golgren’s second scowling at her companions, but when he noticed her watching, his expression quickly became neutral.
“Please to have some wine.” The ogre leader snapped his fingers, and the elf scurried forward, gracefully reaching for her master’s goblet.
Golgren’s seeming good humor vanished in an instant. The Grand Lord slapped at the elf with the back of his hand and snarled a reprimand. Maritia understood enough of his language to know that if the slave made another mistake, it would be her last.
He pointed angrily at Hotak’s daughter. “Guest first!”
The elf slipped over to Maritia and poured her some wine. However, as the minotaur reached for it, the slave raised the goblet to her lips and carefully sipped, testing the liquid.
Once the elf had swallowed, it was another few seconds before she handed the drink to Maritia. As the latter took the wine, the slave went back to Golgren and repeated the action.
He accepted the goblet but held it away from him, swirling it thoughtfully. With a smile, he said, “Care must be taken, yes?”
Poison was not unfamiliar in minotaur circles, and Golgren certainly had many enemies who would like to see him dead. Waiting, Maritia didn’t drink until the Grand Lord himself finally did so.
“Most excellent, is it not?”
Indeed, she thought to herself, it was delicious. “Elven?”
“Yes. Will be a rare pleasure as years pass.”
She was never certain exactly how good Golgren’s grasp of Common was. At times he could wax most eloquently, but at other times his speech was very murky.
Lowering her wine, Maritia began, “My lord—”
“Please! Call me Golgren … this is insisted.”
“Very well. Golgren, I want to make matters clear about our mission. I know that this is not one we both—”
Handing his goblet to the elf slave, he waved for her to be silent. “Let us eat first, enjoy, then speak of this difficult matter.”
He snapped his fingers. When nothing happened, he bared his teeth in annoyance and looked up at Nagroch. A quick word sent the heavy ogre marching out of the cabin.
Maritia’s eyes must have lingered too long on the other ogre, for when she glanced back at her host, the Grand Lord immediately said, “Must forgive poor Nagroch! Brother Belgroch killed not long ago.”
“Belgroch dead?” She recalled the other ogre, a younger version of Golgren’s underling. Belgroch had briefly commanded the ogre contingent during the last days of Ambeon’s liberation.
“Yes. Neraka we entered, you know. Some of the dark ones, they still fight now and then. Not bad fighters, at times.”
He said it in an off-handed manner, as if speaking of the clouds. Small wonder, though, that Nagroch was so distracted. The two brothers had been close, Maritia knew from her spies.
“So you have been exploring Neraka?” the legion commander suddenly asked. “I was not aware of this. Nor did I know the knights were active in the east. I’ve been told they were busy regrouping further west.”
“A mere scouting party. Probing weaknesses.”
Maritia frowned. More intelligence her people had missed.
They were interrupted by Nagroch’s return. Behind him came four more elven slaves, each bearing a tray with food.
Maritia’s nostrils welcomed a heavenly aroma. The goat meat on two trays carried an unusual scent. The meat had been broiled well. The two slaves carrying the meat passed both by Golgren, who sniffed each and nodded. He pointed at the tray with the slightly larger portion, and one elf brought that over to Maritia.
The remaining trays each held fruit and a red soup with a heady texture. Both again passed under the Grand Lord’s attentive gaze, then one was handed to him and the other given to her.
She had hardly expected such a feast aboard an ogre ship. Golgren chuckled at her clear surprise. “Elves. They are masters of food.”
“I wouldn’t have thought they’d know how to prepare goat so well. They were never known for eating meat much.”
He gestured at the slaves. “With everything, it is the teaching. They learn.”
Before Maritia could sample her meal, Golgren had two of the slaves repeat the ritual of tasting. He then bade them sit in the corner, where one of his bodyguards kept wary watch over them. When at last it was apparently safe to eat, Golgren signaled her to choose first. Without preamble, Maritia ate some of the goat, discovering it to be even more delicious than it smelled, yet as she dined, she found herself stealing glances at Nagroch. He seemed to be brooding, eyeing the minotaurs.
She had dealt with Nagroch many times before and while both had a healthy distrust for one another, he had never shown such animosity in the past. She kept on guard through the dinner.
His personal slave aided the Grand Lord as he dined, handing him food and even feeding him like a babe at times. Golgren spoke grandly of their alliance and its successes thus far.
“Great is the word I hear in Ambeon! Fortresses beyond old Silvanesti! Many Uruv Suurt building new realm, yes?”
“We’ve made many advances. I’ve been told that the ogres thrive, too. Is that not so?”
“All very good!” he responded much too cheerfully, hoisting his wine glass. “To the glory of our ancestors we will someday make!”
Golgren paused to adjust the chain hanging from his neck. Maritia had seen him shift it more than once. Each time, a large object lying across his chest shifted along with it.
Trying to puzzle out what it was, Maritia asked, “Is there anything you need in terms of supplies?”
“So gracious! This will be considered, but likely nothing. My gratitude.”
The meal was excellent. The minotaur had to admit that she had not eaten such splendid fare in many years, which made Golgren beam. He leaned toward her in a manner she found slightly discomforting and poured her some wine with his lone hand.
The trays were cleared away. With another snap, Golgren dismissed all the slaves, including his personal one, the beleaguered female elf. He then startled Maritia by whispering, “It would be best, yes, if we talked without any others around.”
“Are you suggesting that our bodyguards leave, too?”
His smile had vanished. “Would be wise.”
Maritia considered this and finally nodded. She turned to her top-ranking soldier. “Wait outside the cabin.”
“My lady, this is not proper—”
“You heard me. Both of you. Outside.”
Golgren interrupted. “With permission. They will trust more if mine leave first.” He pointed to the door. “All! Go!”
Nagroch seemed as reluctant as her guards, but he obeyed. The other ogres filed out. The two legionaries reluctantly followed suit.
After they had all departed, Maritia looked at the Grand Lord and commented, “Don’t worry, I can kill you without their help.”
Her host chuckled mirthlessly. “Would be a very good fight, though. An interesting fight, Maritia. Most interesting.”
It was the first time he had used her name and the intimacy did not ap
peal to her. “Let’s get on with this then. We have to coordinate our plans perfectly. This rebel has caused the deaths of too many of our people—ogres and minotaurs. I want his head.”
“This I understand well.”
“I don’t think you do. I mean I, personally, want him, Golgren. I want to see his body stretched out, his gut opened, and his horns cut off. Is that clear?”
He grinned wide. It was not a pleasant sight. “So very ogre, Maritia! So very ogre …”
“He killed my brother, Bastion! I demand my vengeance! In that respect, our people are alike!”
“Agreed. I, too, would this Faros want.” The Grand Lord held up his stump, flourishing his deformity.
“Yes, you lost your hand,” conceded Maritia, “but I lost—”
Golgren cut her off. “To Uruv Suurt, a hand is important, yes?”
Visions of the colonizers filled her mind. Most were minotaurs who had been maimed and deemed incomplete as warriors. Losing a hand was terrible enough to lower a minotaur’s status, too.
“It is, yes.”
“To ogres, this is death.” He unwrapped the limb, revealing to her the cauterized wound. “Ever death.”
“But you survived—”
Again the mirthless grin. “I am Golgren.”
Leaving the maimed arm uncovered, the Grand Lord reached up and tugged on the chain around his neck. The object on his chest rose with it.
“I survive, Maritia. I survive, but also I remember. Have this ever at my heart to remind.”
Out from his the neck of his robe came a chain bearing a grisly sight that almost made the minotaur drop her wine—a hand. A mummified hand.
Golgren’s hand.
Someone had painstakingly dried and embalmed the hand. The nails were even perfectly filed and cleaned with no sign of blood.
“Remember it every sleep, every hour. I survive, yes, Maritia, but always this is at my heart. Keep it there to remind all others, too, that Golgren is more than a hand.” He let the chain drop, allowing the lost appendage to bounce against his garments. His good hand thumped his chest. “Golgren is power. Golgren is might. Golgren is Kern and Blöde …”
His eyes glittered fanatically. Maritia wisely remained silent until the Grand Lord had calmed down. His tone abruptly shifted to one of conspiracy and camaraderie. Gaze upon Maritia, he gently—almost reverently—replaced his lost hand inside his robe.
“Come! This is not a necessary argument! This Faros is still far from us! We decide who gets kill when it is more needed!” He leaned to one side, reached among some pillows. The Grand Lord pulled free a rolled-up chart. “Please! I would hear your glorious plan!”
Taking a deep breath, Maritia outlined her strategy. The knowledge that Faros was no longer in Kern had reached Maritia just before her departure, but she was surprised when Golgren added that it was believed that the rebel’s followers were gathering north of Karthay. When she probed for the source of the Grand Lord’s intelligence, the ogre simply smiled and urged her to continue.
Their talk went on for a long time, slipping into evening. When all had been agreed upon, Maritia gave a sigh and stretched her legs. She then rose and reached for her sword and dagger.
“There is no need to depart so quickly,” Golgren urged politely.
“I have much to communicate with my staff and officers. I know you need to do the same.”
“Please … would wish to speak with you about your brother, Bastion.”
Maritia hesitated. “Bastion? Why?”
“Know that you were close. Closer than others in your family—other than your father, the great Hotak, of course. Understand your thirst for vengeance.”
She sat back, listening.
“Must admit,” the Grand Lord went on, pouring himself more wine. “Heard rumors … rumors of Bastion fighting alongside the rebel, Faros.”
“I heard them, too. Just scurrilous rumors.”
He downed the wine. “But he was alive … and he was living in Kern.”
Her hand tightened on her sheathed weapon. “He did what any good legionary would. He survived.”
“A pity, though. So close, yet you could not see him one more time living.”
Maritia fought to keep her expression blank. “A pity, yes.”
Golgren leaned forward. For the first time, she noticed he now gripped something in his good hand. Something small, unimportant. She was no longer interested in the conversation. All Maritia cared about was returning to the comfort of her own ship.
“Loyal you were to your brother. Would have done anything for him, yes?”
She stared at him. “Is there a point to all this?”
His reply was a shrug. “Answers, nothing more.”
Again she rose to leave.
“It is sorrowful you did not speak with him one more time,” the Grand Lord declared, pushing himself to his feet.
Her blood was racing now. Maritia turned for the door. “I already told you, yes. Now, excuse me, my lord—”
“Would not want to leave without this,” came the ogre’s insistent voice.
As she glanced back, Golgren tossed the object he had been holding toward her. He threw it slightly past her, but instinct made Maritia reach out and catch it before it could hit the floor. It was rounded and made mostly of metal. She opened her palm.
A signet ring.
Her ring. The ring she had given to Bastion to show Faros her “good” intentions. Proving her a liar.
All the questions the Grand Lord had been asking suddenly took on ominous meaning. Maritia instinctively reached for her sword—but it was no longer there. She spun about and found it, held by Golgren. Her hand went to her dagger. The sword knocked her hand away.
“Please to not do that,” murmured Golgren. He held her blade with such obvious skill that she had no doubt he could cut her a second mouth before she could move fast enough to draw her dagger. “As demanded by your brother—the emperor—I must regretfully make you prisoner, Maritia de-Droka.”
“Are you mad? Prisoner?”
The blade briefly came down to tap the ring before coming close to her throat. Golgren’s eyes drew so narrow they were slits. “For conspiring with your brother and the rebels, offspring of Hotak … for betrayal of the empire, of course …”
Lady Nephera had created a new list, one differing from past efforts. This list did not tally up her enemies—suspected or otherwise—but rather was aimed at only one enemy.
The greatest enemy of the imperium: Sargonnas.
The Horned One, the Condor Lord, the Lord of Vengeance—by whatever title or name he went by, the former principal deity of her people was, she had decided, the reason for the growing disorder in her domain. First he abandoned the horned race, then he returned unwanted to bestow his blessings on Faros, of all people. Sargonnas was a meddler. Nephera was convinced she needed to eliminate his interference, indeed eliminate Sargonnas from the minds and souls of the minotaurs who once revered the god.
Her own power was growing, thanks to Morgion. With her present patron’s help, Nephera thought, almost chuckling with glee, she should be able to hand Sargonnas a stinging defeat. Nephera looked over the first few pages of the list. The priestess had itemized strategic locations throughout the empire, prime centers of population, areas she had filled with her devout Protectors, areas where new temples honoring the Forerunner faith—and her patron—were already being built and attended.
“There can be only one god,” she whispered reverently to the symbol on her chest. “You, my lord.”
“Holy one?” asked a grey-robed figure just beyond her. The Supreme Councilor Lothan looked up from another document he was working on. “You said something?”
“Merely asking for the blessing of the Forerunners, my dear friend.” She rose from her desk, the parchments quivering in her hand. “Well? Do you foresee any trouble with passage?”
The gaunt minotaur thrust his wrinkled snout into the page he had been studying, the
n looked up. “Nothing I foresee. Iolin will vote against it. Negarius will abstain, and the rest will vote with me. The people will be satisfied that the Circle has performed its proper, independent function. The funding then will be distributed in short order, praise the Forerunners!”
Nephera nodded approval then stretched forth her free hand. Lothan went down on one knee. The high priestess gave him her blessing.
“You are dismissed with my gratitude.”
She watched with barely concealed impatience as he departed. Lothan would act as she commanded, dealing with imperial officials. Now, though, she must send word to the faithful beyond Mithas. Mortal messengers, however, would not be fast enough. Let her followers marvel at the powers Morgion had granted her; their admiration would stimulate their fervor for the cause.
“Takyr!”
The phantom was at her side in an instant. His cloak billowed around him. He had fully recovered from his earlier setback.
Mistress …
She held before him the message she had composed, along with the extensive list of locations. Takyr eyed both silently.
Nephera commanded, “Let it be done! Let them all be told!”
The dread ghost shimmered, a sickly green aura blossoming around him. His rotting and ravaged muzzle opened wide—and out of it Takyr spewed forth another ghost. The faint form, little more than what seemed a shroud and hungry eyes, howled as it flew upward and tore through the ceiling.
No sooner was this done then a second spirit was spewed forth from the maw of Nephera’s servant. This ghost seemed a little more substantial, having the semblance of arms and a general countenance, but it, too, howled, and raced off to pass through another part of the thick stone ceiling.
One by one but in a swift blur, they burst forth to do the high priestess’s bidding. These were the spirits who had been ‘punished’ by Takyr on behalf of his mistress, and their souls were ever tormented in the monstrous abyss within him. Their escape now was but a momentary freedom, for when their task was done, they had no choice but to return to his horrific care.
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