“Idaria,” Golgren abruptly hissed.
The elf scurried forward. Her chains, as much a part of her now as a second skin, made as little noise as she did.
She shoved the ancient wooden door open for her “master” and his burden, revealing a room filled with red, yellow, and green tapestries and a massive pile of colorful pillows. Although once they had been breathtaking, the dark, dull crimson stains spotting many of the tapestries and pillows remained as sober reminders as to their recent history. Idaria passed tapestries with symbols marking elf families that she had formerly known, some of them related to her by blood. Once, the mere sight of those precious relics of the glorious elf past would have nearly caused her to break down in tears but no more.
“I’m very … grateful … my lord,” Stefan mumbled as he lurched along. “The journey … was a long one.”
“Yes, very long, I have made it on foot also,” the grand lord replied evenly as he lowered the human onto pillows.
Idaria waited patiently as the ogre assisted Stefan. Golgren did everything himself with the same care that any of the knight’s comrades would have taken with him. Only when her master called for water did she hasten to oblige, bringing a goblet and a dented metal decanter to the nearly unconscious human.
The human stared up at her, his round eyes so young and innocent compared to her own. Both ogres and humans lived scant moments in time compared to the long-lived elves, but whenever Idaria looked into Golgren’s eyes, by comparison, she saw an old, wily intelligence beyond the ogre’s actual age. In Stefan’s case, the vibrancy of youth was still fresh and appealing.
The slave poured him a drink. He fumbled with the cup, so much so that, despite Golgren’s evident displeasure, the elf held Stefan’s hand as she guided the goblet to his lips.
After he had taken a sip, the knight managed a courteous nod. “My lady.” Almost as an afterthought, he looked again at his host. “My lord.” Then he drifted off.
Immediately, Golgren straightened. Idaria, all too familiar with the ogre’s body language, quickly but smoothly retreated to the ledge from which she had taken the cup and decanter.
The grand lord peered at her for a moment then asked, “You will tend to him, yes?”
Surprised, Idaria managed a nod.
Golgren scowled at the sleeping figure. “Be there when he wakes. Let his eyes first cast upon you.”
“Yes, my master.”
The ogre leader surveyed the chamber. Walls built from stone blocks larger than his own body hid behind the tapestries. Should the knight think to seek escape, he would discover that his room also passed as an excellent cell. The only ways out were through the door—which would be guarded for the human’s safety—and the small, arched window at the opposite end.
Even unarmored, the human could just barely fit through that window, and his descent would be ill advised. Below the window was a drop of several stories and, assuming he survived that long fall, Sir Stefan would land in a pen where the palace’s meredrakes were let loose for exercise.
Golgren did not want his “guest” departing before the grand lord had the opportunity to cement his proposed alliance.
“You will wait by his side, my Idaria,” Golgren murmured as he started to the doorway. As he passed her, however, the ogre paused to meet her gaze with his own. “As you ever wait by mine.”
He looked ready to say more but then stalked out. Idaria froze briefly, wondering if she should follow him for some reason. Then Stefan mumbled in his sleep, and the elf recalled her orders.
However, it was not to the knight’s side that she went immediately, but rather to the window. Peering out as best she could, she saw that there were no guards to be seen on the grounds below. The elf leaned forward and, pursing her lips, whistled quietly.
What emerged from her lips was no sound that humans, dwarves, or—certainly—ogres could re-create. It was as if an actual bird had vocalized. Only an elf was capable of such sounds that could fool even the wisest avian creature into coming to her.
But the bird she sought knew her and would come because she had called it. It was one of the many messengers she utilized to contact the others, and of all times, Idaria needed to contact her comrades quickly after learning what she had. They would not like talk of alliances, however far-fetched it might seem to them. They would need to know about the events, and they would advise her what to do.
As she waited for the bird to come, the elf slave looked over her shoulder at the Solamnic. He had witnessed terrible things, including the savage deaths of those close to him, something with which she could identify. He was a captive of Golgren, and it remained to be seen for him how much suffering was in store. She, too, had witnessed the deaths of friends and family; she, too, suffered as a captive slave.
Yes, Idaria Oakborn could well sympathize with the Knight of Solamnia, but that did not mean she would not kill him without regret if it proved necessary for the sake of her own goals.
Golgren knew exactly who Stefan Rennert was, and he richly savored the irony of that particular knight’s having been handed over to the grand lord. Indeed, Golgren mused that many things in his life seemed predestined, and perhaps the Solamnic had been sent there deliberately as some kind of spy.
But Solamnics did not sacrifice their fellows in such a clever manner, so Golgren felt fairly certain that things had merely gone awry for the human. Fate, it appeared, was simply on the grand lord’s side again, silently aiding his plans.
Reaching the throne room, Golgren summoned Khleeg. The ever-resourceful Blödian returned scant minutes later, by which time Golgren had thought it over and knew better what he wanted of him.
When he gave his orders to the other ogre, Khleeg looked at him in dismay. “Grand Lord, not a wise thing!”
“But you will obey!”
The officer banged his fist on his breastplate. “Aye.”
“Then see it is done.”
Looking not at all pleased, the Blödian rushed off again.
Golgren nodded to himself then departed for his private quarters. The guards saluted him then shut the doors behind him after he passed through, relaxing slightly out of his view.
Alone, the grand lord surveyed the lush chamber, elven in its design, ogrish in its decadence. He strode to a side wall and shoved aside one of the elegant but weathered tapestries with his maimed limb. Then, with his hand, he pressed the blank wall at a point that was generally level with his broad chest.
An area roughly a foot square shimmered red and slid forward.
Golgren had divined the secret of the hidden drawer from his studies of the High Ogres. It had taken him very little time to discover the one in the grand khan’s very chamber. Certainly, neither Zharang nor his immediate predecessors had ever suspected the existence of the magical drawer, for inside the compartment Golgren had found a crumbling parchment in the written language of his ancestors. Regrettably, the parchment had turned to dust when he touched it, but the drawer had remained useful for storing a few other precious items.
From within, Golgren removed a single object: a small, almost delicate, dagger. Its intricate craftsmanship hinted of ancient derivation, and he had found it far from that place as an exhausted, bleeding youth, still carrying his mother’s drying corpse over his shoulder. Golgren had been on his last legs then, desperately trying to throw off two ji-baraki that were following his scent. Yet that had not worried him so much as what they would do to the body of his beloved mother, which he had struggled so hard to save and carry away.
The crevasse through which he had slipped into the hill cave had truly been little more than a slight tear barely wide enough to allow him inside and, he hoped, would keep the huge lizards outside. Inside it was blissfully cool. He had set down his mother’s body then paused to take stock of his surroundings.
That was when the gleam had caught his eye, the gleam of orange-red stone. Instantly mesmerized, Golgren—he was still Guyvir then—had been drawn closer to tha
t gleam.
There he had happened upon the crumbling temple. The stone had been part of a shattered relief, the eye of one of two fighting mastarks. The rest of the imagery was no longer visible, erosion having done its job in ruining the art.
Even the most backwater village knew the tales of the great High Ogres, although most of those tales grew distorted with time. Thinking of those tales of the High Ogres’ supposed miracles, Golgren had scavenged through the cracked stone walls and small alcoves, hoping to find something precious, something magical with which to restore his mother to him.
But there had been nothing. There were ruins only. Defeated, the youth had slumped back against one cracked wall and nearly died when he broke through its weakened structure, falling. Golgren had dropped down several feet and landed upon what could best be described as junk and refuse.
However, he also found trickling water. From a crack in the rock, a few drops at a time were slipping down to the ground, where the water seeped into the soil. There was evidence that the forgotten priests of yore had crafted some fine watering system, but to the young ogre’s mind, all that mattered was he could drink his fill. That in itself was a miracle.
Climbing out was another, more troublesome matter, and at first he wondered if he would die there, where he had fallen, sated with water. Indeed, on his first attempt to climb back up, Golgren had made it only halfway before falling back onto the stone and garbage. At that point, his hand had closed around that very dagger; why it had been discarded, he couldn’t fathom.
Oddly, once armed, his confidence rose enough that on his next try, Golgren made it back up and into the cave. Feeling proud, he returned to where he had left his mother’s body …
Only to discover a male ji-baraki was busy ripping apart the still-tender torso.
Golgren screamed, a sound that echoed in the small, natural chamber, making it seem as though a hundred warriors had surrounded the reptile. Mouth stained, the ji-baraki spun around, confused and alarmed.
Not caring what happened to himself, Golgren had leaped upon the beast. He felt its talons slash at his arms, but all he cared about was avenging his mother’s ravaging. He had intended to punish her true killers, but the ji-baraki became their surrogate. Golgren slashed again and again and again, not even stopping when he and the beast lay on the ground, the latter dead.
Scarred, bleeding freshly, the young half-breed finally halted. He stood and kicked aside the reptile and went over to the elf remains. Even his mother’s face had not been left unmarred, but Golgren nonetheless clutched the ruined body tight.
Then, growing cold of mind, he carried her to what had once been a platform below the fighting mastarks. Golgren arranged her corpse then returned to the dead beast. With deliberate ferocity, he cut deep into the ji-baraki and removed a hunk of its flesh. Then, seating himself, the ogre devoured his fill. As she had always done, his mother had provided him with a meal.
He covered her with stones from around the temple’s centerpiece, guaranteeing that no scavenger would have an easy time with what remained. Golgren had removed what other meat he could from the ji-baraki before he dropped it down to where the ancient refuse lay in a scattered pile. Finally, clutching his dagger, the youth leaned against the inner wall and dared to sleep.
Four days later, he reached the village of his father’s cousin.
As the memories faded, Golgren turned the dagger over and inspected it in his room. It had become stained with the blood of many enemies over the years, but since he had taken his present name, it had waited for only one more use. With the Solamnic’s arrival, that use seemed almost imminent.
“Do not sleep deep, my little one,” the grand lord murmured. “Your time is coming.”
He touched the drawer, which slid away, vanishing into the wall again. Then, with a humorless grin, he secreted the dagger within his garments where the lone hand could easily reach it.
His thoughts drifted back to that crevasse long ago. Golgren’s eyes narrowed. “No, do not sleep deep.”
Ji-baraki were determined feeders, seeking morsels long past when other predators or scavengers gave up. They had an acute sense of smell that few beasts in all of Krynn could match.
Some of those that had attacked the knights still foraged among the vast array of bones at the battle site, on occasion finding something worth squabbling over. A few tiny lizards and insects that had made temporary homes among the carnage fled as the larger, more predatory ji-baraki neared their locations.
Then something in the moonless night sky caused the ferocious reptiles to look up. Several of the ji-baraki hissed. One of the smaller ones suddenly turned and fled from the scene. That caused a mass exodus by the rest. The ji-baraki kicked up bones and dust as they rushed away, and one even accidentally uncovered a choice bit of bone and gristle, but the morsel was ignored, so frantic were the reptiles to abandon the scene.
And as the last of the ji-baraki vanished from the battle site, countless winged forms descended among the dead. Landing, they took up positions all around the area, waiting.
A flicker of silver light materialized in their center …
XI
THE FESTIVAL OF THE GRIFFON
Safrag smelled Morgada’s presence long before the Titaness materialized. Dauroth’s apprentice tightly rolled together the scroll through which he had been searching. Morgada had a scent that both enticed and disturbed, for it always carried blood, fresh blood. None of the males bore such a scent.
“Dear Safrag,” she sang. “Is there something that you do not wish me to see?”
“The secrets of the master are not for you, Morgada,” he returned coolly.
“Perhaps not now … ” the raven-haired temptress cooed.
Her words were fair warning. She should have never existed, but Dauroth had not only forgiven that error, but showed some fascination in the possibilities presented by her existence. Whether or not those possibilities held any interest to Morgada was another question, but she used the potential of them to keep herself in the master’s excellent favor.
Safrag sat in one of Dauroth’s private libraries, a round chamber whose walls were lined with silver bookshelves set into the stone. There was no artistic reason for the ornate shelves; the fact that they were silver had more to do with their ability to keep the inherent magic within many of the scrolls and tomes sealed inside. Magic, no matter what its origins, had a tendency to leak out and cause havoc. As it was, the library was already saturated with ancient power, and thus, even admittance to the library was reserved for those who had proven their ability to walk carefully without disturbing the shelves.
Morgada had never been seen at the library as far as Safrag knew.
“You have permission to be here?” he asked, rising from the wide, rectangular table—also silver, due to the same concerns. Silver, in fact, lined the walls themselves.
Silver was also the color of the light currently illuminating the chamber too, although that was by Safrag’s choice. The glowing sphere always hung two feet above his head and thus, as he stood, it rose higher to keep the same distance.
“Do I need permission? I am so sorry, Safrag. I wasn’t aware that I did.”
A lie but one it would do no good for the apprentice to report. Dauroth was curious about the level of the Titaness’s magical skills and would probably encourage her presence there if the matter were brought to him; that was not what Safrag desired.
He replaced the scroll on the shelf then turned back to Morgada. “I am leaving. You will, therefore, leave too … unless there is something else you wish here?”
Her eyes studied the contents of the shelves with clear interest—no, Safrag thought, avarice. “There is so much here I wish, dear Safrag, so very much.” She strode closer. “Is there anything you might suggest of special interest to me?”
His eyes met hers. “One thing, perhaps,” he murmured, suddenly guiding her along with him. “You have only heard of it, but I think Dauroth would want yo
u to know more about it now.”
Her voice grew throaty with excitement. “What is it? What?”
The apprentice led her to one particular shelf. Safrag passed one hand over a single red stone inlaid in the center of the middle shelf.
The gem flared and the entire shelf rippled as if suddenly turned to water.
“Falstoch,” whispered Safrag. “Come out, Falstoch. In Dauroth’s name, I so command you.”
And from within the liquefying shelf there arose a deep, monstrous moan, as if something in the throes of horrible agony had just been stirred to life. For once, Morgada balked, losing some of her confidence, noticeable to Safrag by the way she pressed back against his arm, an arm supposedly protective but also keeping the Titaness from retreating any farther.
“Coooommmmmmeeee … ” a voice managed to croak, sounding as though it came from someone drowning in mud. The sound was made worse by the fact that the word was spoken in the Titan tongue, albeit in such a crude manner that both spellcasters flinched. A stench like that of rotting flesh permeated the chamber. Morgada covered her nose, but Safrag merely steeled himself.
A sloshing sound touched their ears. It grew louder, closer, seeming to presage something huge and terrible.
“Safrag … this is Falstoch approaching?” asked Morgada. “From where?”
“From a place created by the master, to house each of the Abominations.” Safrag said no more, waiting for the one he had invited to show himself, to make himself known.
Through the rippling, a murky outline began to emerge. At times, the shape appeared to have some form akin to an ogre or Titan, but it constantly seemed to melt and reconfigure differently.
Then … then through the bookcase thrust a hand or rather, a mockery of one. Five fingers—more than could be counted on either one of Donnag’s hands—grasped for anything within reach. They were thick, and the skin bubbled. The flesh dripped on the floor, where it sizzled. Two of the fingers shrank into the hand, just as two others sprouted elsewhere.
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