There had been no word of him since an assassin had tried to slay him aboard ship. Ardnor had sent one of his most trusted Protectors, and the fool had failed, so Bastion had escaped. Now, apparently, he had chosen the enemy over his own family. That could not be condoned.
She had to be certain. Her fists tightened until the knuckles turned as white as bone. Bastion, once a loyal officer of the legions, might simply be bringing information to Maritia. That information could concern the rabble in Kern, and the other rebels scattered throughout the Blood Sea and the Courrain.
Nephera had to know more. A thought came to her. There was one peculiarly well-suited to deal with Bastion, whatever the truth of it. After all, he already owed her very, very much. She would have him trace Bastion and discover what had to be done for the sake of the empire.
At this thought, the high priestess glanced around, but the shade of her husband was nowhere to be seen. Nephera took this as a sign that her impulse was the right one, the only one.
“Time to pay some of your debt, Grand Lord,” she whispered, putting together her thoughts for the message she would shortly send. “More than time …”
He should have been dead. Among ogres, the loss of a hand generally meant the loss of respect and status, and among the ruling caste, the loss of status generally meant a more powerful rival would soon crush in the scorned and maimed ogre’s skull.
Although in the recent months two ambitious warlords had attempted such a traditional play for power—and perished quite horribly for their failure—Golgren had survived unscathed. More important, his grip—his single-handed grip on Kern and Blöde—had only tightened.
The clatter of hooves and the creak of wheels accented his caravan’s journey over the rough terrain. The horses and covered wagons kicked up dust, which caked in grey the lines of warriors in his wake. The odor of heated horses suffused Golgren’s nostrils, but it was a far more palatable scent than if he had ridden behind his unbathed, sweating followers. He reached with his lone hand to a pouch at his belt and removed from it a small, oval container of blue crystal, with a stopper attached by a thin gold chain. Manipulating the stopper free, he brought the bottle to his nose and inhaled. A hint of jasmine flower flowed into his nostrils. The perfume, taken from the wreckage of an elven lord’s abode, momentarily eradicated the more strident aromas.
The Grand Lord rode through Blöde undaunted by how deep he intruded into the neighboring ogre domain. In the old days, his actions would have unleashed a monstrous war between the rival tribes. So much had changed during recent years, though. First the humans, the Knights of Neraka, had drawn the ogres together by invading both realms in their thirst for conquest. That invasion had precipitated Golgren’s rise to power, for he had been of a sharper mind than the dull-witted chiefs serving the Grand Khan.
Then, along had come the Uruv Suurt—the minotaur—called Hotak. His ambitions had been the mirror of Golgren’s own, and the ogre had used the minotaur’s plans to draw others into his camp, those of his people who had become disenchanted with the Grand Khan’s failings.
That they had come to him despite their differences spoke to Golgren’s charisma and influence. Certainly it had little to do with his physical stature. He was not tall by his people’s standards, and at his full height stood more than a head shorter than most. Moreover, Golgren was of a slim build and his countenance differed much from other ogres, being less flat and more narrow. The blunt nose was almost similar to a human’s and instead of tusks, Golgren evinced only two nubs, the result of careful filing. His thick, black leonine mane was clean and brushed. The Grand Lord kept himself bathed—even forcing his followers to tote along a couple of wagons with water for that purpose—and wore a musky perfume to cover his personal scent.
His garments were of sturdy but fine make. This journey he wore a long, sand-brown cloak over an elegant tunic similar in color. His knee-length leather and cloth kilt was of minotaur design, and unlike most ogres, he wore sandals with leather straps winding up his calves.
There were those who claimed that Golgren carried some elven blood, but none ever said so within hearing of the Grand Lord. Certainly his eyes indicated some unique background, for under the heavy brow they were, in contrast to all other ogres, almond-shaped and emerald green. Those eyes missed few details, however, and when matched against the brutal, dark orbs of others of his kind in struggles of will or might, they never wavered.
Golgren seemingly had come out of nowhere, rising swiftly among the khan’s followers and seizing control from the lord of Kern while the latter sat smoking the intoxicating essence of the Grmyn flower. His other rivals had fallen in short order. Despite Donnag and the treacherous Titans, the power of Blöde had come to him no less readily, although there he had needed a bit of outside help, help which he at times regretted.
Behind the Grand Lord marched line upon line of brutish warriors bearing clubs, axes, spears, and other, more creative weapons. The ranks alternated, with the taller, unarmored, grey-furred fighters of Kern marching in one row, then in the next the squatter, helmed, and breast-plated denizens of Blöde—their fur a more dusky brown at times—and so on. The alternating lines kept both groups from turning on one another, for if any got the urge to misbehave they only had to remember one of the victim’s comrades marched directly behind. The ogres might be allied, but Golgren was no fool. He trusted his own kind less than he trusted the minotaurs.
To each side of the warrior horde, and adding immensely to the rank, pervasive stench, lumbered the mastarks, the huge, tusked beasts of war. Trained to be perpetually wary, several sniffed the air with their serpentine, prehensile noses. Atop each rode two handlers, one behind the other. The second also carried a bow and quiver, and from thick leather belts across the animal’s back hung a set of spears. The mastarks wore iron helms with twin spikes, which they knew to use in conjunction with their tusks.
The behemoths also kept the warriors marching briskly, as the flat foot of a mastark was able to crush an ogre whole. Each step was accompanied by a low, thunderous sound, so heavy were the muscular beasts. If they were not enough to keep the warriors in check, on the outer flanks—always kept under leash—stalked several hungry, hissing meredrakes. Used to seeking out the smells of the enemy, the huge lizards were also quite adept at dealing with any unruly elements in their own ranks. Whenever even the slightest hint of disobedience arose, the handlers dove in with the long-toothed behemoths. Golgren’s army might not have the training and discipline of the Uruv Suurt, but he knew well how to intimidate and maintain absolute authority over them.
The army had been marching over the winding terrain of southernmost Blöde, ostensibly hunting pockets of elven fighters who had taken to the inhospitable land in order to strike back at those who had conquered Silvanesti. These days it was Golgren who peered with eyes of avarice toward that lush, green realm, recalling the richer ground so briefly held by his kind during the initial days of the invasion. The Uruv Suurt had quickly sent more legionaries to secure most of the northern border of what was now Ambeon, leaving the ogres’ holdings sparse and desolate by comparison.
Golgren quietly bared his teeth—the sharp, yellowed carnivorous teeth that, despite his outward attempts at cosmetic improvement, distinctly marked him as one of his brutish race—and suddenly barked out a command to the rider next to him.
The breast-plated ogre raised a curled goat horn to his mouth and blew two harsh notes. As he did so, Golgren and those near him reined their huge mounts to a halt, followed by the massive column.
The sun was already fading. Unlike the minotaurs—who would have organized an array of pickets, deployed scouts and no doubt ferreted under every rock for possible foes—the horde simply ground to a halt and slumped to the ground. Handlers led off mastarks and meredrakes for feeding. Both creatures were adept at foraging off the dry lands despite their large girths, and the cold-blooded lizards could especially go long periods without a significant catch. Warriors drifted together in s
mall groups and began digging out the dried meat they bore on journeys. Several began to play games of chance, rolling polished bits of bone with markings on sides or betting on the outcome of wrestling matches. Others simply settled back and went directly to sleep.
“Harum i kyat!” snapped beady-eyed Belgroch, who was in charge of dealing with Golgren’s needs, especially pitching and organizing his tent. The stout ogre was an uglier version of his toad-faced elder brother, Golgren’s second in command, Nagroch. Both hailed from Blöde but had long ago cast their lot with the Grand Lord—which, naturally, did not preclude switching sides should the one-handed ogre face a sudden reversal of fortune.
Dismounting, Belgroch took a braided whip with nine sharp, metal hooks and snapped it in the direction of the second of two wagons directly behind them. From the rear of the tarp-covered vehicle, which still bore worn traces of a Solamnic emblem on the side, leapt two other Blödian ogres. Armed with swords, they shouted into the wagon.
The clanking of chains announced a dozen ragtag figures. One by one, the weary slaves—some human, others elven—dragged their gaunt, beaten bodies forth from the wagon. Many looked as filthy as the ogres, and their skin had blotches from disease and whippings. Their eyes were listless, for all hope, all life, had long ago been ripped from them.
“Harum i kyat!” Belgroch repeated, pointing to the other wagon. The slaves shambled forward, an occasional moan punctuating their movements. At the back end of the other wagon, they began unloading the wooden framework and the mottled, goatskin covering of Golgren’s tent.
As the humans and elves erected the structure under the urging of stinging whips, Nagroch, who had ridden ahead with a small party, returned to his lord.
“No shelled ones,” the repulsive, pockmarked ogre quietly reported in his best Common, referring to both Solamnics and the Knights of Neraka. Golgren demanded that those who served him closest learn the widespread tongue. Common was the language of civilization in this age, and Golgren considered himself as civilized as the great kings of the west or his own illustrious forebears.
“No pointy ears,” Nagroch added, his own term for elves. “Scouts say no Uruv Suurt, either.” Clad all day in the incessant, burning sun in an open helm and rusted breastplate, Nagroch stank even worse than usual. He leaned closer, crusted, brown teeth displayed in a wide, hungry grin. “No Uruv Suurt for days south. Could turn south, just accident, and—”
Golgren gave him a reproving look that stopped his lieutenant in mid-sentence. “You will not speak again of this, yes?” His eyes, narrow and unblinking, made the other, much brawnier figure, flinch. There was no doubt in either’s mind that, even minus a hand, an annoyed Golgren would slay Nagroch with one mighty blow. “Not again … unless I say so …”
The Grand Lord adjusted a chain hanging around his neck. As he did, a large object near his chest shifted underneath his tunic. Nagroch grimaced, his blotchy skin growing a touch pale.
“Aye, friend Golgren, aye! Ignore this foolish one! A jest, nothing more!”
He was saved further disapproval by Belgroch’s return. The younger brother bent as low as his massive girth would allow, announcing, “Grand Lord, tent is up!”
Golgren nodded, and without another glance at either of the two, headed for the rounded structure. The tent was half again as tall as an ogre and large enough to comfortably fit nearly a dozen muscular warriors. A thick, gray tarp cut from tanned mastark hide served as a tent flap. The slaves who had put the entire thing together now knelt near the entrance with their arms stretched forth and their faces pressed to the pounded dust. Two guards with whips stood wary watch over them, their own heads bowed slightly in fearful respect of Golgren.
The Grand Lord ducked slightly as he entered. His approving glance met the interior, which the slaves had already filled with his belongings. A lit oil lamp hung from the center of the ceiling. Thick furs covered the entire floor. Sacks of wine and water lay on a small, oval table whose wooden legs could be unbound and folded under for travel.
A young female elf clothed only in a scant goat fur slipped into the tent behind him. Unlike the other elves, her delicate, ivory skin was unblemished and her long tresses showed recent bathing and brushing. She even smelled of the same jasmine scent the Grand Lord carried—not all that surprising as she drew from the belongings of his household. Even with both her ankles and wrists chained, the silver-haired slave moved with grace. She was likely centuries old, but she had the appearance of a young woman edging into adulthood. Her wide, almost crystalline eyes were veiled by long lashes, and her features were gracefully angular.
As Golgren raised his arms, she silently bent down and removed his belt and sword sheath. To one side of the interior, Golgren’s twin-edged axe already lay on a cushion of fur, as if it were a pampered infant. The female elf set Golgren’s sword next to the rune-etched axe then scurried to another short table on the opposite side. There three small scrolls and the sharpened quill feather of a condor awaited. A tiny, square vial of ink with the Solamnic kingfisher emblazoned on it rested to the right of the feather.
The Grand Lord settled into the furs. He stretched out his maimed limb to the elf, who gently unwrapped the silk-covered stump. Her perfect features finally shifted, grimacing unwillingly as she unveiled what lay beneath the stained cloth.
Golgren chuckled at her obvious distaste, causing her to gasp. With a grunt, he commanded her to continue.
As she drew away the last of the silks, the full extent of the damage was revealed. The blade had made a very clean cut, but to save himself from blood loss, the Grand Lord had quickly located a torch, and there in the midst of battle cauterized the wound. Not once had he screamed as the flames sealed what was left, but by the time he was finished, blood from his lip and tongue had scored his garments. With the burnt stump wrapped against his torso, Golgren had taken from his pouch dried Grmyn flower petals, chewing on them until their narcotic quality had eased—though not erased—the agony. For an entire week, the ogre had secretly taken the petals until he felt ready to accept the pain, then he immediately ceased using the addictive flora. To his followers, Golgren had performed something of a miracle, for from then on, he had revealed no more struggle with his wound. In fact, he had gone out of his way to display the maimed limb and show that the loss was negligible, riding into battle and practicing his combat skills against the very strongest opponents.
Now, after several months, the end of his arm was blunted and black, but at least there had never been any infection. Indeed, the scabs covering the stub had begun to heal as best they probably could.
Reaching for a slim blue vial, the elf maiden poured jasmine oil over the wound and rubbed it in gently with her smooth, tapering fingers. Golgren allowed himself a slight exhalation of relief. There was still pain, but nothing he could not contain. Golgren did not fear the elf revealing his weakness, for she had seen what had happened to another who had carelessly blabbed. The dried head of that one even now hung to the Grand Lord’s left.
“Wine,” he growled, leaning toward her. The sharpness of his breath, the breath of a predator, caused her tiny nose to wrinkle.
She brought him a dark leather sack shaped like a thick grape from which he greedily drank. Once satiated, Golgren thrust the half-emptied container at her then pointed to the writing tools. The elf replaced the sack then immediately moved to the table, where she folded her legs and unrolled one parchment.
Peering over her, he eyed the flowing, elegant symbols of the High Ogres’ ancient written language that covered the top half of the sheet. The Common tongue might be Golgren’s favored manner of speech in public, but for this special project, only the perfect script of his mighty ancestors would suffice. Only the ancient script could adequately record his illustrious ascension for the future generations.
His slave, beaten into learning the style as quickly as she could, now acted as his stenographer. Mastark calls, the harsh laughter of gambling, the clatter of metal—all t
he raucous sounds of the horde faded into the background as Golgren started to dictate.
Before he could speak, a sudden chill rose up and down his spine. He jolted upright, his movements causing the elf to shake. Ink splattered the page, befouling the work done. She cried out, certain that in the next second he would slap her.
Her master no longer even noticed her quivering presence. The flame from the flat, elongated lamp had all but died. Out of the corner of his eye, the Grand Lord spied a shadow moving—a shadow without a form to cast it. Golgren swore under his breath.
Grand Lord Golgren …
The voice flowed like the perpetual tide. A hint of the sea touched his nostrils, but the sea when it was filled with death. The ogre watched as the shadow detached itself from the wall.
Only Golgren’s furrowed brow gave any indication of his uneasiness. He stared hard at the shadow. Now and then he could make out a ghoulish soul, a burnt and rotting minotaur wrapped in a vast, shroudlike cloak.
The ghost had a name, he knew. Takyr. Golgren disliked that name. It reminded him too much of the dread Takhisis, although there appeared no connection.
He glanced at the elf, cringing, averting her eyes. The tent’s interior was all but black, yet the shadow was distinct. The noises outside sounded muffled, almost nonexistent. Again the ogre heard the voice in his head. Grand Lord Golgren …
The elf was frightened, but because of his anger, not because of the ghost. Only he could see the intruder.
“Get out!” the Grand Lord snapped to the elf. “Go!”
With a whimper, the slave leapt up, and chains jangling fled the tent.
His unearthly visitor observed all in silence. Impatient and not a little unnerved, Golgren finally blurted, “What? You have something to say, say it!”
He felt Takyr’s unearthly mirth. My mistress would wish me to relay news of import to you …
Lady Nephera wasted neither time nor Takyr on idle matters. Golgren’s anxiety became wary interest. “I listen.”
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