But the second his ethereal fingertips grazed the general’s body … Ardnor felt Takyr urge him to move forward.
As easily as he could slip on a robe, the First Master found himself now donning the form of General Kobo.
He blinked and realized what he had done when the other guests gaped at him.
“Are you all right, general?” asked the patriarch solicitously.
What now? His mother had told him to do his best, but what Ardnor did best was—
The impulse came to him. He sought Kobo’s sword.
One of the other minotaurs dropped a goblet. “General! What are you—”
With a sneer, Ardnor drove the sword point deep into the other’s shoulder. He turned to the patriarch, who had immediately backed away. Unlike some others, Herek carried no weapon.
“Kobo, have you gone mad?” Herek demanded. “Guards! Guards!”
“Call them!” roared Ardnor in Kobo’s voice, enjoying himself immensely. “By the time they reach me, you’ll be shredded to fish bait!”
But another impulse came to him. Instead of leaping at the patriarch, Ardnor purposely slowed his movements, waiting to see what the others would do. Suddenly, two minotaurs placed themselves between him and his supposed victim. “Stand down, general! You are ill, or mad! You are acting without reason—”
“He’s a friend to the throne and that’s all the reason I require!” There, he had condemned Kobo with clever words.
One of the pair swung a hand ax, the blade coming within an inch of Ardnor’s host body. Ardnor deflected the blow easily then countered with several jabs. He stabbed at the pair, making it look as though he were trying to break through to Herek.
The patriarch continued to shout for guards. The oak door burst off its hinges as four huge, helmed figures barreled in.
Ardnor turned from his two adversaries, catching the first of the guards above his breastplate. It proved a fatal blow.
And as the guard fell, Ardnor’s bloodlust surged and grew. Now he grinned at the other sentries as they slowly surrounded him.
Lose … Takyr was telling him.
It went against his nature, of course, but Ardnor did as he was told. He left himself open, practically offering himself to the fools.
A guard took the bait. His ax sank into the flesh of Kobo.
Ardnor expected pain, and he was not disappointed. However, another sensation, a great thrill, filled him. Kobo’s body would be slain, but he, Ardnor, was untouchable. He felt giddy with this realization.
With a mocking roar, he stretched out his arms and let his enemies rush at him. A sword pierced his torso under the left limb. A full battle-ax buried itself in his chest, ripping through armor and bone. He swung his blade one last time in the general direction of the astounded Herek, savoring the blood—Kobo’s blood—filling his mouth as the wounds took their toll.
At last, his host body could stand no more. Ardnor felt a force pull him back, as the general slumped to his knees, wracked by spasms. The First Master’s spirit slipped away, watching with fascination as the marine officer breathed his last.
“L-Lord Herek?” Kobo gasped, in a weak, confused tone.
A guard looming behind him finished his life with one hard chop of the ax.
Lady Nephera sat quietly on a bench in the meditation chamber, her endless legions of servants silently surrounding her to await her bidding. She again read the list she had recently compiled of those too closely associated with General Kobo de-Morgayn. Already eyes had been sent to spy upon the majority.
A groan arose from the far end of the room, where her two mortal acolytes attended her son’s motionless form. The high priestess immediately set aside the parchment and rose.
With an abrupt start, Ardnor sat up. His eyes stared ahead for a moment; then he blinked. His hands ran over his torso, as if he wished to verify that this was his own solid flesh again.
“The deed is done,” Lady Nephera announced. “And I am told you did well, that you have learned and acted well, my son.”
“It was—” Ardnor’s voice came out as a croak. One of the priestesses quickly gave him a goblet of wine. The First Master downed it with one swallow. “It was incredible.”
“It is only the first taste of the future,” his mother reminded him. “Forget the throne. This is your destiny.”
“Incredible,” he repeated, a smile spreading over his face.
She nodded her understanding at his awe. “The ghosts, they lack the power to do what you have done. Even Takyr, he can guide a hand to a blade, but your living will and determination were needed to make this happen. The Great One is pleased.”
“Will I be able to do it again soon?”
Nephera bowed her head. “As will be needed. You left Herek untouched?”
“Yes. Wounded a couple of others, slew one guard.”
“Of no consequence,” she waved off any concern. “The Dragon of Duma has been dishonored. Those who listened to his blasphemous suggestions will now disassociate themselves from his memory.” Lowering her hands, Nephera added, “Now get some rest. You’ll want to be your best when you stand with your father at the ceremony.”
Ardnor had started to reach for his helmet. He froze. “You know about that?”
She simply looked at him.
Snorting at his own stupidity, Ardnor put on his helm, bowed to the high priestess, and departed.
Left only with her two attendants, Lady Nephera gazed once more around the chamber, seeing what no one could see without her aid. Her ghostly ranks multiplied by the minute, adding to her strength.
Then with utter satisfaction, she welcomed the latest addition, who stared at her with the same hungering eyes as the rest, but otherwise wore a fresh, bitter expression.
The high priestess bared her teeth in a smile then returned to her lists.
The tall, black marble structure lay only a day or two from the western edge of Kern. Once it had been the abode of a powerful member of the High Ogre race, and among the fallen descendants, it was muttered that magic of a strange and powerful sort still pervaded the edifice. The rounded turrets were reminiscent of Garantha, but there any similarities ended. A narrow, saw-toothed wall matching the marble of the building surrounded the tower, a wall perfectly intact despite the ages. An iron gate etched with a symbol remarkably similar to the flying condor of Sargonnas was the only way through to the building.
Only two arched windows exposed the interior to the light of day, and these loomed near the top. Over the twin, framed doors, also iron, a stone ledge thrust out, upon which perched a dark but extremely realistic effigy of a dragon. The dragon’s expression was a curious one even to the ogres now encamped in and around the ancient building, for it appeared pained, almost distraught, as the effigy stared out toward the distant, rich lands of the other races.
Today the Grand Lord Golgren, too, stared out toward those far realms, but for once, his mind was not on them. A situation had arisen that upset his carefully crafted plans, disturbing him.
Handlers atop gargantuan mastarks were herding several of the beasts to pasture. Smoke rose from scores of campfires, where hundreds of ogres continued their preparations for war. Rough-hewn goatskin tents dotted the rolling landscape. Golgren saw two warriors struggling with a protesting amalok, who kicked one of the ogres to the ground before the other could pull him down by his reins. The amalok’s horns came close to skewering his other overseer, but at last the tempestuous beast quieted.
Golgren turned away from the outside, the camp, and the far realms. Torches lit each corner of the lowest level of the tower and those torches illuminated every wall—ghostly friezes from another time, another place. As with all the olden art of the High Ogres, the figures were beautiful, perfect, and lifelike. Most were sculpted in profile, revealing the smooth curves of their noses and chins. The garments they wore and the landscapes they posed in were identical to the ones in Garantha.
Yet, here, in this place, there was a differe
nce, one that had captivated Golgren the first time he had inspected the pieces. The expression of these figures was startlingly unique—different from any of those in Garantha or anywhere in Kern.
There was no happiness in their faces. No matter what it was that they were doing, the figures in the reliefs wore mournful or downcast faces. A few revealed loss, even fear. Not one image gave the slightest intimation of hope. It made their every activity, every posture, appear insignificant, even tawdry. The starkness of the figures repelled most of the Grand Lord’s minions, and they found reason to wish themselves elsewhere.
It made the tower a most appropriate place for Golgren to dwell, and for the insidious task he was now overseeing.
As the ogre sipped some of the last of the briarberry wine he had brought back with him from the empire of the Uruv Suurt, he imagined himself back among his wondrous ancestors of ages past, conversing politely and knowledgeably with the brightest of them. Perhaps he would have a deep discussion with the artist who had created these images, and thus ask him what they truly portended.
Golgren felt certain he would blend in with august forebears. He smoothed back his dark mane and struck a pose akin to that of his favored relief, where a majestic, robed figure gave a speech before an applauding audience. Whatever the speech-maker was telling his audience—and such was the brilliance of this particular relief—it was making him weep to say it.
A scream snapped his musing.
With regret, he returned to the subject at hand. Around what had once been some venerable lord’s stone dining table, three particularly monstrous ogres were busily engaged. One had the bulky, broad shape of an ogre from Blöde; the others were two who had served Golgren for a long, long time in this particular capacity. Near to the trio, watching avidly, stood Belgroch.
Another scream resounded in the empty tower. Bound atop the table by thorny mavau strands was an ogre warrior seized by Golgren’s scouts only a day before the Grand Lord’s arrival from the capital. The scouts had recognized the hapless victim as one of those sent to bring the precious supply caravan promised by Hotak. They had literally dragged him back from the village in which he had been cowering, torturing him just enough to keep him alive for questioning.
The tale that they had so far extracted from him had bewildered them all. It must be sheer fantasy. He claimed that Uruv Suurt by the hundreds had come screaming out of the mountains, slaughtering the ogre escort and overcoming the supply caravan in mere minutes, even the two of their own kind, the imperial minotaurs who accompanied the caravan. Only by chance—or cowardice, Golgren thought—had this survivor escaped.
Knowing how Golgren would react, the warrior had been right to try to hide away, however pathetic and doomed his attempt. Golgren awaited, needed badly, the supplies of that caravan.
“Tell again,” he commanded in Common, the wine goblet still held close to his mouth. His lips twitched where the nubs of his filed tusks remained. “Tell again about the many Uruv Suurt.”
To encourage the hapless prisoner, one of the torturers took a white substance from a small pouch. Leaning over the other ogre, he chose one of the many dozen deep cuts decorating the victim and drizzled the powder over certain of the worst wounds.
The figure on the table shrieked in a very undignified fashion. The thorns of the mavau rope dug into his wrists and ankles as he struggled, sending droplets of blood spraying all over the floor and his torturers. A vinelike, malevolent trap plant noted for its diet of insects and small lizards, the mavau was transformed into a tough, almost unbreakable rope when it dried. The ogres liked to keep its thorns for torture purposes. Through the generations, the bestial race had perfected many simple but effective ways of inflicting horrific pain.
After some whimpering, the prisoner barked out an obscure fragmented reply. Uruv Suurt pouring from the mountains. Not thousands, but at least hundreds. Not armored, not even particularly well armed, a fact that briefly drew Golgren’s notice.
But the Grand Lord was not yet satisfied. Ogres were fanciful liars, especially when tortured. The victim might say anything if he thought it would relieve his agony.
“Ki jera i Sargor Jeka,” he ordered.
“i Sargor Jeka?” asked Belgroch with mild surprise. “Sargor Jeka d’i f’han, i’Golgreni.”
“Sargor Jeka.…” The Grand Lord sipped his wine.
One of the torturers stepped outside, returning a moment later with a huge, hooded avian creature perched on one arm. The bird was identical to the creature in the palace of the Grand Khan, only a larger example of the species. Its deadly, hooked beak opened and closed constantly, a thick tongue darting out. Up close, its plumage looked a deep, deep crimson, almost the color of blood. The fiery crest atop the bird looked like an explosion of molten earth.
The ogres called the bird Sargor Jeka—That Which Is the Winged Blood of Sargonnas. Other races called it the fire bird, the Sargas hawk, and other names. No one but the ogres would have ever dared to attempt to keep the ferocious predators in captivity.
No one but the ogres used the species for ripping the truth from their prisoners.
The dire bird stirred as its handler brought it nearer to the bound figure. Its wings spread, revealing feathers with hooks at their ends. It squawked eagerly, and if not for the leather tether around its wicked, taloned feet, it might have leaped into the air.
The handler looked to Golgren.
The Grand Lord nodded.
One of the ogres took a different powder, a coarse, deep brown substance that he slathered over several of the prisoner’s cuts. The half-delirious ogre guard moaned slightly, but clearly he was too far gone, and the powder could no longer bother him much.
Then the handler took the hood off the bird.
The Sargas hawk beat its wings, straining to reach the bound ogre. It shrieked and protested when it could not, scratching and clawing at its handler … who then released the savage avian beast.
The bird eagerly pounced on the prisoner. The ogre registered its presence, notorious throughout the realm, and cried out. The Sargas hawk buried its beak in one ripe wound, tearing away flesh and sinew as if seeking some hidden prize.
“Ki ya i Uruv Suurt ib h’rkara?” asked Belgroch of the victim.
Fresh words started to pour out of the stricken ogre. He shouted, writhed, twisted, but the Sargas hawk maintained its firm hold by digging deep with its needlelike talons, gouging the already-ravaged flesh.
Golgren listened intently. He listened again to the tale, hearing subtle changes, truthful changes. Thanks to the Sargas hawk he now had a far better idea of what had happened.
From wound to wound the bird moved, feasting. The brown powder evoked the scent of the predator’s favored prey, the baraki. Sargas hawks especially liked the reptile’s fleshy head, which they cracked open after the kill with the aid of their hard, horny beaks. So fond were they of the baraki that the powder sent them into a frenzy. In the case of the present victim, that frenzy might have lasted hours … though the ogre would certainly be dead long before the feasting was done.
But Golgren had heard enough. The prisoner had provided a good description of the attackers. Ragged kilts. Scarred bodies. Weapons ranging from rusted swords and makeshift spears to mere rocks and even empty fists. Some rode thick, sturdy ogre horses, but most marched on foot. A motley group, indeed.
“Ah ke!” he snapped finally. “Ah ke!”
But alas, his order came too late. The bound ogre gave a terrible shiver then grew still. The Sargas hawk continued its grotesque feeding, flinging gobbets of flesh around, and chipping away at bone, until the handler and another seized its bloody beak and again covered its eyes.
Belgroch approached the Grand Lord. After a glance at the other ogres, he said in stilted Common, “These Uruv Suurt … strange … sound like slaves, friend Golgren, yes?”
“Like slaves, yes.” The well-groomed Grand Lord handed his empty goblet to an underling. “Surprising, but a small matter, then. O
ne easily rectified.”
The heavyset ogre visibly struggled with the last word, separating its meaning from the rest. His excessively thick brow scrunched together. “Ignore, then?”
“No … no.” Golgren stepped to where the handlers struggled. He scratched the Sargas hawk on the back, murmuring to it in his native tongue. The bird quieted, even swiveled its head so that Golgren could stroke its crest. “These slaves must die, of course. Dagrum of the Tribe That Is Stronger than Mastarks wishes to prove loyalty to me. Send him to hunt Uruv Suurt.”
“And the supplies? Friend Golgren, the supplies cost us—”
“A message must be sent to the Uruv Suurt, to the one who leads them here.” Golgren would not mention Lady Maritia by name or sex. “It must be explained that more supplies are needed and why.” His gaze became calculating. “Yesss … it must be told why, I think. These, they are not much concern to me, but our good friend Hotak.…” Golgren chuckled. “He would not like this development, no.…”
The shipyards of the empire were toiling as never before in the history of the imperium. Day and night, facilities on Mito, on Kothas, and on all the other available islands had remained busy. Workers completed their shifts, returned home to sleep, and then commenced once again with their Herculean enterprise. There was no major shipyard in the entire empire that had not met its goal.
But of them all, Nethosak reigned supreme. Never had so many new vessels been completed, with revolutionary designs and a secret purpose.
And now, to honor the greatest of the shipyards and that which had been built, the emperor and his eldest son, in a rare show of unity, came together to launch not one warship … but the remarkable, unprecedented number of twenty-five.
Symbolic of the great event was the flagship Stormbringer. She stood half again as tall at the rail as any other ship ever built—a goliath among giants, a sea-borne leviathan.
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