The Black Talon

XIX

Despite the determination of a ji-baraki stalking an injured amalok, Khleeg could report no progress on the investigation. The ogre officer kept his head low, fully expecting punishment, but all the grand lord did was nod thoughtfully. That only served to make Khleeg more nervous, for not only did his master’s favorite meredrake lay chained to the wall near where the warrior stood, but the beast had not yet been fed. Its hunger was surely made the worse by the great copper bowl of raw amalok placed just out of its reach, according to the grand lord’s bidding.

“The ogres were said to be loyal, yet they attacked the Solamnic right here in my palace. Strange. The matter will have to be pursued, yes,” Golgren finally said, speaking Common, as he was determined to do in private and public from then on. He would prove even to himself that he was properly civilized. “But other matters must not fall neglected because of it.”

“Yes, the crowning,” Khleeg grunted, grateful for the change in topic. “The crowning is serious matter. Dangerous time, Grand Lord. Dangerous time. Assassins come then.”

“Nay! A glorious time! Grand khan and lord chieftain I will be!” The ogre leader leaped from his seat and snagged some of the raw meat, tossing a gobbet toward the meredrake. The huge lizard strained at the chains as it snapped up the morsel. “And better able then to deal with Shok G’Ran and Uruv Suurt.”

As the beast swallowed its tidbit and begged for more, Khleeg, too, swallowed. Golgren hesitated. It would not be the first time a ruler of his people had fed a failure to one of its pets. But Golgren let Khleeg fret for a moment then stepped away from the beast. Khleeg breathed a sigh of relief.

“The summer soon gives way to the autumn, Khleeg! All must be in readiness for the glorious occasion! Is it so?”

“The Jaka Hwunar, it readies!” blurted the officer. “The guards, they ready! The slaves, they busy making fine clothes for the grand lord! They carve great faces of him and paint glorious battles he won!” That brought to mind a subject Khleeg wanted to ask about, diplomatically. “Grand Lord, is it true … that the elves, they go … they go free when the crowning is done?”

Golgren’s expression grew veiled. “This none concerns Khleeg! Khleeg should be concerned about the crowning, yes?”

Again, the officer swallowed, glancing at the meredrake. “Yes, Grand Lord! No one will break the walls of warriors! Golgren will be grand khan, lord chieftain of all Kern and Blode!”

“Golthuu,” corrected his lord. “We should both remember that from now on. When I rule, the ogre lands will be renamed Golthuu, in my honor. No more Kern. No more Blode.”

“Golthuu. Yes, Grand Lord. Golthuu.”

“Go! All must be in readiness! You will do it, yes, Khleeg?”

The heavy ogre struck his breastplate. “I swear!”

At that moment, Wargroch entered. The younger warrior repeated Khleeg’s breast-beating gesture then announced, “Grand Lord, you wished to practice. Practice is ready.”

“Good!” To the departing Khleeg, Golgren growled, “There must be no delay.”

The senior officer nodded hurriedly before vanishing from the chamber. A moment later, the grand lord and Wargroch also left. The two marched noisily through the palace, down to the ground level, and through several halls. Soon enough, they came to an inner doorway where two hulking guards stood at attention. One quickly opened the door for Golgren.

The unrelenting light of day rushed over the grand lord. He stepped out into what was almost a miniature version of the floor of the Jaka Hwunar. High walls upon which had long ago been carved an idyllic garden scene-replete with dancing beasts and beautiful High Ogres watching while one of their own played a lyre-surrounded a stone and sand floor. Other than the door through which Golgren had entered-a door immediately sealed from inside the palace by the guards-there was only one other way in, an arched entrance four times as wide as the door and blocked by a toothed, metal gate that could be raised or lowered.

The burning sun illuminated well the many old crimson stains on the walls. Suspected by Golgren to have originally been a true garden, the area was a kind of brutal playing field; long ago it had been designated as such for the amusement of the ruler during the days when the High Ogres’ decline into debauchery and sadism had been in full throttle. There, instead of the onetime garden of peace and music, prisoners fought other prisoners or beasts, or simply fought to survive some insidious torture.

There the grand lord enjoyed a daily practice regimen. With only one hand to use in fighting, he had to keep his reflexes sharp and his mind sharper. Six burly warriors stood watch over the small arena, but they were not there to act as his opponents. Instead, the metal gate squealed open, and two surly figures trod inside. They were low-class prisoners, their crimes varying, but both with tempers more ferocious than most of their kind. Each outweighed Golgren by half again as much, and one was nearly a foot taller than the next largest fighter present.

Both were chained but stood quietly under the watchful eyes of two guards; a third undid their bonds. The two prisoners rubbed their wrists and gazed wearily around at their captors.

“Jaduum!” called Wargroch. “Hysta idor-”

Golgren gestured for silence. “Common. Always speak Common. All must learn it, know it.” To the two criminals, he asked, “You know Common?”

The one on the left nodded warily. The second cocked his shaggy head then finally let out a raspy, “Yes.”

Golgren beamed with pleasure. The odds were that their understanding of Common was minimal at best, but that would do. “They have been told?”

Wargroch grunted. “Their freedom if the grand lord is beaten or dead.”

“F’han,” murmured the larger of the prisoners, his blood-shot eyes glinting.

Golgren smiled at him. “Give weapons. Leave fight.”

The guards looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Grand Lord,” Wargroch protested. “Better I should remain-”

“My command. Obey.”

With a shrug of surrender, Wargroch indicated that the captives should be duly armed. A guard handed one of them a long sword and the other a chipped but very serviceable axe with the marking of a Solamnic Kingfisher etched into its face. Golgren made a mental note to have such weapons secreted in the palace while the knight was still his guest. It would not do to remind the human of past hostile encounters between ogres and humans.

The captives wore only kilts and, in one case, not even sandals. The two had obviously led rough lives even in comparison to most of their kind. Partly for that reason, Golgren expected a good fight out of them. The grand lord wore a kilt of much finer make and sandals equally new. Atop he wore a light brown tunic that enabled him to hide what he hung around his neck.

The grand lord patted his tunic once to let his adversaries see that he hid no breastplate or other protection beneath the thin garment. The first prisoner grinned wide, revealing several gaps in his yellowed teeth; the other’s eyes narrowed maliciously.

Golgren held up the stump of his arm and Wargroch attached to it a variation of the claw device that the ogre leader used in his battle against rebellious ogre chieftains. There were four claws, banded tightly together. They were also shorter but sharper, and the base was better designed to grip his stump by a series of leather straps rather than the hooks that sometimes ripped his flesh. The new false appendage had been finished that very morning, and Golgren was eager to try it out.

The prisoners shuffled uneasily at the sight of Golgren’s arm stump and false claws, but after a moment, both giants recovered their confidence. For Golgren to use the steel talons, he would still have to come well within arm’s reach.

In addition to the sword and axe, the prisoners each also received a dagger. The first slipped his into his kilt, while the second gripped the small blade for more immediate use. As for the grand lord, he had hidden away his ancient dagger, replacing it with a serviceable, wooden-handled one designed for more mundane purposes.

At Golgren’s signal, Wargroch and the guards retreated through the arched entrance. The criminals were wise enough not to attack Golgren immediately, waiting until the others were well and truly gone and they were alone with the grand lord.

The gate shut again. Golgren raised his talons. “Begin!”

The pair came lumbering at him. With his longer strides, the taller ogre reached the grand lord first. His axe immediately angled toward Golgren’s skull, but the half-breed had amazing reflexes. By the time the blade crossed where his head should have been, Golgren was far to the left, taking on his other foe.

His jab to the sword-wielder’s waist drew a flash of blood, albeit not enough to slow the prisoner. Baring his teeth, the shorter criminal performed a lunge whose sloppiness nearly enabled him to fumble past Golgren’s defenses. The grand lord parried the blow just inches from his throat, then had to turn and contend with the return of his axe-wielding adversary.

Fortunately, the pair didn’t think to coordinate their attacks. They fought for position over each other as much as they fought the grand lord. The taller one elbowed aside his partner, eager to kill the grand lord first. A warrior who slew Golgren in battle would gain not only freedom, but an enviable reputation.

But they, like so many others, underestimated Golgren. The prisoner’s axe came within a hair’s breadth of Golgren’s shoulder, and as momentum carried him past, Golgren slashed his wrist with his strapped-on talons.

The huge ogre growled, his weapon dropping and blood pouring from open veins. He gripped the bleeding wound tight, his eyes turning as red as his hand. A berserker fury filled him.

And while that happened, the other prisoner launched another attack, aiming for Golgren’s leg. The thrust was an obvious one, however, and the grand lord moved to the side.

Without warning, he felt something clutch at his chest, squeezing it painfully.

That pain was superseded a second later by a more painful slice across his thigh. Golgren hissed and stumbled back, but his attacker followed after him closely. All but smelling his victory, the prisoner threw himself at the smaller figure.

And again, there came the tight and startling clutching of pain in his chest. Stumbling, Golgren dropped to one knee. He gazed up dully as the sword drove for his throat.

Raising his metal talons saved him, but the effort ripped them loose. Golgren immediately dodged underneath the sword and plunged his own weapon into his adversary’s thick stomach.

No sooner had he dispatched that prisoner than the second had tackled him from behind and wrestled him to the ground. A bloody hand crushed his face. Ragged breathing filled his ears, and a heavy weight shoved most of the air from his lungs. Blood trickled down Golgren’s chest, which still felt tight with pain.

But the giant ogre turned his head briefly, and Golgren saw his opportunity. He raised his own head as best he could and bit at his foe’s ear, tearing into it almost with gusto.

His foe howled and pulled away, in the process helping Golgren rip a piece of flesh away from the ear. Spitting out the bloody bit, the grand lord brought his sword up between himself and the prisoner. With as much strength as he could muster, Golgren shoved the sword into the other’s chest.

The larger ogre fell back, his life fluids splashing over Golgren in the process. Wasting not a breath, Golgren slashed at the ogre’s throat and with pleasure watched the blood pour out.

The prisoner grabbed at the gaping wound, but his struggles were in vain. He flailed for nearly a minute before the grand lord put him out of his misery with a thrust to the heart.

The gate opened and Wargroch and the others trotted forward, relieved grins on their faces. Wargroch started to congratulate his master, but suddenly the grand lord felt that same terrible clutching pain at his chest.

“Away!” he snarled at the others. “Away!”

Before they could react, Golgren turned toward the other door, the one through which he had entered, banging on it. The moment it was open, he barged past, leaving his retinue behind.

The guards stationed at intervals in the corridors were wise enough to say nothing as he staggered past them. Golgren cared for nothing at that moment save reaching his quarters.

To the sentries standing outside his doors, the ogre leader commanded, “No one enters!”

As they quickly shut the doors behind him, Golgren scanned the room for any sign of Idaria. Relieved that she was absent, he immediately took hold of the front of his tunic and tore the garment off in shreds. As he did that, Golgren headed to a gilded mirror whose elegant floral etching marked it as yet another prize from lost Silvanost.

And there, the grand lord eyed the two items dangling by chains over his breast.

The smaller of the pair was the tiny, transparent vial no larger than a pin in which a few small drops of thick red liquid were suspended. Golgren touched the vial with his index finger, feeling the warmth of the contents, aware how they were bound to him. The vial was valuable to him-assuming it worked as the Lady Nephera had said it would-and not the cause of his pain.

That, Golgren knew, fell to his severed hand.

The mummified appendage dangled from a thick chain that was laced through the remnants of his severed wrist. The yellowed fingers were still bent as if ready to grab at something. After the Uruv Suurt Faros had cut his hand off in battle and fled the scene, Golgren had scoured the site of his loss until he had found the precious remains. Using ogre embalming techniques generally reserved for the dead, the grand lord had preserved the hand as a grim reminder of his failure that day.

He had worn the hand over his heart since then, even when sleeping. In a morbid manner, its presence also brought him a measure of comfort and confidence. In addition, the rumors that he carried around his severed hand added to his reputation for fierceness, especially since the severed hand was represented on his banner.

But during the fight … but during the fight, the hand had disturbed him.

He prodded the mummified hand. The appendage swung back and forth slightly then stilled. The nails, polished finely, barely grazed the hairs on his chest. The hand was as dead as it seemed. True, death was not always the end of things; his precarious alliance with the late Nephera had proved that. With the powers granted her by her mysterious benefactor-said to be at times either dread Takhisis, foul Morgion, or both-Nephera had controlled the spirits of the dead. Those dead-those f’hanos-had wreaked much havoc, and even Golgren had the occasional nightmare concerning one malevolent spirit of hers.

Takyr.

But Nephera was long dead and, as far as Golgren knew, she would remain so.

Perhaps he had been mistaken about the source of his discomfort. The grand lord started to prod the hand one more time when someone dared pound on his door, demanding entrance.

Quickly grabbing the tatters of his tunic and draping them over his hand, Golgren whirled toward the entrance. “Who dares? Enter!”

“Gaho i verizo na!” blabbered a bug-eyed Khleeg. “Gaho i verizo na iGolgreni!”

For Khleeg of all his people to forget his master’s edict concerning the learning and speaking of Common, with severe punishment for the perpetrator, made the ogre leader instinctively grab at Khleeg and pull him close. “You are forgiven for your intrusion as you ask, Khleeg, if the reason is good.”

Trying to keep his composure, the officer blurted, “F’hanos, Grand Lord! He says much f’hanos!”

Golgren squeezed the hidden, mummified appendage harder as he attempted to understand what Khleeg was saying. Had his thoughts of Nephera brought her creeping back from the beyond? Surely he had heard wrong. “You mean f’han? Someone is dead?”

“No! It-may I bring someone in?”

Impatient, Golgren bade him to do so with considerable haste. Khleeg barked a command at the doorway, and a guard ushered in a warrior who was battered, bloody, and beaten and stared with eyes half-insane that darted to every shadow as if expecting to find something terrible lurking within.

“Thraun,” Khleeg said by way of hasty introduction. “Rode with Captain Tarkus. Toward the west … toward where happened the glorious victory of Golgren over the three.”

“And so?” Judging from the addled expression on Thraun’s face, something terrible had happened to his captain, as well as the others. “You speak of f’han? All dead in the patrol?”

“F’hanos!” shouted Thraun, suddenly flinging himself at Golgren’s knee. The huge warrior clung to his lord as if a child. “F’hanos!”

The repeated word defied Golgren’s comprehension. He looked up at Khleeg. “Explain!”

The officer seized Thraun and pulled him up. Thrusting his face into the shaken warrior’s, Khleeg roared, “Tell all!”

“Bre-” Thraun swallowed then, seeming to come half out of his panic, said in Common, “Dead. All dead! Only bones! Ogres! Mastarks! Meredrakes! Horses! Saw-saw maybe Trang even!”

“Trang?” Khleeg snorted. “No Trang!”

“Ke! Yes! Him!” The disheveled ogre made a slicing motion across his neck. “But no head!”

“Forget Trang!” Golgren commanded. “Speak! Bones walking! Is that what you say?”

The rest of the story poured out in incoherent fashion. Thraun had been ordered to deal with the mounts. He had just finished with his duties when the shouts arose and the fighting started. Of Captain Tarkus, there was no sign. Thraun had started to go to the aid of the others, only to witness them quickly slaughtered by voracious undead. Two meredrakes, bits of their dry, scaled hides still clinging to the bones, ripped apart one hapless warrior, he said. Other f’hanos-most of them mere bones-surrounded the others like packs of ravenous wolves.

At that point, aware that to stay in place was to die horrifically, Thraun undid the horses’ reins and tried to free them. In his clumsiness, he nearly lost all the animals, for the moment that they were free, they panicked and careened into one another.

One failed to make it away, for the f’hanos were nearer to Thraun than he had realized. Only the fact that the horse tried to race in the wrong direction likely saved Thraun from death. Instead, the mount was swarmed by four foul creatures.

However, as the horse went down screaming, another undead tackled the ogre. Empty eye sockets stared down at Thraun; he recalled cold, fleshless fingers clutching his throat. Yet somewhere he managed to find the strength to fight free. He struck the dead skull hard, breaking one of his own fingers. The force of the ogre’s blow sent the f’hanos stumbling back.

Struggling to his feet, Thraun discovered one horse with its reins tangled. He undid the frantic animal and leaped aboard.

As he rode from the nightmare, he heard a long wail from a comrade who had outlasted the others before silence took command.

The recollection of his ordeal proved too much for the warrior. Thraun collapsed into a trembling heap at Golgren’s feet. Ogres were powerful and fearless in battle and lived for their bloodlust, but f’hanos represented one of their greatest fears. Death was death; f’hanos went against reason and logic.

Khleeg and the others looked to Golgren, who stood silent and impassive. The grand lord was not a believer in coincidence. The horde of undead was marching toward Garantha at just the time when he was about to be crowned ruler of the ogres.

Golgren could think of only one being who could command such peculiar magic, although why he should choose to do so remained a mystery.

“Khleeg! Summon those kept ready! We march when the first embers glow,” he ordered, referring to dawn in the phraseology of his people.

“We fight f’hanos?” asked Khleeg uncertainly.

“We destroy f’hanos,” the grand lord corrected him. “Now go!”

His lord’s evident confidence brought some of the fighting spirit back to the officer. He saluted sharply then took command over the others. The sentry who had dragged in Thraun managed to get the mad ogre to his feet and out of the chamber.

Golgren stood stone faced until the doors were again sealed. Then he turned to the ceiling and hissed, “Dauroth! Attend me!”

But after far more time than was permissible, Golgren still stood alone. The grand lord called the Titan’s name again and again with an equal lack of success.

And that made him finally toss away the ruined tunic again, once more gazing down at the tiny vial. Shoving aside his mummified hand, he gripped the vial tightly, then tighter still. It would take only a little more pressure to destroy it. So the Uruv Suurt witch had said. His hand could do what a hammer or a rock could not; to all else, the vial was said to be impervious. Its fate was entirely and literally in his hand.

And tied to its fate, if Nephera had not lied to him, was Dauroth’s. After all, it was his essence-not merely his blood-that the vial contained. Lady Nephera had crafted that little gift for Golgren, albeit at a high price. If Dauroth tried to slay the grand lord, the vial would be his revenge.

As far as Golgren knew, Dauroth was ignorant of the vial. It had been created as a secret weapon. Golgren had always relied on a variety of factors, other magics, to keep the Titans at bay. He understood that, at least until that moment, he had actually performed a vital service for Dauroth, organizing the ogres in such a manner that the Titans could focus on their own desires.

It appeared, though, that Dauroth found his usefulness of diminishing value.

He spit then tried one last summons. “Come, Dauroth. Come.”

“I am here, oh Grand Lord.”

Golgren cursed, jumping at the suddenness of Dauroth’s voice. He turned to face the blue-skinned giant. “At last! I summoned you before this! Where have you been? There is a threat to us all!”

The Titan did not reply at first, instead gliding along the floor in a circle around Golgren. All the while, his golden eyes remained fixed on the grand lord, who turned as the Titan did to keep the towering figure in front of him.

When he had completed his circuit, Dauroth offered a condescending frown. “Such a sorry little mongrel! This is what the ogre race has fallen to! Not even a full-blooded creature, but a miserable half-breed tainted by an elf legacy!”

“You should understand it well, Dauroth. Understand and appreciate.”

“I do not appreciate impurity, imperfection, Guyvir.”

The grand lord’s pulse suddenly pounded. “I am Golgren.” He gripped the vial again. “You have been warned-”

Dauroth leaned forward, his countenance still utterly disdainful. “Crush it, Guyvir. Shatter it. It matters not. I have known of it for a long time. It is too weak a thing to slay me.”

“Impossible!”

“There is magic, I tell you, far more formidable than that of the Uruv Suurt bitch who made that for you!” Dauroth snapped with abrupt, uncustomary fury. His face immediately relaxed again. “Titan magic … the magic that will return the ogre race to its rightful place.”

Golgren let the vial drop against him. He recalled the painful clutching at his chest. “Was you, then! You who made this move!” He indicated the mummified appendage. “You who command the army of f’hanos marching on Garantha!”

“You are babbling, oh Grand Lord.” Dauroth gazed heavenward, a deep frown spreading over his handsome features. “But not about the f’hanos evidently. Fascinating! Not me, not me. But who else have you irritated so much, Guyvir, that they would send the very dead after you?”

So it was not the Titans. Golgren hissed. “The f’hanos will not stop with me. They will destroy all! The Titans, they must help defend Garantha when I ride to meet these creatures! You shall summon storm and quake and-”

“I will do nothing more for you. You claim the right to be grand khan and lord chieftain in one? Let us see the true cunning and power of Guyvir without the Titans coming to his rescue! Oh, we shall protect Garantha but only when you are outside its gates, dying in a vain attempt to kill those already slain!”

Golgren bared his teeth, wishing that his tusks were long and sharp as he stared up at the smug sorcerer. Dauroth knew his vulnerability. If Golgren waited in the city until the f’hanos attacked, he would lose all the prestige he had built up among his kind. With the possible exception of a few diehards such as Khleeg and Wargroch, most of his officers, the khans and chieftains, they would all turn on him.

Yet if Golgren led his army into battle against the dead without the benefit of the Titans’ magic, it was highly probable that the greater part of his forces would be routed and the remainder would perish with him in ignoble defeat.

Dauroth folded his arms. “Now our little talk is done. It is time for me to deal with another who thinks himself higher than he is. Then … then at last, I can go back to my holy tasks without any more interruptions!” His eyes suddenly glowed. “But first, something to remember me by! You shall wear it to your bitter end.”

Golgren bent over in horrific pain. He managed to keep from uttering more than a slight moan. His chest burned.

The agony eased. As the grand lord straightened, he heard a slight clatter on the floor and saw the chain that had held the vial lying there. However, the vial itself was nowhere to be seen.

He shoved aside the mummified hand.

Embedded in his chest was the vial. A thin layer of skin shrouded the sinister container.

“Think of me as you fail, oh Grand Lord.”

The Titan vanished amid a swirl of black, smoky tendrils.

Golgren threw himself at where Dauroth had stood but far too late. Panting, the grand lord clawed at the vial, but to touch the area sent spasms of pain coursing through him.

Wargroch called from without, begging permission to enter with some news. Grabbing another tunic, Golgren gave his permission, trying not to gasp as the pain gradually subsided.

The younger ogre was quick with his report. “A scout from a patrol. Says that there are f’hanos-many, many f’hanos-near Kubli!”

Kubli was a small, forgettable settlement save for one thing: it was barely more than a day’s march from Garantha. What little time Golgren had left had shrunk just like that.

“Khleeg has orders! All must be ready to fight! We ride before the Burning! Make this known to him!”

With a slap to his breastplate, Wargroch fled the chamber.

Golgren’s expression shifted to one that was almost passive. He had made his decision. He would face the undead horde and he would defeat it or, at the very least, the ogre race would sing of the legend of the grand lord’s great stand.

That was supposing, of course, that there would be anyone left alive to sing it.

Idaria was with Stefan when the news began to spread of some great threat to the city looming on the horizon. The knight, true to his nature, demanded details from the nearest guard, which nearly got him into a fight with the ogre.

The elf managed to calm the situation then took the Solamnic aside. “Let me find out the truth.”

“I will follow,” he insisted. “If there is a real threat, I must know what it is and how I might play a part against it.”

With a shrug, Idaria led him toward Golgren’s chambers. On their way, though, they crossed paths with Wargroch. “What is it?” she asked of the officer, forcing him to pause and speak to her despite his obvious haste. “What causes such turmoil?”

At first he shook his head, but then, perhaps because he was uncertain as to her influence on the grand lord, he finally rumbled, “F’hanos, slave! Army of f’hanos marches to Garantha!”

Wargroch said no more, barging past the pair and all but running down the corridor.

“F’hanos?” Stefan muttered, looking perplexed. “What does he mean? I’ve heard f’han, but that means ‘death,’ doesn’t it?”

“In a hundred variations. This is not a word I am familiar with. Golgren will know.”

They reached the chambers. Idaria had no trouble gaining entrance, but the guards blocked the knight’s path.

“Haroth!” Golgren shouted from within, momentarily lapsing into the tongue of his birth.

“Master,” Idaria immediately answered, “forgive me for not being here to attend you.”

He glanced past her to the Solamnic. “Sir Stefan Rennert! It is good you came. But it is a shame no alliance yet exists. It is a shame that I must face this threat alone.”

The human bowed. “Grand Lord, what trouble threatens this city? An army, I know, but if it is one that is also an enemy of Solamnia, then perhaps I can offer my arm-”

To that, Golgren abruptly laughed. Idaria stared, realizing the desperation behind that laugh. “They are f’hanos! I think such as they are enemies of all that live!”

“But what are f’hanos, if I may ask?”

The grand lord snarled, as he started walking around, grabbing things that he would need, half talking to himself. “The dead who walk. It is the dead you and your comrades discovered! They are risen and seek vengeance against me, it seems.”

His declaration left both the elf and human gaping. There were such stories even among Idaria’s people, stories of necromancy.

The knight at last found his voice. “If what you say is true, Grand Lord, then I do indeed offer my assistance! I will not stand by while such abominations walk the mortal plane, for it is true they can mean no good purpose for my people either.”

Golgren turned, his face brightening. He grinned. “Good! We shall grind their bones into dust, yes? Or die together!”

Stefan only nodded, his countenance as grim as the ogre’s.

The two of them left Idaria in their wake. The slave watched them vanish down the hall, her expression changing from shock to thoughtful calculation. She glanced at the nearest window, then seemed to dismiss that idea. Instead, her hand went to her gown and something she had kept secreted in the folds.

The signet seemed to burn briefly as she pulled it free. Idaria had not given it to Golgren as Tyranos had commanded, for the elf had sensed its latent magic power and had herself sought to probe its secrets … sought the secrets and failed.

Idaria glanced again in the direction Golgren had gone.

She replaced the signet in her gown and followed.