The Black Talon

V

The corpse of the Grand Khan Zharang was unceremoniously burned, and the ashes were brought to Golgren as he sat on the throne of Kern before an assembly of representatives of the highest castes. Elite guards flanked the gathering, with the warriors, wielding keenly honed swords and axes, clad in newly polished breastplates. Golgren’s banner hung by the scores from the rafters.

Before the properly respectful throng, the grand lord hefted the round bronze container brought to him by Khleeg then dumped its contents on the steps and the floor before him.

The crowd anxiously stepped back as he stood and, without ceremony, trod harshly over the remains of his former sponsor. Then, with Khleeg’s warriors cleaving a path through the onlookers, Golgren strode the length of the long, columned chamber, leaving in his wake a trail of ash gray footprints. Reaching the opposite end of the room, he inspected his handiwork then marched back to the throne, in the process spreading the remnants of Zharang over much of the chamber.

He sat down on the throne, grinning broadly.

By thus treading upon Zharang, literally, Golgren had marked his predecessor as a shamed figure. Any who would associate themselves with the former grand khan’s memory would risk the same fate that had befallen the deceased. Zharang’s legacy and spirit would be officially shunned from that moment on.

As Golgren sat on the throne, Idaria-silently rushing from the shadows-immediately bent and brushed clean the soles of his sandals. At the same time, the elegantly clad ogres in attendance knelt and placed their faces to the floor. They tried to avoid touching or inhaling the former grand khan.

A gesture from Golgren signaled one warrior to blow a horn. The harsh blare gave permission for the assembled ogres to rise and depart, which they did at a slow, respectful pace.

When the audience had departed, two other slaves entered and began sweeping away the dust and ashes. No more would the name of Zharang be spoken aloud there, and within days every memory of him would be eradicated. His household would be sent into exile. Zharang had no offspring and, therefore, no one else the grand lord needed to execute with dispatch. His key followers were already in custody. The ceremony that day was thus short, although its meaning had been well understood by those in attendance. Golgren leaned back idly as the sweepers worked, ruminating as he waited for Idaria to finish her task.

Then Khleeg returned. “Great One,” he rasped, kneeling and respectfully averting his eyes. “There is warrior who begs audience. He claims blood of loyal servant, Nagroch.”

Golgren’s brow arched. “Yes? Very well. Give him permission.”

Idaria herself had started slightly at mention of the name, one that even she recognized. The elf glanced up at her lord, but Golgren only gestured for her to continue with her chore.

The guards stood at wary attention as Khleeg brought the newcomer inside. The warrior was slightly shorter and broader of build than most around him. He was clearly Blodian by birth and his grotesque, toadlike visage bore a striking likeness to not one, but two ogres who had served the grand lord early on.

Both of whom were dead.

The Blodian wore a tarnished breastplate obviously inferior to those supplied to Golgren’s warriors. His helmet was ill fitting. The Blodian carried no weapons, for they had been confiscated. Golgren didn’t pretend to think that all his race adored him.

“Great Grand Lord Golgren,” the ogre croaked in surprisingly good Common after he had sank down on one knee. “I am Wargroch, brother to Nagroch and also Belgroch, who served you well.”

“Their names are known to this one, yes,” replied Golgren smoothly. “And the name of Wargroch was mentioned by them, especially by Nagroch.” He gestured for Idaria to stop. The slave retreated to a kneeling position beside the throne. “And Wargroch is honored by this one in memory of his brothers’ deeds and loyalty.”

The other ogre beamed. “Great Grand Lord Golgren, I would serve as my brothers did. I would serve the true lord of Blode and Kern, my weapons and life yours in blood oath.”

“Yes? So good a wish cannot be denied, but first, Wargroch must prove himself worthy, as his brothers before him did.”

Wargroch leaped to his feet, causing Khleeg and the guards to tense and shift nervously. Golgren waved them still.

“Hasag i iWargrochi un f’han!” Wargroch growled, pounding on his breastplate with his heavy fist. “I swear I will do whatever you wish, even to my death, if it must be!”

Golgren nodded his appreciation of the fighter’s ardor. “But such a waste that would be, to die so. Your chance, it will come. Khleeg, Wargroch is yours until his loyalty can be tested.”

“Ke,” replied the officer sharply, his eyes narrowed suspiciously on Wargroch. “Yes, Great One.”

Wargroch bowed with eagerness. “My axe will reap many heads! My sword will cut out many hearts!”

The grand lord granted Nagroch’s younger brother a benevolent smile as the latter was led out of the room. As Khleeg and his charge vanished through the entrance, Idaria brought a goblet of wine for her master. Golgren did not hesitate to sip from it, aware that from that elf he needed fear no poison.

Suddenly, however, the grand lord stiffened; only Idaria noticed. Handing her the goblet, Golgren rose and, without a word, strode toward the entrance. Encumbered by her chains, Idaria scurried to keep up. The guards stood at attention as both of them passed through the portal.

Like the chamber from which he had just departed, the hall through which Golgren strode was a sad reminder of past glories. There were cracks in all the walls and also in the fluted columns. Many of the cracks had been sealed over, but several were in need of fresh attention. Zharang had grown lax in his duty to upgrade the palace in keeping with his position, perhaps because he had sensed it would not be his responsibility much longer.

Golgren had his own plans for the palace’s improvement, but at the moment such mundane matters were far from his thoughts. His pace increased as he neared what had been his predecessor’s private sanctum. Once disposing of Zharang, Golgren had wasted no time in ordering all that had belonged to the grand khan removed-including the spoils given to the khan by those commanders who had served him best-and his own possessions installed.

Tattered tapestries hung along the walls, many of them scavenged from other races, especially the admired craft-work of the elves. None of the tapestries displayed ogre figures. Instead, the grand khans had chosen depictions that were more enduring: castles atop mountains, great creatures, such as dragons or griffons, even images of the coats-of-arms of human knights. Swords, shields, banners were exhibited too.

One tapestry caught Idaria’s attention as she hurried to keep up with Golgren. Once it had been a beautiful landscape of high green trees and mythic dancing beasts. A vast oak stood in the center and in a hollow in its trunk glowed a bright star.

The tapestry was one of the more recent prizes, she knew, taken in the fall of elven Silvanost. It had been taken, by sheer coincidence, from the house of Idaria’s family. Even Golgren did not know that fact, nor did he know how it marked her lineage-Oakborn. It was said that her first ancestor had been born in the hollow of such a tree and, thus, her family name. Since the Age of Dreams, the Oakborn had stood at the forefront of the elf culture, often as architects or as counselors to its leaders.

But no more.

Her expression set as if in stone, the slave moved on. Golgren had the faster stride, but her kind were swift of foot, even shackled. She caught up with him just as he reached the guarded doorway. The ogre giants on duty crisply saluted the grand lord as if he towered over them, not the other way around.

“Azaln!” Golgren snapped, momentarily slipping back into his native tongue. “Leave!”

The guards did not query or hesitate, rushing off as if a swarm of meredrakes were snapping at their heels. The dictates of the grand lord were not to be questioned.

Golgren entered without further ado, Idaria slipping in next and shutting the door after herself. Inside, shadows of the lost day filled the chamber. Some cast odd and disconcerting silhouettes.

Idaria went to light an oil lamp, but Golgren barked, “No!”

The elf quickly drew her hands close to her side and bowed her head as she waited for his next command.

However, Golgren said nothing else directly, at least not to her. Instead, the grand lord peered intently at the shadows, choosing the deepest of them upon which to focus. “Face me.” He commanded with a strong hint of annoyance. “Face me.”

Idaria kept still, watching carefully. Some of the shadows came together, coalescing into a figure not quite as tall as Golgren, but far broader in its shoulders. The shape further defined, becoming a hooded figure with a thick mane that gave him a considerable leonine aspect. That was all that either Golgren or even Idaria, whose eyesight was far sharper in the darkness than her master’s, could make out of the newcomer.

In a voice that rumbled like a bull’s, the shadowed figure said almost casually, “As you wish, oh Grand Lord.”

One hand emerged from the figure’s voluminous sleeve. As it turned palm down, a staff sprouted whose bottom tip just touched the floor. The top of the staff rose as far as the mysterious visitor’s chest, at which point a five-sided crystal the size of a fist abruptly flared into a silvery illumination.

In the macabre glow of the crystal, the stranger was better revealed. Human his countenance was, though his resemblance to a lion was even more evident. His hair was golden brown and thick, and his nose and jaw were broad. To any onlooker, he appeared more akin to a fighter than the mage he certainly was.

Yet his robes and cloak were not obviously a mage’s, for they were not white, red, or black, no color of any of the known orders. Rather they were colored a deep, rich brown.

“Play no games with this one, Tyranos,” murmured Golgren in an equally diffident tone. “Play no games.”

“But all aspects of existence are part of one grand game, Grand Lord, and our part in that game could be considered quite amusing, wouldn’t you say?”

The grand lord put his lone hand to his chest, clutching the larger object hidden beneath his garments. His grin was unnervingly humorless. “Oh, yes … very amusing.”

Tyranos’s expression tightened. He suddenly strode past Golgren, peering at the other shadows but not at all seeming to notice Idaria. The elf remained perfectly still, yet there was a hint in her eyes that she trusted the strange mage even less than the ogre who had tyrannized and enslaved her kind.

“A very theatrical performance earlier,” the mage commented dryly. “You were born to the stage. A born actor. A shame that in most plays you would only be cast as a monster.”

“Or conqueror,” returned Golgren, surprisingly not offended. He turned not to Tyranos, but rather his slave. He reached out to Idaria, who stretched her chained hands to his one and allowed him to guide her to his side in what almost appeared to be a protective gesture. “A glimpse there was of you in the chamber, caster of spells. Your own act of theater, which must mean there is news that needs to be passed on to me, yes?”

Tyranos abruptly glanced over his shoulder, teeth bared. “News, yes. The empire has managed to send a second legion to Ambeon this week. Your own spies will not know of this until at least a few days more.” The mage tapped the floor once with his staff. “That makes seven legions now, if you’ve bothered counting.”

That news was indeed important. After his ascension to the imperial throne, the former slave Faros had been forced to remove all but three legions from the mainland colony-formerly the location of Silvanost-to quell disorder among the eastern islands. Even after the death of the infamous Lady Nephera-widow of an emperor she had likely used her dark arts to murder, the mother of another who had been more beast than ruler-remnants of her once-powerful sect, the Forerunners, had tried to reorganize. There were even said to be a few Protectors left, those fanatical Forerunners willing to surrender their lives to wreak whatever carnage they could against the ones responsible for their mistress’s demise.

But from what Tyranos had just said, Golgren knew that problem was contained for the moment. Faros had shifted his attention to the mainland. The grand lord grinned wider as he said admiringly, “He is very capable, the emperor of the Uruv Suurt.”

“Very handy, indeed,” said Tyranos, emphasizing the “hand” as a taunting joke.

Idaria uttered a barely audible gasp, but Golgren merely cocked his head noncommittally in reaction to the robed figure’s cutting remark, responding, “Good one. ‘Handy.’ Very, yes.”

“And the Solamnics, they are growing more bold on your borders too.”

“Yes, so close entwined are the efforts of the humans and the Uruv Suurt. Fascinating, do you not think?”

Tyranos briefly eyed the grand lord as if he were mad. “So you still will persist in your plans?”

The grand lord nodded firmly. “And dear Tyranos will assist my plans because it is what he must do.”

That brought a dark chuckle from the spellcaster. He tapped the staff on the floor again, and abruptly both the stick and the crystal atop shriveled into his palm. As the silver light faded out, its last glimmers revealed a smile equally as broad and deadly as that worn by Golgren. “Oh, there’s no fear there, oh Grand Lord! There’s no fear there.”

And with that, the hooded form once more slunk into the shadows, gradually disappearing among them.

“The lamp!” commanded Golgren.

Idaria quickly scurried to the thick, round lamp, using a nearby tinderbox to light the wick. The rising flame illuminated the silhouette of a human knight on horseback etched into the brass. As with nearly all else the ogres owned, even that was the result of plunder, not skilled crafting on their part.

The shadows melted away into the farther corners. Though Golgren stared, he did not expect to see any further sign of his ally, if Tyranos could be called such. They had mutual goals; that was all. As with the late Hotak and his sinister bride-Nephera-their agreement would last only as long as those goals were mutually beneficial. There were, naturally, times when Golgren was tempted to dispense with the arrogant human, but magic was a weapon lacking in his personal arsenal. He had to be wary of the Titans, always chafing at having him, a vermin in their eyes, in control of them and leader of the race. If not for Dauroth, Golgren well recognized, the Titans would act upon their hatred of the grand lord.

Still, there would come a day when no advantage would be worth the mage’s insults and presumed superiority.

Golgren clutched his chest again, seeking not the larger object hanging there, but the smaller. It felt warm and alive next to his skin, not like the shriveled appendage that hung next to it, the mummified right hand he had lost to Faros.

Yes, there would come a day-soon enough, he vowed-when he would no longer need anyone else’s magic …

Not even where Dauroth was concerned.

There will come a day, the leader of the Titans swore to himself. There will come a day…

And that day would soon be dawning, the day when the ogre race would once more take its preeminence among the peoples of Krynn. No longer would the ogres be derided as degenerate shadows of their once-glorious ancestors. Ogres would be revered and feared, as was their birthright.

On that day, Dauroth, too, would be revered and feared by all. It would be his reward for all his hard work, his long diligence, his unrelenting faith.

Dauroth sat with legs folded in his private meditation chamber. Before him floated a pure, golden teardrop in which his own hallowed reflection peered back at him. Had one of the other Titans dared at that moment to enter, Dauroth would not even have noticed him, so focused was he on the hovering artifact.

Of course, had anyone been foolish enough to intrude upon him when he was away from the mortal world, they would have died quickly and horribly. Dauroth never left himself unguarded.

His chest rose slightly then stilled again. In his current state, Dauroth breathed but once every quarter hour. It was yet another sign of his advanced state that he could perform so miraculous a feat while retaining consciousness. Even Hundjal, who had been with him longest, had to breathe at least eight times every hour-and that, with luck and effort.

Learning to slow his breathing was part of why Dauroth spent so much time in his private meditation chamber. More important, there the lead Titan communed with his memories, drawing upon them to reexperience the glorious visions that kept his hopes alive and encouraged him to greater efforts.

It had all begun with the first vision, or dream-whatever it had truly been-the first time the ancient ogre spirit had visited him. Dauroth had been a weary mage in a world with little magic still remaining, back then. That was during the time of the single moon, when sorcerers were ascendant.

He had been wandering, seeking clues to the past secrets of his people, hoping to find some way to restore magic and his race’s glory. Ogres had once been so powerful, so commanding. Dauroth yearned for that age, wishing that he could have lived as one of the legendary spellcasters back in the time when ogres ruled Ansalon.

And one day, that wish of his had been answered. It had come about while he was scouring a historic site of the High Ogres deep in the wilderness. The ancient structure, long ago half buried by an avalanche, was little more than a shell. Dauroth’s search for relics was coming up empty and, in a fit of frustration, the normally stoic mage had let out a cry of absolute fury while banging his fist against a crumbling wall.

“Dauroth … ” a voice had called to him then, a voice that sang sweeter than a songbird. “Dauroth … there is no need for your despair and rage. Your pleas have reached us.”

Spinning around, Dauroth had beheld a magnificent image, the wondrous spirit of a handsome, perfect figure with blue skin and shimmering robes-a Titan. The ogre had no doubt as to the nature of his vision. He knelt before the robed form.

“Dauroth … ” the Titan said in a voice at once female and male. “We have waited your coming. We have waited for the one who shall restore to this world our rightful glory.”

He could scarcely believe it. “I?”

“There can be no other. We have watched long. You are worthy. In you lies our greatest hope.”

“But … what can I do? I am but one being of limited skills in magic-”

The spirit glowed brighter. A complicit smile graced its lips. “That will change, Dauroth. You will inherit all the knowledge you need, all the power you need. We will teach you everything we know … everything you must know.”

As grateful as the ogre mage was, he wondered in his mind if he was truly worthy. How long would his education in magic take? The great knowledge of the High Ogres surely took decades of study and learning, possibly more years than he had left in life.

But as if reading his thoughts, the robed shade said reassuringly, “Fear not, dear Dauroth … the gifts we give to you will not take so long to collect and understand.”

Then the shade pointed a long, tapering finger ending in a black talon at him.

Dauroth let out a gasp as his head filled with incredible visions. The visions flashed one after another through his mind, sinking deep into his consciousness. Each lasted scarcely a second, yet the aggregate left a profound impact upon Dauroth. With each vision, his view of the world, of his place in the scheme of things, grew. He saw and understood, faster than he would have deemed possible, what needed to be done to achieve the resurrection of the ogre race. In a quick blur of time, he learned all the powerful spells that would need to be cast.

And most important of all, he saw how he himself could become as perfect as his ancestors had been. He saw how he could become the first of a new age of Ogre Titans.

The moment the visions dimmed and retreated, Dauroth cried out from gratitude. Tears flowed down his cheeks. He questioned nothing that the spirit had granted him, for never in a hundred lifetimes could he have learned all that he knew. The ogre knew the spells, the history … he knew it all.

“You are the beginning,” the shade proclaimed, slowly dissipating. “You shall be the end. You shall bring to Krynn the Golden Age again, and all will sing your name.”

Then Dauroth had found himself alone again, but no longer did he feel alone. Indeed, the ogre mage felt surrounded by others, for the ghosts of all the High Ogres stood with him.

Thinking back, he had been so eager to begin. He had grabbed his paltry findings and possessions and, in only minutes after that grand encounter, had headed in search of what he knew he would need to accomplish his goal, including one of the most important and rare ingredients-the blood of elves.

So much had happened since that time, so much that continued to propel him closer to his goal. Yet there had been setbacks along the way too. At times Dauroth wondered if he was still on the right path, whether things were happening too slowly.

Dauroth had prayed for some sort of sign, some hint that he was still the chosen one. For the longest time, his prayers had gone unanswered, and he’d feared the worst. Then, just when he was growing desperate, the golden teardrop had fallen into his hands.

Dauroth stared deeper and deeper into the artifact, staring at his own face looking back at him until-it was like a transition to dreaming-he suddenly stood within the teardrop, staring out at his colossal form. Then the huge Dauroth faded and the one within the teardrop turned and slowly began to drift in an ecstasy through a golden land.

He knew that place, for, despite its brilliant hue, it was the very valley in which his sanctum lay. Dauroth’s astral form came upon a blinding, sun-drenched tree with a crown that swept across the sky. Pausing, he knelt at its base, paying homage. Yes, there at those roots he had spotted the tiny, glistening object. It should have been easy for anyone to find, but it had lain there waiting for him. The moment that he had plucked it up, he had known it for what it was and how it had been meant to stir anew his determination to succeed.

Dauroth’s spirit form drifted on eagerly. In the sky distant creatures that might have been birds or something much larger soared by. The land below was lush with vegetation, all of it bathed in the same wondrous gold. Even Dauroth’s flesh-or the facsimile of it-had taken on that warm hue.

Hovering a few inches above the ground, the Titan easily rose over one hill after another. His speed multiplied. In barely the time it took to blink, Dauroth crossed the edge of the hidden valley-

And froze there, completely in awe despite the fact that he had witnessed that sight in his mind several times before.

It was a gleaming city cast in mirrorlike gold and sparkling diamond colors. Banners fluttered from its proud, turreted towers, and mingled within, Dauroth could see the sweeping, arched roofs of other great structures. Unfortunately, there was little more to see, for a vast, metal wall surrounded the city, a wall several times the height of the Titan. Above the roofs, sleek avian creatures soared in great numbers.

With an almost shy, childlike expression, Dauroth darted forward again. Perhaps he would be permitted …

But a huge ball of light suddenly burst before him. As he shielded his eyes, Dauroth made out something in the midst of the light. He did not need to see it coalesce to know what it was, for each time he sought the golden city, the guardian materialized.

For a brief moment, it evinced the shape and color of a Titan, but then it turned into something else equally astonishing. It was a being forged of magnificent gold. Dauroth sometimes termed the being a male, although there was nothing of either gender apparent in its appearance.

The golden guardian raised a hand toward him. Although it had no mouth, the Titan heard in his head words of a musical tongue; that which he himself spoke was but a pale imitation. As it had been since his first time there, Dauroth understood each word clearly as if he’d been born to the language.

It is not yet earned… not yet… soon perhaps.

In the mortal world, Dauroth’s body nearly jerked awake. Within the teardrop, his spirit form briefly lost cohesion. Only his strict discipline enabled the Titan leader to recover.

Each time he had confronted the guardian in the past, it had uttered those same words. More times than Dauroth cared to recall, he had been sent back with those words echoing through his mind like a condemnation. It is not yet earned… not yet…

But never before had the guardian added the last two words.

Both the body and spirit of Dauroth smiled. He was close to achieving his ultimate goal. The city was in reach.

The city held the final secrets that he needed to restore the glory of the ogre race and transform all of Krynn.

Its hand still raised against Dauroth, the guardian repeated one last time, It is not yet earned… not yet…

The last two words-those words of tremendous hope-were not repeated, and Dauroth feared that perhaps he had imagined them the first time. The city, the landscape, and their golden guardian began to fade. Dauroth felt the tug of his mortal shell, demanding that he return to the earthly plane. Yet the blue-skinned sorcerer fought to linger in the vision, silently demanding to hear the encouragement he had heard earlier.

And as the last of the guardian faded, those words came again.

But soon perhaps… it said in its toneless voice. Soon perhaps… it echoed, much to his delight.

With that, Dauroth ceased his struggle to remain free of his corporeal form. The tension built up by his resistance caused him to snap awake in the meditation chamber, his body wracked with pain and his head pounding so harshly that it felt as if it were about to explode. Yet those sensations quickly passed, urged away by his utter exuberance. Dauroth leaped to his feet, stretching one hand out to catch the teardrop, which suddenly no longer had the power to hover and was about to fall.

With utmost reverence, the robed spellcaster placed the artifact in a small ivory chest atop a shelf in the wall. Dauroth uttered a single syllable and a faint red glow surrounded the chest. A moment later, the container itself faded away, as though it were smoke blown on the wind.

He was so close … so very close.

He started as he sensed an approaching presence. Identifying the newcomer, Dauroth nodded. In the next second, the door to the chamber swung open.

Safrag bowed low as he entered. In the tongue that Dauroth had created, he said, “Venerable One, may this humble apprentice approach you with words of possible import?”

To the lead Titan’s ears-which had just heard what he was certain was the pure language of the High Ogres-Safrag might as well have been speaking in the debased tongue used in Kern and Blode. Nothing else-absolutely nothing-was more than a befouled bastardization of the perfect music with which the golden guardian had assured him of his future.

Still, Dauroth forced himself to reply in the same debased tongue, reminding himself that someday soon all would change.

“You may speak, Safrag.”

The other Titan’s expression grew anxious, an unbecoming look for one of Dauroth’s proud chosen. If Safrag did not have a good reason for his uncertainty, Dauroth would have to reconsider his value as an apprentice.

“Master, I would not speak out of turn, naturally, and this is so delicate a matter-”

Dauroth’s stare cut him short. “Proceed, Safrag.”

The apprentice bowed his head low. His words sounded more strident than musical, evidence of his mounting distress. “Master, it concerns one who should be above reproach, one for whom my respect is second only to that which I have for you … I speak of none other than Hundjal.”

For Safrag to even suggest something amiss with Dauroth’s most promising convert worried the elder Titan. Dauroth had been grooming Hundjal to eventually take over all dealings with the others, so the lead Titan could delve completely into his research and further hasten the return of the Golden Age.

The Titan leader ushered his apprentice inside and sealed the door with a simple gesture of his hand. Eyes blazing as golden as the world in the teardrop, Dauroth demanded, “And what potential offense is it that good Hundjal has committed?”

Safrag winced, for even his angry master no longer sounded as if he sang his words. “Master-Master, I fear that Hundjal seeks the forbidden. I fear that Hundjal has delved into the legend of the Fire Rose.”

Dauroth couldn’t help it; he flinched. His expression must have been terrifying, for Safrag nearly flattened himself against the door. The lead Titan immediately took a calming breath, which, at least outwardly, appeared to work.

“It has been forbidden by those who know of it to even speak the name,” he reminded Safrag coldly.

The studious Safrag kept his head low. “And if I must be punished, Master, for speaking it, so be it.”

Dauroth stared past his second apprentice. “Yet the crime that is most heinous is to dare disturb even the memory of that foul artifact. Worse even is to hope to make the legend into truth.”

“Perhaps Hundjal does not understand the implications.”

That defense sounded weak, especially to Dauroth. Of all of them, Hundjal likely understood best-nearly as well as his mentor-the danger of resurrecting the dream of the Fire Rose. If Safrag was right … Well, there was no choice but to investigate.

“From this point on, Safrag, you will neither speak nor even think of the Fire Rose. I will study Hundjal and determine his innocence or guilt.”

“Yes, great Dauroth.” The door behind the younger Titan swung open without warning. Safrag needed no other hint to understand that he had been dismissed. He slipped into the hall and scurried away.

“Hundjal … ” Dauroth muttered. “Hundjal, if you have disobeyed me in this-you of all who should know better-you will envy Falstoch. Yes, you will.”

Baring his teeth, the sorcerer suddenly whirled from the doorway and rushed deeper into the recesses of his sanctum. A change came over Dauroth, one that would have set even the most powerful Titans-including the select few who were a part of the Black Talon-on fearful edge. They would have seen a Dauroth unfamiliar to them, a Dauroth in a cold sweat.

To those who observed the master spellcaster’s chamber from outside, it would have appeared a normal-sized room. But as with the rest of the edifice in which he dwelled, Dauroth’s domain did not follow physical laws, and in fact, there were rooms within rooms within rooms, all shifting according to his desires.

And one of those hidden rooms took form before the Titan, who flung open the iron door protecting it and stepped into an even larger and certainly more arcane place.

The vast room was covered in ice and filled with a coldness that even Dauroth felt with a shiver. Great mounds resembling snow-shrouded stalagmites dotted the bizarre inner chamber. More than twenty of those stood at intervals in the path between Dauroth and the other side of the room.

And there, half buried in ice, stood a black, metal chest chained with long, silver tendrils.

Dauroth took a step toward the chest, and the first of the mounds immediately shattered. A grotesque form shook free the last remnants of its prison and stepped forward to confront the sorcerer. It had the size and shape of an ogre, but one with only vestiges of skin and armor over its yellowed bones. Black, hollow eye sockets somehow glared murderously as the undead creature menaced the Titan leader with a huge, worn axe.

“Asymnopti isidiu,” sang Dauroth.

The grotesque guardian stumbled to a halt, then retreated to his original position. As if time were reversing itself, the skeleton’s icy shell swiftly reformed around it.

As Dauroth moved on, the rest of the mounds remained quiescent. His command to the first undead to return to his sleep also had affected all the others. However, the way to avoid his monstrous guardians was not merely a case of knowing the right magical phrases. The warriors-chosen from strong, living ogres whom Dauroth poisoned, then stripped of their flesh-were enchanted to obey only his voice, no other.

There were other, more subtle safeguards, but the Titan leader silently nullified those as he moved deeper inside. He had no patience for anything standing in his way.

As Dauroth approached the chest, the silver tendrils became fanged serpents that stretched for his wrist. He let the first one bite him, at which point it collapsed into a simple strand of rope. The other serpents likewise transformed harmlessly.

But with nothing between himself and the chest, Dauroth hesitated. A part of him wanted to rush from that dread magical place, while another longed to examine the chest’s contents. At last, a combination of both fear and desire forced him to open the sinister box.

Instantly, a fiery white light burst from the chest. Dauroth turned away for a moment then forced himself to look again.

And in the center of the chest, floating in a clear liquid that was not water, was a tiny, pointed fragment-no larger than a pea-that looked as if it were made of iridescent pearl. Within the fragment, a fiery force that occasionally tinted the piece bright orange-red shifted about like a caged animal. Dauroth was uncertain whether that force lived or not but preferred to err on the side of caution, so he didn’t intend to disturb it.

Yet the Titan already sensed the growing heat and, indeed, the first trickle of melting ice reached his ears a breath later. More important, he found his fingers reaching toward the fragment in spite of his efforts to resist.

Exerting tremendous willpower, Dauroth grasped the lid and shut the chest tightly. Only then did he exhale. Around him, the chamber quickly cooled.

Although the strain of the moment was still upon him, Dauroth felt some relief. Neither Hundjal nor anyone else had found their way into the chamber. The secret was safe, for the moment.

But as he retreated to the doorway, the Titan felt a growing heat within him that tempted him to return to the chest. Dauroth fought the temptation and finally managed to exit into the main chamber. Once there, he made a gesture, sending the icy chamber back into hiding from the mortal plane.

The desire to go back and hold the fragment in his hands lingered, to use the powerful artifact as he had only once before.

That single incident had proven to be costly.

Dauroth suddenly felt unsteady on his feet. A chair quickly summoned by magic gave him respite just before he would have collapsed. His weakness shocked him but also served as a grim reminder of just how dangerous his unholy prize was.

He held out his hand. A shadow briefly crossed it, leaving in its wake a goblet filled with a clear liquid of Dauroth’s concoction. The Titan quickly sipped from the goblet, feeling his composure and strength returning. Yet even after he had downed the entire drink, he remained apprehensive, as if, somehow by checking on the fragment’s security, Dauroth had actually set into motion something he would not be able to stop.

But that was absurd, the sorcerer thought. Surely, that was absurd …

Dauroth rose, banishing the goblet at the same time. Hundjal’s innocence or guilt had to be determined. It had to be done quickly and quietly. The secret of the Fire Rose had to remain a secret. That tiny fragment was the most important discovery of his researches.

That fragment was so potent that even Dauroth shuddered to think what would happen if the complete artifact ever again saw light.