“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.”