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.
VI
Ogre life was brutal, and it was twice as brutal for a warrior defeated or shamed. An ogre was measured by his victories, and only one loss could completely alter his standing.
When any chieftain, khan, or lord of the race had a fresh victory to crow long about, an elaborate party was in order.
The minotaur empire had its Great Circus, a huge, oval stadium in which tens of thousands could sit and watch huge spectacles and duels between skilled gladiators. Stories of the battles that took place in the Great Circus were known as far away as the island of Northern Ergoth, off the western edge of Ansalon.
The ogres had a similar arena, which, when first constructed, had been considered one of the wonders of the ancient world. Even with its dome long gone, it was still an imposing structure rivaling in size that of the cursed horned ones. However, like all else in Kern or Blode, it had suffered the ravages of time and neglect and uncivilized behavior. Its dome was gone. Its surrounding walls-once covered with elegant reliefs of griffons and athletes-had either been scoured flat by the elements or battered into ruins during the many vicious power struggles that had decimated the once-proud capital over the centuries. The statues that had stood atop the gates had long been reduced to merely the sandaled feet of some forgotten ruler or the paws of the city’s guardian.
Within the arena-called the Jaka Hwunar by ogres, which roughly translated to the Place of Glorious Blooding in the Common tongue-the signs of decline and decay were also prevalent. The rows of marble benches, which long ago had lost their woven, padded backings, were cracked and mottled. Some parts were broken or missing, due to generations of enthusiastic onlookers bashing at the marble with their clubs. Large rocks and fragments from the wall had been scavenged to fill gaps, but if anything, that added to the ugliness of the setting.
Reaching one of the benches was a precarious job, for the steps and walkways had also suffered over the years. Those areas not worn away by multitudes of heavy feet constantly treading the surface were likely cracked from the same clubs, dropped or pounded, that had brutalized the once-pristine marble seats.
Yet despite such destruction, the Jaka Hwunar had never fallen into disuse in all its long history. Every ruler had shed blood there to prove his power and delight his subjects, who generally reveled in such entertainment. It was a place where warriors vied against other warriors for status, where ogres engaged in competitions with savage beasts, and it was also a place for the public shaming and execution of rivals.
Thus, Golgren took the next step in cementing his mystique by parading out into the arena an array of sorry-looking captives led by the defeated chieftains Wulfgarn and Guln. Wulfgarn wore a look of exhausted resignation, while Guln constantly swung his head back and forth and snarled like a mountain cat at any among the crowd he thought was jeering him. They were followed by a ragtag line of warriors from the beaten horde then a number of figures clad in ruined robes that marked their wearers as formerly among the elite castes. Those last were those Golgren had deemed too close to Zharang to be allowed to go unharmed. Each new ruler of the ogres did the exact same thing, eliminating all family and associates of his predecessor.
Khleeg and a newly armored Wargroch had the honor of standing guard over their master, who sat upon the pillowed couch that had once been reserved for Zharang. Idaria knelt nearby at Golgren’s right, a flask of wine sitting on a small tray before her. The elf showed no more discomfort with what was unfolding before her eyes than anyone else in the audience.
Next to Golgren, there stood a tall, high-backed seat carved from rare black oak, which was found in the mountains toward the northeast. Upon it had been carved various symbols in the ancient writing of the High Ogres. Its dimensions made it look far too large to accommodate any of the ogres assembled thus far. Golgren eyed it briefly with a slight, humorless smile. Dauroth did not think that he could read the ancient symbols, but he could. They honored whoever sat there as lord of the land, and while the script referred originally to some forgotten ruler of the ancients, the grand lord had no doubt that Dauroth saw himself as the heir to those words.
The Titan was not there, though Golgren had commanded his presence. That slight would be addressed at some future point.
The warriors in charge of the prisoners arranged them into groups according to the grand lord’s prior instructions. Khleeg signaled to a trumpeter, who raised his goat horn and let loose a long, baleful note.
The first group, which included only captured common warriors from the horde, was ushered forward into a wide, open area of the arena. As they took their places, the seated throngs began to bark and beat their clubs against the stone.
From the other end of the arena marched a long line of armored guards with clubs and other heavy weapons. They formed twin ranks before the warriors, creating a menacing gauntlet.
The first of the prisoners was shoved forward. Chained, he stumbled at first then began to run awkwardly through the gauntlet.
The second fighter he passed swung brutally at him. The club struck the prisoner’s shoulder so hard, the crack of bone echoed throughout the arena. The crowd lustily barked its approval and battered the seating area into further ruin.
Somehow the chained ogre managed to keep his footing and throw himself forward. However, that merely set him up as victim for a savage series of blows that rained all over his back. Blood splattered the victim, the guards standing in line, and indeed into the front rows of spectators. The prisoner finally let out a howl and slumped to the ground. That, though, brought him no mercy. Instead, the nearest warriors began beating on him in true earnest until finally what lay between them was nearly unrecognizable as a once-living creature.
With long braided whips, two guards forced a couple of the remaining prisoners to advance and drag away the bloody remains. As they did, another captive was picked to be next for the gauntlet.
The prize for any prisoner who managed to make it all the way through the deadly gauntlet was freedom and a place of pride once again among his own kind. The odds were great against such a hope, however, and no one remembered any prisoner ever doing so.
The moment the second prisoner was prodded to move, he tried to run with all the swiftness his exhausted body and the chains allowed. He ducked and dodged as the first guards swung at him, landing only glancing blows. His early success brought momentary cheers of encouragement from the stands.