“This is surely a task for your commanders, Grand Lord-”
The smaller half-breed shook his head. “That would be war. This would be … ” Golgren searched for the right phrase. “This would be Kyethna Uulusaar.’ ”
“ ‘The Gods’ Laughter,’ ” Dauroth repeated. “The word or phrase in Common you seek, oh Grand Lord, might be happenstance or better pure coincidence.”
“Yes … what befalls the Uruv Suurt will be coincidence, will it not, good Dauroth?”
“As you say,” the blue-skinned spellcaster replied, his tone even. “As you say.”
Without warning, Golgren turned away from Dauroth, suddenly seeming more interested in the view. He did not see the momentary gleam in the Titan’s eyes, but Idaria did. She almost let out a cry of warning, but Dauroth’s gaze shifted to the elf, stifling her.
Then the Titan vanished in a swirl of black tendrils of smoke.
As if sensing the departure, Golgren immediately turned back toward the elf woman. Triumph shone in his own eyes.
His triumph was tempered by the knowledge that his victory was only temporary.
“Now the Titans will be kept busy for a time, do you not think, my Idaria?”
“I … I suppose so, master.”
Golgren chuckled softly. He took her chin in his hand and guided her face so she was forced to look up intimately into his eyes. “Fear not, my Idaria. Golgren will not let him have you.” His expression hardened as his gaze returned to where the sorcerer had stood before he departed. “No … I have only one gift in mind for Dauroth and his Titans.”
VII
Stefan trudged along the barren land, watched carefully by his captors even though his arms were bound. The ogres holding him belonged to a small nomadic band that had come upon the battle site at the same time as he and his party of knights. There were about forty in all, led by a young chieftain named Atolgus. Although Kern was led by a grand khan, and lesser khans governed vast stretches of the realm in his name, chieftains were the backbone of ogre rule in Kern as they were in Blode. Atolgus ruled with the iron fist and heavy club necessary for survival there. Stefan knew that, not the least after having witnessed the shaggy, black-mopped giant beat into submission at least one surly warrior who resisted his commands.
Stefan himself had been struck only once in the nearly six days since his capture. Atolgus had no sympathy for the human. He was keeping the knight alive for only one reason. The chieftain was a minor figure among leaders in his realm; that was obvious from the small size of the party, which roamed around without belonging to an actual village. However, Atolgus would elevate his status by presenting his captive to one of the khans, who in turn could use the knight to increase his own standing.
All that would happen, assuming that Stefan survived the long, arduous trek to wherever Atolgus intended to take him.
Stefan observed his guards warily, especially a scarred, vicious beast named Thraas. Nearly bald and with a nose obviously broken more than once, Thraas was ugly, even for an ogre, and more ill-tempered than the typical member of the race. Atolgus wielded the ultimate authority, but Thraas clearly boasted some unique status of his own among the clan, for more than once he balked slyly at orders given him by the chieftain, sidestepping actual disagreement. Yet Thraas did not directly defy his leader, nor did Atolgus call his underling to task.
Atolgus was the only male who could speak Common at all. However, his mate, the only slightly less fearsome Torma, proved to be something of a sophisticate. She was well versed enough to translate most of the chieftain’s garbled words and phrases.
“Atolgus learn from shelled ones,” Torma explained with a grunt. “Shiny, like you.” Although younger than Stefan, her face was sadly worn by life in the rough wild and her breasts-barely covered by the ragged animal skin she wore-hung very low. Most ogres failed to live past forty years.
“While fighting the Nerakans … uh, the black shells?”
The ogress nodded affirmatively. It was Torma who had the duty of feeding the prisoner. Normally, such a task would have fallen on a lesser female, but Atolgus did not trust any of the others and, in truth, Torma seemed to enjoy the opportunity to practice her Common.
“They taught you, did they?” Stefan asked, honestly curious.
Torma stuffed a piece of meat tougher than jerky into his mouth. Her eyes burned fiercely. “Females not taught, but Torma listened much … learn some.”
Female ogres usually joined in the fighting and even on a rare occasion took up the mantle of chieftain, but the conventional wisdom was that most of them existed simply to breed more male ogres. The women’s inferior position obliged them to deal with most of the camp work whenever the clan settled down for the night. It was often the women who pitched the rounded frame tents that were covered in long-abused animal skins; the females did the main cooking, and they saw that order was kept among the young, especially the hot-headed males.
Torma finished feeding the captive. “Sleep now,” she said sternly in Common. “Long journey Garantha is.”
Sleep Stefan did, for he had no other choice and in fact he was bone weary. The ground was as crude and inhospitable as his taskmasters, but the march had truly exhausted him. He drifted off almost immediately into a very deep slumber.
That was why he did not wake until the shadowy figure in the dark hovering over him had nearly freed his limbs.
It was actually the shush of breathing that woke the Solamnic, breathing that sounded as if some savage animal loomed very close to him. Stefan jerked awake then heard a low, bestial grunt. As he started to rise-realizing at that moment that he was no longer bound-there came a sound like the fluttering of wings. Taloned hands clutched his shoulders.
Stefan tried to punch his attacker, aiming for where he assumed the head of the creature must be, and was rewarded with a thwack on the side of his enemy’s jaw. The shadowy form snarled but did not release its hold. Stefan kicked up, but the winged form’s chest proved to be better protected than its jaw, and the knight ended up only ramming his leg into something very solid.
Stefan’s foe was nearly as tall as he and about half again as broad. Its strength seemed on par with that of an ogre.
Stefan was about to cry out when from nearby came someone else’s shout of alarm. Suddenly, Stefan’s attacker lost all interest in him.
“Fool,” grunted a voice that was neither human nor ogre. The shape retreated, melting into the darkness. Leaping to his feet, Stefan tried to grab him or it, but once more there sounded a rapid flapping of wings and suddenly the human was alone.
Although that did not last for long. A hissing filled the air. Stefan gasped as something sinewy enfolded him, cutting off his breath. He fought for air, only to be pulled off his feet without warning.
He landed on the ground with such force that he nearly blacked out. A heavy foot slammed into him hard in the side. Through tearing eyes, the Solamnic beheld Thraas looming over him, a torch in one hand and the handle of a whip-the source of the knight’s breathing difficulties-in the other.
“Magaros ul i f’han, Shok G’Ran,” snarled the ogre. Shok G’Ran was the phrase used by the monstrous race for the Solamnics. It literally meant the shelled ones who bite like lions and was a reflection of the ogres’ grudging respect for the Knighthood’s skills. Shok meant a powerful beast.
Thraas had his foot planted on the human’s chest and was busy squeezing the air out of Stefan’s windpipe. At the same time, he thrust his torch dangerously close to the knight’s face.
“Vardok! Da i vardok!” Atolgus had arrived, shoving Thraas to the side just before the ogre would have succeeded in killing Stefan. As the knight gasped for air, the two ogres began arguing. Thraas pointed insistently into the dark landscape and, as other ogres gathered around, rushed out of the camp in that direction. Another warrior followed close at his heels.