Uruv Suurt-in the legionary’s mind, those ancient words left no doubt that the curious-looking giant was somehow tied to the ogre race. Very much aware of the odds against him, Thados nonetheless bent forward and, with a roar, charged headfirst at the towering spellcaster. Although rarely used in that manner, a minotaur’s horns could be very lethal.
But before he got at all close to the giant’s stomach, Thados heard a swishing sound; that was the last thing he heard. His head dropped from his neck, the cut so clean, his body continued forward two steps before it realized it was dead.
Hundjal dismissed the gleaming silver blade he had summoned, just as moments before he had banished the bow he used to slay the three other minotaurs. It had not been much of a hunt, true, but still a better passing of the time than the previous day.
Another Titan materialized next to him. Unlike Hundjal, there was no evident pleasure in the second Titan’s face. In fact, the other spellcaster wore a rare, worried expression.
“This is not as Dauroth commanded,” the other declared in the singsong language of their kind. “The Uruv Suurt, if they were to die, were supposed to do so as if by accident.”
Dauroth’s senior apprentice held out his hand, and the bolts he had used to slay the three minotaurs momentarily appeared in his palm before vanishing elsewhere. “And so they were.”
With a wave of his hand, the legionaries’ corpses also disappeared. Hundjal eyed the high rocks toward which the squad had been marching. A brief rumbling like thunder arose, and the upper third of the formation collapsed.
“They’ll find them all there underneath the rocks, that is, if they really feel like digging. A rockslide, very accidental.”
His companion was not easily convinced. “Hundjal, you may be Dauroth’s favored, but still the leader may find such recklessness-”
However, a sharp glance from Hundjal not only silenced the other Titan, but made him decide the prudent course was to himself vanish.
Dauroth’s favored-Hundjal did not see himself that way anymore. He should not have been out there in the borderlands, spending his might harassing and hunting Uruv Suurt. There was some fleeting enjoyment in that, true, but overall such a task was for the likes of lesser beings and conscripts, such as the Titans’ latest addition, Ulgrod. That was a good proving ground for young Titans, not for veterans such as Hundjal, who assumed-as did many others-he would someday inherit the mantle of leadership over the Black Talon and the Titans in general.
Yet Dauroth had insisted that Hundjal supervise the mission, as though it were of any consequence. Hundjal knew as well as his master that Golgren had only insisted on the Titans’ involvement there because he wanted to keep them occupied. The grand lord was a mongrel … but a mongrel with cunning.
Hundjal sensed more soldiers in the distance. His blood boiling from reflecting on his exile, the Titan found himself suddenly looking forward to a little more slaughter. Still, the pleasure would be as momentary as his last experience. A thousand slain Uruv Suurt could not make up for the slight to his pride.
It was a slight the Titan would never forgive his master.
Summoning power, Hundjal vanished immediately and just as rapidly reappeared within striking distance of the new soldiers. They, naturally, could not see him any better than the ones who had come before them. He detected the presence of two other Titans, who wisely acknowledged his superiority then retreated. All knew that the senior apprentice liked to hunt on his own.
He was acting recklessly; even Hundjal understood that. The deaths would look like accidents but only barely, and surely the Uruv Suurt would question how so many accidents could occur.
But Hundjal did not care. He knew only that he could not stand their treatment for much longer. Something would have to be done.
A change would have to be made … and soon.
The high walls ahead did not bode well for Stefan, who stared at them hopelessly. He was in Kernen, a place no living Solamnic-probably very few humans in general-had visited and lived to talk about. Its ancient splendor was obvious and the active rebuilding going on surprised him. It was not the dying, decaying city that the Command constantly spoke about.
A guard shoved him forward. Stefan had been so overawed by his first sight of Kernen that he had stopped walking. The knight quickly picked up his pace, straightening as he went. Even as a prisoner facing doom, a Solamnic entered the stronghold of his enemies with courage and honor.
Atolgus was not escorting him to a lesser khan after all, but intended to present the Solamnic to one of those in the august circle of the Grand Lord Golgren himself. The notion that Stefan might actually lay eyes on the grand lord stirred his blood. He had an opportunity to learn firsthand about the subject of his mission.
Atolgus grunted something to the guards at the gate, a pair of ugly beasts who eyed Stefan as if he were a rat that needed exterminating. A slight argument ensued, but before the ogres could come to blows, Atolgus slipped something into the meaty paws of one of the guards. The language of bribery was as universal as those of love and war.
They shuffled him past the sentries, who were already debating what sort of payment they could squeeze out of the next in line. Stefan glanced up at the gateway as he passed underneath the legendary portal; he knew he would never escape, but at least he would learn more than he had ever hoped about ogre civilization.
Inner Kernen was even more astounding than he imagined; beyond the walls the old city was filled with more ogres than any human could have dreamed existed in all the realm. The capital was in every way a bustling city, more vibrant than some vast human settlements to the west. There was a definite energy in the air, a sense of excitement and expectation. The ogres saw a future filled with promise. That could not be good for the rest of Ansalon.
Stefan beheld an unsettling sight as he entered the capitaclass="underline" ogres clad in finery. True, compared to the rulers of Solamnia, the well-dressed ogres looked rather gaudy and even ridiculous, but the very fact that such creatures existed was another sign of the ogres’ attempt to rise above their ignominious past.
They passed through the market area, crude by the standards of Solamnia but still bursting with more variety than any outsider could have anticipated. Many of the fashioned items clearly had been scavenged from other races, with most of them coming, of course, from the elves. There were many weapons stalls. In fact, there were more than seemed possible or necessary. Swords, spears, clubs, daggers … the list went on.
There were beasts aplenty too. They consisted of not only the stolid ogre steeds, but also baraki fighting lizards favored for sport; savage, red-crested raptors; and fearsome, wild goats that appeared half-wolf with their vicious, long snouts and glaring eyes. There were also several variations of an animal that Stefan heard his captors refer to as amaloks, most of them long-necked, yellow-and-gray-striped terrors kept in small groups in high-walled pens. Their bodies were sleek and obviously designed for swiftness. While they bore lupine features, they also resembled horses, albeit horses with a long, nasty pair of horns-clearly capable of being wielded as weapons-and sharp teeth.
While familiar with the traditional patron of the city, Stefan beheld another symbol vying for predominance that bespoke something more recent and ominous. The icon appeared mostly on banners flying over the roofs of many of the buildings, but several of those of high castes even wore the emblem on their person. It was a severed hand clutching a bloody dagger.
Even in Solamnia, reports had filtered in that the Grand Lord Golgren had turned his lost hand into a symbol of defiance.