Golgren did not want his “guest” departing before the grand lord had the opportunity to cement his proposed alliance.
“You will wait by his side, my Idaria,” Golgren murmured as he started to the doorway. As he passed her, however, the ogre paused to meet her gaze with his own. “As you ever wait by mine.”
He looked ready to say more but then stalked out. Idaria froze briefly, wondering if she should follow him for some reason. Then Stefan mumbled in his sleep, and the elf recalled her orders.
However, it was not to the knight’s side that she went immediately, but rather to the window. Peering out as best she could, she saw that there were no guards to be seen on the grounds below. The elf leaned forward and, pursing her lips, whistled quietly.
What emerged from her lips was no sound that humans, dwarves, or-certainly-ogres could re-create. It was as if an actual bird had vocalized. Only an elf was capable of such sounds that could fool even the wisest avian creature into coming to her.
But the bird she sought knew her and would come because she had called it. It was one of the many messengers she utilized to contact the others, and of all times, Idaria needed to contact her comrades quickly after learning what she had. They would not like talk of alliances, however far-fetched it might seem to them. They would need to know about the events, and they would advise her what to do.
As she waited for the bird to come, the elf slave looked over her shoulder at the Solamnic. He had witnessed terrible things, including the savage deaths of those close to him, something with which she could identify. He was a captive of Golgren, and it remained to be seen for him how much suffering was in store. She, too, had witnessed the deaths of friends and family; she, too, suffered as a captive slave.
Yes, Idaria Oakborn could well sympathize with the Knight of Solamnia, but that did not mean she would not kill him without regret if it proved necessary for the sake of her own goals.
Golgren knew exactly who Stefan Rennert was, and he richly savored the irony of that particular knight’s having been handed over to the grand lord. Indeed, Golgren mused that many things in his life seemed predestined, and perhaps the Solamnic had been sent there deliberately as some kind of spy.
But Solamnics did not sacrifice their fellows in such a clever manner, so Golgren felt fairly certain that things had merely gone awry for the human. Fate, it appeared, was simply on the grand lord’s side again, silently aiding his plans.
Reaching the throne room, Golgren summoned Khleeg. The ever-resourceful Blodian returned scant minutes later, by which time Golgren had thought it over and knew better what he wanted of him.
When he gave his orders to the other ogre, Khleeg looked at him in dismay. “Grand Lord, not a wise thing!”
“But you will obey!”
The officer banged his fist on his breastplate. “Aye.”
“Then see it is done.”
Looking not at all pleased, the Blodian rushed off again.
Golgren nodded to himself then departed for his private quarters. The guards saluted him then shut the doors behind him after he passed through, relaxing slightly out of his view.
Alone, the grand lord surveyed the lush chamber, elven in its design, ogrish in its decadence. He strode to a side wall and shoved aside one of the elegant but weathered tapestries with his maimed limb. Then, with his hand, he pressed the blank wall at a point that was generally level with his broad chest.
An area roughly a foot square shimmered red and slid forward.
Golgren had divined the secret of the hidden drawer from his studies of the High Ogres. It had taken him very little time to discover the one in the grand khan’s very chamber. Certainly, neither Zharang nor his immediate predecessors had ever suspected the existence of the magical drawer, for inside the compartment Golgren had found a crumbling parchment in the written language of his ancestors. Regrettably, the parchment had turned to dust when he touched it, but the drawer had remained useful for storing a few other precious items.
From within, Golgren removed a single object: a small, almost delicate, dagger. Its intricate craftsmanship hinted of ancient derivation, and he had found it far from that place as an exhausted, bleeding youth, still carrying his mother’s drying corpse over his shoulder. Golgren had been on his last legs then, desperately trying to throw off two ji-baraki that were following his scent. Yet that had not worried him so much as what they would do to the body of his beloved mother, which he had struggled so hard to save and carry away.
The crevasse through which he had slipped into the hill cave had truly been little more than a slight tear barely wide enough to allow him inside and, he hoped, would keep the huge lizards outside. Inside it was blissfully cool. He had set down his mother’s body then paused to take stock of his surroundings.
That was when the gleam had caught his eye, the gleam of orange-red stone. Instantly mesmerized, Golgren-he was still Guyvir then-had been drawn closer to that gleam.
There he had happened upon the crumbling temple. The stone had been part of a shattered relief, the eye of one of two fighting mastarks. The rest of the imagery was no longer visible, erosion having done its job in ruining the art.
Even the most backwater village knew the tales of the great High Ogres, although most of those tales grew distorted with time. Thinking of those tales of the High Ogres’ supposed miracles, Golgren had scavenged through the cracked stone walls and small alcoves, hoping to find something precious, something magical with which to restore his mother to him.
But there had been nothing. There were ruins only. Defeated, the youth had slumped back against one cracked wall and nearly died when he broke through its weakened structure, falling. Golgren had dropped down several feet and landed upon what could best be described as junk and refuse.
However, he also found trickling water. From a crack in the rock, a few drops at a time were slipping down to the ground, where the water seeped into the soil. There was evidence that the forgotten priests of yore had crafted some fine watering system, but to the young ogre’s mind, all that mattered was he could drink his fill. That in itself was a miracle.
Climbing out was another, more troublesome matter, and at first he wondered if he would die there, where he had fallen, sated with water. Indeed, on his first attempt to climb back up, Golgren had made it only halfway before falling back onto the stone and garbage. At that point, his hand had closed around that very dagger; why it had been discarded, he couldn’t fathom.
Oddly, once armed, his confidence rose enough that on his next try, Golgren made it back up and into the cave. Feeling proud, he returned to where he had left his mother’s body …
Only to discover a male ji-baraki was busy ripping apart the still-tender torso.
Golgren screamed, a sound that echoed in the small, natural chamber, making it seem as though a hundred warriors had surrounded the reptile. Mouth stained, the ji-baraki spun around, confused and alarmed.
Not caring what happened to himself, Golgren had leaped upon the beast. He felt its talons slash at his arms, but all he cared about was avenging his mother’s ravaging. He had intended to punish her true killers, but the ji-baraki became their surrogate. Golgren slashed again and again and again, not even stopping when he and the beast lay on the ground, the latter dead.
Scarred, bleeding freshly, the young half-breed finally halted. He stood and kicked aside the reptile and went over to the elf remains. Even his mother’s face had not been left unmarred, but Golgren nonetheless clutched the ruined body tight.
Then, growing cold of mind, he carried her to what had once been a platform below the fighting mastarks. Golgren arranged her corpse then returned to the dead beast. With deliberate ferocity, he cut deep into the ji-baraki and removed a hunk of its flesh. Then, seating himself, the ogre devoured his fill. As she had always done, his mother had provided him with a meal.