“Send it back, Safrag! Send it back! I don’t wish to see the rest!”
Stretching his hand forth, Safrag sang the words of dismissal. Immediately, the bookcase began to solidify again. The dripping, gray-white appendage pulled back at the last moment, just before the shelves completely solidified.
Morgada couldn’t stop shivering. Releasing her from his grasp, Safrag stepped closer to the shelves and adjusted a pair of tomes that had tipped over during the transformation.
“Is there anything else you wish to see?” he asked placidly. When there came no reply, Safrag turned. He expected to find the Titaness gone, but Morgada still stood there. Her skin, however, had turned a paler shade of blue.
“It is worse than Donnag,” she breathed. “Though I saw but little, it is far more terrible! How did it happen? What went awry?”
“What went awry?” The apprentice was honestly puzzled for a moment by her question; then understanding dawned. “Ah! Nothing went awry, Morgada, as you should have been informed! These creatures are just as Dauroth condemned them! This is his punishment for those Titans who seek to betray his dreams … and him.”
The other Titan shook her head in horror and disbelief, perhaps reflecting on some of her own past actions, not to mention future plans. She stepped farther away from the shelves, and her retreat continued until she stood safely at the entrance.
Then, still speechless, Morgada fled down the halls.
Safrag narrowly eyed the doorway then glanced back at the wall area from where he had summoned Falstoch. The apprentice rubbed his chin thoughtfully and quickly departed.
Although Golgren was master of his people, he still had not been technically designated as their grand khan. He could have simply declared that he had taken the title, but he was well aware that his enemies would whisper against him; the deficiencies of his appearance, the suggestion of half-breeding, would always haunt him. Thus Golgren looked to ogre rituals and tradition to strengthen the bond between himself and his people.
Already he was planning a coronation ritual to coincide with the changing of the season from summer to fall. Ogres traditionally gave thanks for fall, when the heat abated-somewhat, anyway-and life became a little more tolerable.
But the changing of the season was still a month away, and Golgren had to cement his authority in the meantime. Fortunately, another important tradition that presaged the changing of summer to fall was the annual Festival of the Griffon.
Ogres believed in the power of their totems, and for Garantha there was no more powerful spirit than their patron animal. The Festival of the Griffon ran for three days, during which time warriors vied for honors representing the griffon spirit’s attributes: ferocity, might, and endurance. Victors were acclaimed, and the toll of blood was often higher during the festival than any other time. Such was the proper manner by which to celebrate the great griffon; for many centuries, before the downfall of Silvanost, the pampered elf royalty had also honored the griffon, but with a festival of flowers and offerings of fruit. Ogres sneered at such genteel foolishness.
The ruling khan traditionally presided over the Festival of the Griffon, and all would see Golgren in that role.
The conclusion to the festival was the offering of sacrifice at the Garan i Seraith-the Nest of the Griffon. The temple, an oval structure with a barred roof in its center, sat near the palace, so the spirit’s favor would not be far from the grand khan. That the spirit’s favor had not saved his predecessor was a moot point; even Golgren respected the code of the spirit, and, more important, his subjects’ faith in it.
The upcoming festival would serve another useful purpose: to further impress Sir Stefan Rennert with the power wielded by Golgren and the many changes his rule was destined to bring to a people other races considered uncivilized beasts.
For the competitions, which took place in the Jaka Hwunar, the Solamnic was given a seat of honor next to the grand lord, a vantage from which he could view every aspect of the games. Khleeg, Wargroch, and other trusted warriors were keeping guard around the immediate area, as much to protect the human from any overzealous ogres as to keep him from trying to slip away. To lessen any sense of confinement that Stefan must be feeling, Idaria stood attentively near his side while another slave, a dour male elf, temporarily served the grand lord.
The banner of the severed hand fluttered everywhere, but for the occasion was accompanied by a white banner with the black silhouette of the patron beast. It was the last of the three-day event, so all competitions involved the champions of previous days. Golgren was watching the Solamnic’s reactions as much as he watched the games, surreptitiously noting what Stefan did or did not approve of.
“You have such public festivals in Solamnia?” Golgren asked, gesturing for Idaria to fill the human’s goblet.
“We have events honoring various patrons and our special gods, yes.”
“Perhaps, I someday see them.”
Stefan cautiously nodded. Save for his helmet, which rested in his lap, he was clad in his armor. Even his sword hung at his side, a suggestion made by Golgren that had surprised not only the human, but Khleeg and the others.
“A guest trusts his host and is trusted by his host,” the grand lord had stated.
The Solamnic remained unconvinced of the merits of any kind of alliance with Golgren and the ogre race, but at the very least the ogre’s flattery and courting had him off guard. Indeed, Stefan did not know exactly what to think about Golgren, which was just as the grand lord preferred from all under his sway.
An appreciative grunt escaped another ogre seated just one level down from Stefan. Atolgus, rewarded with a special place at the events for his part in bringing the knight to Garantha, was smiling up at them, almost like a child. His genuinely optimistic loyalty to Golgren had already caused the grand lord to consider what future use the young chieftain might serve.
In the arena, two unarmed ogres were facing off against each other. The left hand of one was bound to the left of the other, so their arms crossed. With their free hands, the combatants sought to bring down each other. Their struggles were brutal and, despite lacking weapons, both were bloodied.
A grim cast spread over Stefan’s face, and Golgren noticed his discomfiture. The more bloody the fighting, the more unsettled the knight became. Golgren brooded on that curious fact, recalling those Solamnics he had encountered in the past. They had something of the elf race in them-their politeness and stuffy manners. He did not want the festival to offend the knight.
Matters were not improved when, at the end of the match, the victor-a hirsute giant with tusks nearly reaching his eyes-smashed his adversary’s face into the ground with such force that the spray of blood flew all over the field, flecking the spectators too, then repeated the process twice more before a horn sounded, ordering him to cease and accept his prize.
Before Golgren could comment on the unseemly outcome, another spoke up, diplomatically explaining things to the knight.
“The grand lord struggles against centuries,” Idaria murmured to Stefan, handing him a full cup of the finest elven wine in Golgren’s possession. “Before his coming, the festival was awash in blood such as makes this pale. He is bringing civilization back to his people, but it cannot change at once. Change is sometimes fast, but great change can be slow.”
The Solamnic glanced from the elf slave to Golgren. “Yes, I’ve noticed your chains, always inhibiting your movements. They must be part of the slow changes you mention.”
Golgren grinned, the nubs of his tusks in evidence. “To have a knight walk around free is one thing; to have an elf do so is another. I am no god, Sir Stefan Rennert. All things must come slow, but Idaria understands this, of course.”