“Gya ku f’han?” Khleeg asked, grimacing in disagreement. “Great one,” the officer rumbled in Common. “Not to kill?”
“It is helpless now,” replied the grand lord coolly. “Would Khleeg offend the spirit by killing it so?”
From his expression, Khleeg thought slaying the vulnerable beast was the sensible thing to do, but he knew better than to argue with his master. Slapping his fist on his breastplate, the warrior shouted to his subordinates, “Baroos ni igarani ko fothos!”
The guards quickly retrieved the net lost earlier and began draping it over the griffon’s prone body. Others rushed up with rope, securing the creature’s limbs so it would barely be able to walk. Someone wisely ordered that its beak be bound tight.
As those things were being accomplished, Golgren, after catching his breath, said, “Khleeg! There must be a ceremony! The dead one must be honored in the name of the patron!”
“It shall be done!”
But before Khleeg could act, Golgren added, “Its chain. Its collar. They shall be brought to me, yes? You guard my back, Khleeg?”
Khleeg’s weak eye seemed to sink deeper beneath its lid, for he had failed his master. “Lord? Khleeg swears Ophri N’mim!”
No greater oath could be sworn by the officer. To fail such a vow would mean casting a perpetual curse on the ogre’s parents and all his descendants. Not to mention Khleeg himself.
“Jakul i nur Ophri N’mim iKhleegi,” replied Golgren. “There is no need for oaths, but you have already sworn it, yes?”
“Ke!”
As Khleeg rushed away, Golgren, eyes narrowed, looked around, wondering, if not Khleeg, who? Someone had tried to humiliate or kill him, and something had to be done about it. He moved past Stefan, who was still catching his breath, striding up the steps of the temple with renewed vigor.
Once at the top, Golgren seized a horn abandoned by one of the trumpeters during the chaos. Whirling, the grand lord turned back toward the crowd and blew on the horn three times.
By the third blast, he had the attention of everyone within sight. Raising his arms to the heavens, the ogre leader proclaimed, “Bendaka uth iGaranaki! Inom uth iGaranaki!”
He received immediate cheers from his more ardent followers among the throng. Those cheers encouraged others, more timid, until finally there were repeated roars of approval from all present.
Nodding, the grand lord folded his arms and stood triumphant before his people. He had just told the ogres that it had been a test of the griffon spirit, and that he had passed the test; the spirit approved of his rule. The people were willing to believe that, for Golgren had given them quite a show, fighting well and turning the tide in his favor. None were willing to openly question his version of events.
But even though he had saved face, Golgren knew that his enemies were still hiding out there, somewhere, plotting new ways to attack and undermine him. There would still be rumors that his rivals would surreptitiously spread. The question of his worth and lineage-owing to his stature, his maimed hand, and the suspicious circumstances of his birth-would not easily go away.
Golgren glanced over at the human, still dazed by all that had transpired. A pact with the Solamnics would be very useful indeed.
Dauroth furiously dismissed the scrying sphere, sending it back to oblivion. Safrag, sensing his anger, wisely kept to the shadows. His master would speak to him if Dauroth thought it necessary.
But the first words sung by the lead Titan were meant for himself, not his apprentice. “His recklessness should have destroyed him by now, yet he lives and enjoys the masses’ idolization more than ever.”
Safrag bowed low as Dauroth turned to him. Only then did the apprentice dare speak. “But surely he was ever safe,” Safrag sang. “Surely great Dauroth was ever there to see that he did not perish!”
“Are you suggesting that I am some nursemaid for the grand lord, Safrag? The mongrel is useful, but I can hardly spare my valuable time to keep him safe all the time. He is becoming more of an annoyance than a useful tool.”
“Nay! I said nothing about you being a nursemaid! I understand why you let the cur live, despite what the others say! Besides, surely this was a strange occurrence! Surely, great one, you believe this only an accident, nothing-absolutely nothing-more.”
The senior Titan’s golden eyes narrowed. “Until you spoke now, I did. You have filled me with a suspicion, Safrag, and for that alone I should condemn you to existence as an Abomination!”
“My comment was not meant to alarm you, great one!” Safrag insisted, making himself as small as a fourteen-foot giant could. “You would surely know if anything was not as it seemed, and since you do not even suspect-”
Dauroth angrily gestured. “Be silent!”
A gray haze formed over the apprentice’s mouth. His words were immediately cut off. Safrag stood as still as a statue as his mentor turned his own thoughts inward.
That not one, but both, griffons had broken their chains was, in hindsight, too great a coincidence. Dauroth berated himself for being so preoccupied with his other musings that he had missed the obvious. Safrag had actually done him a favor, bringing up the possibility of some outside involvement, some conspiracy.
There were many still who wished the mongrel dead; Dauroth counted himself among them, despite his outward show of indifference for the benefit of the other members of the Talon. There were times-especially just after he was done dealing with the half-breed-that Dauroth imagined shrinking the grand lord to the size of a piece of fruit and squeezing him to a pulp in the palm of his hand. While such a spell was beyond any Titan-at least thus far-there were other spells at his beckoning that would have served just as well.
But he would use them only when it became clear that Golgren’s usefulness was truly at an end.
What was crucial-and seeming more likely by the moment-was that, if Safrag’s suggestion had any merit, someone else had sought Golgren’s end, using the spectacle as a shield.
“Safrag,” Dauroth sang the other’s name as if summoning a beloved child. “Safrag, if you were to see this as not an accident, but rather as a deliberate ruse, a foul play by someone … who would it be that you would investigate …?”
Despite realizing that his voice had been returned to him, the apprentice looked hesitant to revive that treacherous conversation. Yet in the end, Safrag felt obliged to reply.
“Great master, if I had to choose one, it would be from among our own … or one who used to be.”
“ ‘Used to be’ ” Dauroth’s brow furrowed. The apprentice was affirming his own notions. Dauroth raised his left palm up, and in its center formed the vision of a grotesque, misshapen countenance. He showed it to Safrag. “You mean Donnag.”
“In truth, I can see no other with such daring or desperation or such understandable need for vengeance, oh master.”
“Indeed.” They both stared at the former ruler’s repulsive face, the image formed in Dauroth’s hand. Yes, the accusation made sense to Dauroth. Donnag sought vengeance, and perhaps he was ambitious too; perhaps he thought to return to the Titans as their chief. Ambitious Donnag always had been … foolish.
“Donnag … I believe you are correct, Safrag. I believe the chieftain has again acted injudiciously. He must not do so anymore. His actions interfere with my desires.”
“The Black Talon must deal with him?”
Dauroth shook his head. “No, we shall have the mongrel taken care of in a special way, like one beast set upon another. After all, we do not want to serve the grand lord’s interests, for he wishes to know who it is who has sought his assassination.”
The apprentice bowed his head in acknowledgment of Dauroth’s wisdom. The lead Titan smiled, but the smile faded abruptly.