“And then … and then, at least, I think that something must have to be done about the Grand Lord Golgren.” Dauroth grinned fiercely, his teeth clamped tightly together. “Yes, I think that we are nearing that time, after all.”
Safrag bowed his head gratefully. “There may be danger, great one! The mongrel has his hidden tricks! I feel certain there is magic that serves him and not us! Recall Donnag’s utter defeat! ’Twas magic that tripped him in the end, powerful magic!”
“Of that I am keenly aware, but fortunately, the key to understanding the situation has been near us all along. We can thank dear Hundjal for awakening me to the possibility.”
“Hundjal? Nay, Master Dauroth! You cannot mean what I think you mean. To do such a thing, to wield such a thing!”
The elder sorcerer shook off his apprentice’s apprehensive tone. “Don’t worry, I will use only the barest fragment, and I will not be the one to wield it, at least not physically.”
“But there is still the tomb, not yet opened by your command! If there are signets within, as we hope-and surely there are bones of the dead-then would not those suffice-and with far less threat to yourself-to deal with this matter?”
Yet the Black Talon had not deciphered how to undo the ancient protections of the tomb without causing them to destroy what lay within. The High Ogres had arranged everything using a delicate balance of powerful energies. Remove one in the wrong manner, and the years of Dauroth’s research would be for naught.
Besides, Dauroth did not know if anything within the tomb would work as hoped. The fragment … the fragment was another story.
“It will be as I say. For Hundjal, this will be a most important assignment … a most appropriate choice.”
Safrag again bowed his head in acceptance of his master’s wisdom.
His gaze suddenly shifting to the right, Dauroth dismissed that subject as another flitted into his mind. “Ahh … Captain Moak and his warriors are with us at last. Come, Safrag.”
With a sweep of his hand, Dauroth sent the two of them from his chamber to the massive courtyard at the front gate of the citadel. The stone entrance area was large enough to hold a small army and, indeed, part of it did. Nearly twenty surly-looking and impatient ogre warriors waited there with their prize. Captain Moak-a beefy Blodian with one tusk that curled to the side and four ritual scars across his forehead-was their commander. He had led them on their journey-without the knowledge of Golgren’s toady, Khleeg-through the dread valley surrounding Dauroth’s domain to fulfill a pact that he had long ago made with the master Titan.
Moak did not look pleased, not that Dauroth cared. Each time the ogre captain made the treacherous journey, he usually sacrificed two or three careless underlings to the hidden sentinels beyond the high, spiked walls and the massive, iron-grate gateway. The trip had been ordered; it was no whim.
“Great one,” snarled the heavy but muscular officer in Common, for he had learned long ago that, like Golgren, Dauroth preferred not to hear the bastardized tongue spoken widely in the ogre realms. Moak performed a cursory slap on his breastplate that almost made Safrag snort in disdain. “Brought as many as could be taken! Good stock! See here?”
His warriors parted to reveal eleven haggard elves. They stared at the Titans with eyes almost dead, for they knew the legends concerning the giant sorcerers. None brought to the secret sanctum ever returned, it was said.
“This paltry few?” muttered Safrag. “Great Dauroth expected several times that amount!”
The lead Titan raised a gently admonishing hand. “Hush, Safrag. I am certain Moak has an explanation for using the valuable spellstone to bring fewer than the warriors who guard them.”
Moak glanced back at the vine-covered walls and the thick treetops just visible above. The only successful path to and from the citadel was the one that Dauroth’s spellstone illuminated for the captain. The ogre clearly did not savor the thought of being punished for his failure, and he knew there were few safe ways to return home.
“Golgren is fault,” Moak finally grunted. “Golgren! That ji-baraki-Khleeg! — he sends order to Blode! Says, all elves be gathered, taken to Garantha! Already they begin!”
Dauroth looked to Safrag, who shared his master’s frown. “All elves, you say?”
“All! Moak work hard to gather these! Strong! See?” The captain gestured, and a warrior shoved a male elf forward. The slave, wearing soiled rags that barely covered him, stumbled to one knee. Moak moved in and slapped the elf, forcing him to stand. “Strong! Only these, but all strong! Good blood!”
The other elves huddled together. Moak’s followers bobbed their heads up and down in eager agreement with their commander.
Dauroth came to a decision. “And when can you next procure more?” Moak’s method of procurement was, of course, by kidnapping any slave he came across or by bribing guards of other elf captives willing to betray their masters. “By the next full white moon?”
Moak made a face at that. “Might be longer, might be! Maybe need more to pay. Must go farther … must take more chances.”
“No. Too much notice. This will be the last from you. There will come other methods … if they are needed even.” As he spoke, Dauroth concentrated. He felt the Black Talon heed his silent command. Those in the sanctum prepared. “But your usefulness to me will not end; have no fear of that, Captain Moak.”
Moak, who had started to look uneasy, brightened. Greed shone in his eyes. “Will serve you well, great one! Serve you well!”
“Yes, you shall. Safrag?”
Bowing his head, the apprentice thrust out a single finger toward the elves. Above them, a gray haze suddenly formed. The slaves suddenly showed signs of life, some of them struggling to flee despite the heavy chains their captors had clamped on them.
But the moment that the haze drifted down onto their heads, the elves froze. Their arms dropped to their sides. Eyes dulled, unblinking, they slowly staggered away from Moak’s warriors, heading toward a doorway Safrag pointed out to them.
Watching the slaves leave in that docile fashion, Moak grew anxious again. “We serve you well again, great one! Give orders and we leave now!”
“The orders are simple, and it is this: only into the woods should you go.”
Moak started to ask a question, but his mouth hung open without a sound as six Titans materialized around the band of slave traders.
As one, Dauroth and his followers raised their left hands and gestured toward Moak’s warriors. Some of the ogres tried to react, even to attack the Titans, but their limbs would not work. Moak let out a furious growl, but that was all he could do.
Dauroth sang the words then drew a six-sided symbol in the air. The red rune flared bright, then shot toward Moak.
It struck the captain in the skull then split in two. Moak let out a groan as the rune burned into his flesh while the split ones flew toward the next closest warriors. Those ogres were also struck in their skulls, and again, each of their runes split into two more that coursed toward the next victims.
Within a single blink, all the slave traders had been so targeted. Their groans filled the air. The Black Talon sang, stirring up the fearsome energies Dauroth required for his task. He had always intended that to be the outcome when Moak proved no longer useful, for the ogre knew too much. Moak had always said he was willing to serve Dauroth for the rest of his life.
However, Dauroth demanded that the captain and his warriors serve the Titans longer than that.
“Asyriana Idariosia u alleas!” Dauroth sang.
Moak screamed. His scream was joined by all his followers’. The savage ogre fighters howled as their runes burned deeper.
And as the runes burned, the ogres’ flesh and sinew began to melt away like butter in the Kernian sun. It dribbled off Moak, spilling onto the stone walkway and dripping into the cracks. A hand that the captain had raised toward Dauroth just before the spell was stripped clean within moments. The ogre’s face was no longer recognizable.