But the Titans were not done. Each raised his left hand high above his head. Dauroth drew another rune, a three-sided one that, had Moak been able to read, he might have recognized as the Voice of Sirrion.
The other sorcerers repeated the same symbol. Dauroth dropped his hand, and the rest followed suit.
The runes that they had drawn shot toward one another, colliding just over the heads of the victims.
A gush of white fire enveloped Moak’s entire band, utterly engulfing the warriors and obscuring them from sight.
When Dauroth deemed the deed done, he sang, “Ysirria assyros ios!”
The fire dwindled.
Some twenty armed figures stood before him, twenty ogres stripped to their skeletons. The hollow-eyed monstrosities stood as still as statues.
Dauroth was pleased. Generally, the spell was done with more precaution and using other tools in the very same chamber where new Titans were born.
He pointed at the gate, which opened. The skeletons suddenly moved, turning as one toward the entrance to the woods. Without a word, they silently marched out of the citadel yard, heading off to join the rest of Dauroth’s magical servants.
As the gate lowered again, the other Titans left him to his seclusion. Such tremendous use of power would, in the end, demand that even he would have to rejuvenate himself. And until things changed, that still meant a substantial need for elf blood.
For reasons known only to the grand lord, that was going to become more difficult than ever.
You have become more detriment than worth, Guyvir, much more, Dauroth thought.
That brought to mind Hundjal’s transgression. Yes, it was time to follow through with all of his plans.
Two birds with one stone …
XIV
The High Ogres had left a great legacy, although that legacy was scattered and buried throughout much of Ansalon. Partly for that reason, few could claim to be knowledgeable about the High Ogres. Tyranos was one of the august few, a master of the history of a race long dead that still affected the living.
It was a legacy that extended far beyond the borders of Kern and Blode.
The hill where Tyranos worked lay in the northern reaches of what once had been Silvanost and was at that moment part of the imperial minotaur colony of Ambeon. In truth, Tyranos was not that far from the Titans sent by Dauroth to harass the empire, but the wards he had cast would keep his presence a secret from the gigantic spellcasters for the time being … or so he hoped. Tyranos knew he had been expending too much power lately, that the staff and artifacts he utilized were at their limit. His own magic ability was impressive, but the wizard knew better than to think that he could face down two or more Titans, especially those, the most powerful, in the inner circle.
But the thought of what might lie deep within that particular hill had obliged him to take chances.
Indeed, it was not really a hill, despite the many oaks and firs topping it and giving it the appearance of roundness and size. Once, in fact, it had been a burial mound, and although it was on formerly elf soil, the burial mound had been there for a long, long time, possibly predating the elven realm.
It had been there as long, perhaps, as the earliest days of the High Ogres’ supremacy.
After mentally double-checking his defensive wards for the tenth time, the imposing wizard pointed his staff toward a slight depression on the upward slope. Elves had taken little notice of the small, nondescript hill, so thoroughly had those who had created it worked to hide it from enemies. That hinted at a potential treasure trove of potent arcane magic.
Or it might be another fool’s quest.
“Sarath!”
At his command, a silver beam of light erupted from the crystal head of his staff, the shining beam burrowing its way into the hillside. With the silence Tyranos desired, tons of earth divided to each side, creating a corridor into the hillside that ended before a stone doorway. Upon the door was carved the profile of a woman so beautiful that, despite the haste with which he worked, the wizard paused to admire her.
But his admiration was only momentary, for he had much to do. The Titans, too, were constantly seeking such mounds-said to be scattered across not only Ansalon, but the rest of the world as well-and from his spying, the wizard believed that the Black Talon was on the trail of something significant. He could only hope that his find would be more significant, as time was growing short; he knew that better than anyone, even the Titans.
Dismissing the light, Tyranos approached the door. He could sense the latent forces that cemented its seal and marveled at their strength after so many centuries. With one hand, the wizard traced the runes carved around the image. He recognized a handful of them and could hazard a guess at about half a dozen more. Nodding, Tyranos began whispering-speaking the runes as he could best interpret them-his voice taking on a singing quality that lacked something in its skill, yet sounded so much more beautiful simply because of the rune language. The Titans thought that they spoke something akin to the old language, Tyranos reflected, but they did not understand how wrong they were. Even the elegant elves spoke with the squeals of pigs in comparison to the language of the High Ogres.
As Tyranos finished the last rune, the door sank inward with a low, scraping sound. A hiss of air escaped the tomb, emitting a scent that Tyranos identified as rosemary.
A shadow crept over the doorway. The day was nearly spent, and soon the entire hillside would be drenched in darkness. Aware that he might be inside for hours, Tyranos quickly stepped through the door. He was anxious for his long-planned exploration, anxious to collect the artifacts he believed were at his fingertips.
The scent of rosemary grew stronger. There was a headiness to the scent that had nothing to do with the rosemary, though, and Tyranos hesitated, cursing his impatience. He leaned against a rocky wall as fresh air from outside mixed with the stale atmosphere of the tomb. Another precious minute had passed before Tyranos dared to continue.
Illuminating the crystal atop his staff, the leonine wizard surveyed his surroundings. The walls were no longer raw stone; they were smooth and polished with intricate images of High Ogre life etched into them every five paces. The visions were so lifelike that Tyranos paused before one to study it better.
In it, a woman stood at the center of a group of other robed figures. In her hands she offered something to one of the group, but the object was too tiny for the wizard to identify. He leaned closer, at the same time cautiously putting two fingertips against the image to aid his balance-
And suddenly Tyranos himself stood among the small group of honored guests awaiting the woman’s favor for their accomplishments. A light breeze tousled his long-red-hair. He stood in the green and blue ornamented robe of his house.
No, not his house, but rather that of the one in whose place he stood. An awestruck Tyranos felt his body, the body he wore, step forward. The woman filled his gaze, her beauty beyond anything he could have dreamed. It did not matter if they were not of the same race; no goblin, elf, or kyrie could have failed to note her wondrous being. Her hair might have been gold, silver, or some other gleaming color, but that did not matter, nor did the fact that her features, although perfect, could be described a hundred ways and more without ever coming close.
His awe of her beauty was secondary to his amazement at what she was doing. The contents of her hands were revealed to him, and with one of his own, he reached for something lying in the very center of her right palm.