At last, the hiss ceased utterly. Daring to release his staff, Tyranos searched the floor until he located the stopper then quickly shoved it into the neck of the container.
Silence reigned in the tomb.
Retrieving his staff, the spellcaster used its silver light to closely inspect the vial. Shaking the vial, Tyranos noticed a tiny black blot within that swirled around almost angrily.
“You might be of some use in the future,” he murmured at the contents.
Replacing the vial in his pocket, Tyranos readied himself for whatever threat or guardian the tomb next hurled at him. Yet more than a minute passed and nothing happened; no further trap was sprung. Cautiously, the wizard decided to resume his journey.
And barely a moment later, he entered the burial chamber.
The swiftness with which he reached the center of the tomb made Tyranos frown, however. There should have been some long, byzantine trek through myriad passages-some of them false, some real-occasionally broken by the discovery of auxiliary rooms filled with unusual artifacts. To reach his destination so quickly did not speak highly of the tomb’s occupant.
Yet the buried one had been granted a signet, a rare and powerful gift among the High Ogres.
The chamber itself was perfectly round, with niches at waist level that hinted at possible treasures. However, it was the middle of the room that riveted Tyranos’s attention, for there, set upon a round platform of what looked like alabaster-a platform upon which were etched more depictions of High Ogre history-was a sarcophagus made of diamond. In the light of the staff, it glittered like a rainbow, its facets creating a startling light show with each movement of the hooded wizard.
Within, a stately form dressed in robes of silver and black-the ancient race’s colors of mourning during the epoch indicated in the vision-lay in repose. As Tyranos stepped up to the remarkable diamond coffin, he saw that the corpse was entirely intact and preserved, as though it had been buried only yesterday. The brilliant blue skin; the perfect, chiseled features; the finely woven garments … none were worn by time.
“Incredible,” he whispered. Tyranos circled the sarcophagus, inspecting every detail of the body. Unlike modern ogres, who were nine feet tall and muscular in the manner of a wrestler, the ancient one was only about as tall as the wizard himself. He was slimmer than Tyranos, with a build more like that of an acrobat. The body appeared to be that of someone who died when he was only in the middle of his third decade, but with the ancients, the look of youthfulness could be deceiving. It was very possible that the ogre had been far, far older at the time of his passing. It was said that the legendary forebears of the savages living in Kern and Blode had been granted life spans longer than those of elves.
The corpse’s expression was calm, serene. One hand lay at his side, the other rested over his heart.
And that hand was decorated with a ring.
The ring drew Tyranos closer and not only because of its eerie beauty. High Ogres had worn their signets in many ways, but the most obvious way was just as common today, in a ring. He could not see what was set into the deceased one’s piece-the ring had been turned inward toward the chest-but where else would the mourners have placed the most valuable of gifts?
That was assuming, of course, that someone else had not stolen the prize upon the deceased’s death.
The muscular wizard searched frantically for a way to open the coffin. He tried to shove at the top half then searched both ends for a gap that might have been sealed after the body was slid inside. His desperate hunt revealed nothing. It was as if the diamond shell were a living thing that had been planted and grown up around the body, but such a thing was not possible-
Tyranos blinked. Or was it?
He performed another, even more thorough examination with the same lack of results. The body lay like a pupa in a glistening chrysalis. There was no manner by which to open it.
No manner but one.
With all his might and with all the magic he could muster, the leonine mage struck the top of the sarcophagus with his staff. Raw energy crackled like lightning around both him and it. A sharp, keening sound echoed throughout the chamber.
Cracks shot across the diamond coffin. Huge pieces suddenly exploded into the air. Some of the shards flew at Tyranos, who managed to shield himself with his cloak.
He stumbled back as the keening sounds amplified. The wizard’s eyes bulged as the figure within the coffin reached up toward the sky with both hands and promptly disintegrated. The beautiful blue skin wrinkled and cracked before falling away. The long, dark hair turned gray, then white. The perfect face sank into itself, the ashy remnants spilling into the suddenly empty eye sockets, the gaping jaws, and the deep nostrils.
The transformation into skeleton was swiftly followed by the decay of the bones themselves. With no ligaments or anything else to hold them together, the bones collapsed, yellowed, then broke into pieces. The pieces dissolved into dust.
Even the garments were not left untouched. They, too, faded, then shriveled. Unlike the body, the robes did not completely vanish, but what little was left could scarcely be identified as the same wondrous clothing Tyranos had first seen.
Undeterred by the destruction he had wrought, Tyranos thrust one hand into the dust, groping around and seeking the ring. It, of all things, should have survived intact.
His fingers closed on a small, circular object. Shaking off bits of the dead ogre, the wizard raised the object up and in the light.
“By the Kraken,” he murmured.
Tyranos had found a signet.
“Yes … yes.”
He held it up to inspect it, focusing the full illumination of his staff upon the ring. The signet in its center was circular with a rune that looked like a double-bladed sword turned upside down at the center. Half a circle arced over the sword, and underneath both lay a symbol the spellcaster recognized from his studies as representing heat or fire.
Wanting to look closer still, Tyranos brought the staff’s head nearer.
The rune shimmered bright orange. What felt like an invisible hand briefly caressed the wizard’s countenance.
Then the rune lost its glow. Tyranos held the signet as close to the crystal as he dared, but there was no repeat of that shimmering, that strange sensation of an invisible hand.
Recalling some of his researches, the wizard uttered some runes he knew. None, however, caused any reaction in the ring.
Rather than frown in frustration, he suddenly chuckled. The High Ogres had, for most of their existence, been meticulous recorders of their magical craft. His brief glance at the wall niches had taken in scrolls, tomes, and other forms of documentation. Somewhere among them would be the key to using the signet. Tyranos had only to look hard.
But when he turned his gaze to the niches, there remained in each only a few rusty boxes and thick piles of dust that had moments before contained the secrets he desired more than anything.
Secrets that his impatience to reach the signet had evidently condemned to the dustbin of history. When the mortal remains of the dead ogre had been awoken and returned to their basic elements, so, too, had the protected works of his life.
Tyranos more than chuckled at that; he bellowed with laughter, bellowed at the foul jest played upon him by the ghosts of the past and his own greed. The High Ogres had planned for his ilk; so long as the tomb served its venerated purpose, the dead would forever have his life, his power, surrounding him. By shattering the sarcophagus-as any base robber would have done, thinking only of riches-Tyranos had dispersed the spell holding the coffin, the dead body, and the ancient magic together.