And so he had been rewarded for all his strenuous effort … with nothing.
The wizard ruefully raised the staff toward one of the nearest niches, shoving aside the piles of dust and overturning one ruined box. The rusting container clattered to the floor, revealing that it contained only more dust. Dust here, dust there.
Tyranos let out a snort and went through a few more niches. There was not one item of value to him …
Not one item save the signet he grasped in his hand.
He studied it closely again. It once held immense power. The spellcaster could sense that. Even after so many centuries, it must hold that power undiminished. Somehow, Tyranos would find out the key to unlocking that power. Somehow he would yet wield it.
There was only the small matter of time running out.
His thoughts abruptly turned to the ogre, the Grand Lord Golgren. The two of them were playing a dangerous game with Dauroth and his Black Talon. Tyranos’s blundering made it essential that he either steal the secrets of the Titans’ find from them or see to it that they ended up, like him, with nothing. Golgren need not know about his failure, of course.
He eyed the signet. It would take some risks, but it would be worth it.
His decision made, the tall wizard abandoned the burial chamber. There was nothing remaining for him there. Even the beautiful runes and depictions had fallen to ruin, the images little more than vague outlines; the magic that had enabled Tyranos to relive one glorious moment in the dead ogre’s life was gone. He grunted to think of that loss; the lost history of the High Ogres was precious, all but a mystery to the modern world. In the end, however, all that mattered was the plan. And Tyranos would endeavor to give the grand lord what he needed to gain the upper hand over Dauroth and the Black Talon.
The crystal barely lit his way, his overuse having drained it of some power. Soon it would revitalize itself, but for the time being, the spellcaster would have to rely upon his own talents only.
He stepped out onto the hillside, the shadows deep with scant light coming from above. Raising the staff, Tyranos resigned himself to using it one last time for the day.
But as he aimed its illumination, from somewhere among the trees he heard the flutter of heavy wings. Tyranos quickly turned to face the sound, the words of a spell forming on his lips.
A gray shape swooped down. It landed before him, a huge brute of a gargoyle more than half again the size of the one the wizard had presented to Golgren. The creature’s wingspan stretched nearly twice Tyranos’s height. Red eyes glared at him from under its thick brow, and the thing’s heavy jaw moved back and forth, its sharp teeth scraping together.
The gargoyle, a male, moved closer to Tyranos, moving as much on its knuckles as on its feet.
The lion-maned spellcaster lowered his staff. “Ah, it’s you.”
XV
The prisoner screamed. Golgren made a tsk sound. No one outside of that place could hear the screams, so he was not concerned about alerting Sir Stefan Rennert, but thus far the screams were all his torturers had gotten out of the temple guard.
The imprisoned ogre was stretched tight across a huge oak table worn from decades of torture work. Much of the wood was no longer brown but had turned a dull red. Red-green ropes made from the dread mavau plant had been bound around the captive’s wrists and ankles. The curled thorns dug into his flesh, sending blood dripping to the floor. Struggling only made the bleeding worse and had little effect on the bonds; hardened mavau vines were nearly as strong as steel.
The Solamnic would never have believed it, but the grand lord did not act unreasonably or viciously by the standards of his people. He had not selected the guard at random, as Zharang might have done, torturing him until agony made his victim confess to anything, however implausible. Golgren had first conducted an investigation to determine that that sentry was the one most likely responsible, at least in part, for the disastrous ceremony. Only then did he have the unfortunate dragged to the chamber deep beneath the palace.
The hexagonal room, with its thick, mossy stone walls and wide slate floor, was perfect for such torture and had been so utilized for centuries. However, Golgren knew that once it had been a different place where magic spells had been tested and cast. Tyranos had informed him of that history once, when the mage was visiting. In fact, Tyranos had seemed unusually uncomfortable in the chamber, evidently having to do with the residual magic still permeating the walls. At least, that was the impression the wizard had given Golgren.
What mattered at that moment, though, was determining just who claimed the guard’s loyalty, so much so that he would suffer on their behalf. Golgren had his suspicions but needed to know with certainty. His hand moved to the hidden dagger as the grand lord reflected on how a careless move could hurt him; he could lose all.
Other races did not think ogres capable of subtlety, but they were wrong. The device keeping the prisoner’s eyes open was a fine example of subtle craftsmanship. The needles that prevented the lids from shutting even a little had come from the tuscru j’in, a thick, barrel-shaped plant that thrived in the hottest and driest parts of Kern and was believed to be part of an amalok’s diet. Thousands of needles covered the tuscru j’in, but only those of a certain length and diameter, which did not break or pierce the eye, were used in the tool. It took a skilled hunter to pick those out and, with even more skill, to fashion from other needles the frame that held the first in place.
The eyes needed to be open, for the torturer worked in their reflection. There were a variety of methods that ogres used for torture, but the eyes were a favorite part of the body for the best results. Ogres might boast tough hides and stubborn wills, but their eyes were soft and sensitive.
The torturer silently reached into a clay jar and removed, with the aid of brass tongs, a scorpionlike arachnid with a heavily bloated thorax and only a vestigial tail. The creature, perhaps the length of Golgren’s tiniest finger, hardly looked sinister enough to affect a muscular ogre, but the sight of it caused the captive to renew his struggles, albeit in vain.
With another set of tongs, the torturer took hold of the thorax. There were scars all over the arms and hands of the ogre entrusted to handle the grand lord’s work, far more than even the most veteran warrior would have garnered. None of them were ceremonial, either, but rather the results of occupational hazards, such as the tiny vermin with which he now dealt.
The torturer turned an equally scarred visage toward Golgren. The grand lord nodded approvingly.
“Kifu i harag ne! Kifu i harag ne!” shouted the intended torture victim, but his claims of ignorance about any plot fell, as they had for the past half day, on stone-deaf ears.
With deft precision, Golgren’s servant positioned the arachnid over the suspected traitor’s left eye. The bloated thorax hung less than two inches above the pupil.
The tongs holding the thorax squeezed ever so slightly. A single yellow drop of liquid slipped from the tip of the tiny tail. It landed without a sound on the eye.
The ogre strapped to the table shrieked. He tore at his bonds with such vehemence that the thorns in the rope tore bits of flesh away. A guard stationed at the doorway moved to reinforce the prisoner’s bonds, but Golgren waved him back.
“Venemok,” the grand lord murmured just loud enough for his captive to hear. “Venemok.”
The eye was blood red and badly damaged. Even had the tortured ogre been allowed to shut it, he would have found the simple act impossible. The eye was swollen and growing more so.