“Bre-” Thraun swallowed then, seeming to come half out of his panic, said in Common, “Dead. All dead! Only bones! Ogres! Mastarks! Meredrakes! Horses! Saw-saw maybe Trang even!”
“Trang?” Khleeg snorted. “No Trang!”
“Ke! Yes! Him!” The disheveled ogre made a slicing motion across his neck. “But no head!”
“Forget Trang!” Golgren commanded. “Speak! Bones walking! Is that what you say?”
The rest of the story poured out in incoherent fashion. Thraun had been ordered to deal with the mounts. He had just finished with his duties when the shouts arose and the fighting started. Of Captain Tarkus, there was no sign. Thraun had started to go to the aid of the others, only to witness them quickly slaughtered by voracious undead. Two meredrakes, bits of their dry, scaled hides still clinging to the bones, ripped apart one hapless warrior, he said. Other f’hanos-most of them mere bones-surrounded the others like packs of ravenous wolves.
At that point, aware that to stay in place was to die horrifically, Thraun undid the horses’ reins and tried to free them. In his clumsiness, he nearly lost all the animals, for the moment that they were free, they panicked and careened into one another.
One failed to make it away, for the f’hanos were nearer to Thraun than he had realized. Only the fact that the horse tried to race in the wrong direction likely saved Thraun from death. Instead, the mount was swarmed by four foul creatures.
However, as the horse went down screaming, another undead tackled the ogre. Empty eye sockets stared down at Thraun; he recalled cold, fleshless fingers clutching his throat. Yet somewhere he managed to find the strength to fight free. He struck the dead skull hard, breaking one of his own fingers. The force of the ogre’s blow sent the f’hanos stumbling back.
Struggling to his feet, Thraun discovered one horse with its reins tangled. He undid the frantic animal and leaped aboard.
As he rode from the nightmare, he heard a long wail from a comrade who had outlasted the others before silence took command.
The recollection of his ordeal proved too much for the warrior. Thraun collapsed into a trembling heap at Golgren’s feet. Ogres were powerful and fearless in battle and lived for their bloodlust, but f’hanos represented one of their greatest fears. Death was death; f’hanos went against reason and logic.
Khleeg and the others looked to Golgren, who stood silent and impassive. The grand lord was not a believer in coincidence. The horde of undead was marching toward Garantha at just the time when he was about to be crowned ruler of the ogres.
Golgren could think of only one being who could command such peculiar magic, although why he should choose to do so remained a mystery.
“Khleeg! Summon those kept ready! We march when the first embers glow,” he ordered, referring to dawn in the phraseology of his people.
“We fight f’hanos?” asked Khleeg uncertainly.
“We destroy f’hanos,” the grand lord corrected him. “Now go!”
His lord’s evident confidence brought some of the fighting spirit back to the officer. He saluted sharply then took command over the others. The sentry who had dragged in Thraun managed to get the mad ogre to his feet and out of the chamber.
Golgren stood stone faced until the doors were again sealed. Then he turned to the ceiling and hissed, “Dauroth! Attend me!”
But after far more time than was permissible, Golgren still stood alone. The grand lord called the Titan’s name again and again with an equal lack of success.
And that made him finally toss away the ruined tunic again, once more gazing down at the tiny vial. Shoving aside his mummified hand, he gripped the vial tightly, then tighter still. It would take only a little more pressure to destroy it. So the Uruv Suurt witch had said. His hand could do what a hammer or a rock could not; to all else, the vial was said to be impervious. Its fate was entirely and literally in his hand.
And tied to its fate, if Nephera had not lied to him, was Dauroth’s. After all, it was his essence-not merely his blood-that the vial contained. Lady Nephera had crafted that little gift for Golgren, albeit at a high price. If Dauroth tried to slay the grand lord, the vial would be his revenge.
As far as Golgren knew, Dauroth was ignorant of the vial. It had been created as a secret weapon. Golgren had always relied on a variety of factors, other magics, to keep the Titans at bay. He understood that, at least until that moment, he had actually performed a vital service for Dauroth, organizing the ogres in such a manner that the Titans could focus on their own desires.
It appeared, though, that Dauroth found his usefulness of diminishing value.
He spit then tried one last summons. “Come, Dauroth. Come.”
“I am here, oh Grand Lord.”
Golgren cursed, jumping at the suddenness of Dauroth’s voice. He turned to face the blue-skinned giant. “At last! I summoned you before this! Where have you been? There is a threat to us all!”
The Titan did not reply at first, instead gliding along the floor in a circle around Golgren. All the while, his golden eyes remained fixed on the grand lord, who turned as the Titan did to keep the towering figure in front of him.
When he had completed his circuit, Dauroth offered a condescending frown. “Such a sorry little mongrel! This is what the ogre race has fallen to! Not even a full-blooded creature, but a miserable half-breed tainted by an elf legacy!”
“You should understand it well, Dauroth. Understand and appreciate.”
“I do not appreciate impurity, imperfection, Guyvir.”
The grand lord’s pulse suddenly pounded. “I am Golgren.” He gripped the vial again. “You have been warned-”
Dauroth leaned forward, his countenance still utterly disdainful. “Crush it, Guyvir. Shatter it. It matters not. I have known of it for a long time. It is too weak a thing to slay me.”
“Impossible!”
“There is magic, I tell you, far more formidable than that of the Uruv Suurt bitch who made that for you!” Dauroth snapped with abrupt, uncustomary fury. His face immediately relaxed again. “Titan magic … the magic that will return the ogre race to its rightful place.”
Golgren let the vial drop against him. He recalled the painful clutching at his chest. “Was you, then! You who made this move!” He indicated the mummified appendage. “You who command the army of f’hanos marching on Garantha!”
“You are babbling, oh Grand Lord.” Dauroth gazed heavenward, a deep frown spreading over his handsome features. “But not about the f’hanos evidently. Fascinating! Not me, not me. But who else have you irritated so much, Guyvir, that they would send the very dead after you?”
So it was not the Titans. Golgren hissed. “The f’hanos will not stop with me. They will destroy all! The Titans, they must help defend Garantha when I ride to meet these creatures! You shall summon storm and quake and-”
“I will do nothing more for you. You claim the right to be grand khan and lord chieftain in one? Let us see the true cunning and power of Guyvir without the Titans coming to his rescue! Oh, we shall protect Garantha but only when you are outside its gates, dying in a vain attempt to kill those already slain!”
Golgren bared his teeth, wishing that his tusks were long and sharp as he stared up at the smug sorcerer. Dauroth knew his vulnerability. If Golgren waited in the city until the f’hanos attacked, he would lose all the prestige he had built up among his kind. With the possible exception of a few diehards such as Khleeg and Wargroch, most of his officers, the khans and chieftains, they would all turn on him.
Yet if Golgren led his army into battle against the dead without the benefit of the Titans’ magic, it was highly probable that the greater part of his forces would be routed and the remainder would perish with him in ignoble defeat.
Dauroth folded his arms. “Now our little talk is done. It is time for me to deal with another who thinks himself higher than he is. Then … then at last, I can go back to my holy tasks without any more interruptions!” His eyes suddenly glowed. “But first, something to remember me by! You shall wear it to your bitter end.”
Golgren bent over in horrific pain. He managed to keep from uttering more than a slight moan. His chest burned.
The agony eased. As the grand lord straightened, he heard a slight clatter on the floor and saw the chain that had held the vial lying there. However, the vial itself was nowhere to be seen.
He shoved aside the mummified hand.
Embedded in his chest was the vial. A thin layer of skin shrouded the sinister container.
“Think of me as you fail, oh Grand Lord.”
The Titan vanished amid a swirl of black, smoky tendrils.
Golgren threw himself at where Dauroth had stood but far too late. Panting, the grand lord clawed at the vial, but to touch the area sent spasms of pain coursing through him.
Wargroch called from without, begging permission to enter with some news. Grabbing another tunic, Golgren gave his permission, trying not to gasp as the pain gradually subsided.
The younger ogre was quick with his report. “A scout from a patrol. Says that there are f’hanos-many, many f’hanos-near Kubli!”
Kubli was a small, forgettable settlement save for one thing: it was barely more than a day’s march from Garantha. What little time Golgren had left had shrunk just like that.
“Khleeg has orders! All must be ready to fight! We ride before the Burning! Make this known to him!”
With a slap to his breastplate, Wargroch fled the chamber.
Golgren’s expression shifted to one that was almost passive. He had made his decision. He would face the undead horde and he would defeat it or, at the very least, the ogre race would sing of the legend of the grand lord’s great stand.
That was supposing, of course, that there would be anyone left alive to sing it.