As they descended, a dust storm assailed the pair. Tyranos covered his face as best he could and prayed that his masking spell would hold. Of all of his spells, it was the most vital.
The staff detected something. “Bring me down over there! Quickly!”
Chasm did so, his massive, leathery wings beating hard against the air. The gargoyle could cover a mile in less than a minute, but still Tyranos felt he was moving too slowly. Whatever it was the staff had sensed, it was already fading away.
That might very well mean that Golgren had just died.
But suddenly the staff detected something else, and instantly the wizard discarded any concern for his “ally.”
“Up! Up! Hurry!”
Gritting his sharp teeth, the gargoyle strained as he abruptly shifted direction and flew up. His breath came in heaving gasps, and for the first time, he faltered slightly.
Tyranos eyed the turbulent scene below him, cursing the arrogance of all spellcasters, himself included.
“Those damned fools! Those damned Titans!”
The Black Talon sustained the spell, but the great effort was beginning to tell on many of them. Sweat covered most, causing the fine silken garments they wore to cling to their bodies unceremoniously. One Titan already was breathing raggedly and weaving back and forth, the pain distorting his usually handsome features. Others were holding on by sheer grit.
But Dauroth paid no mind to the strain on his followers. His glowing eyes still gazed triumphantly into the ether, and his mouth wore its widest, most predatory smile.
He imagined the wonderful era that would follow once the Black Talon reestablished the true course of ogre destiny. Dauroth relived the dream of the golden city. The lead Titan saw himself finally gaining entrance into the vision and viewing the wonders aplenty within those walls, wonders that he would make real and for which he would be immortalized.
But again Golgren refused to die. Somehow, the half-breed managed to scamper over the rising and falling earth, avoiding the huge ravines that opened up to swallow both living and dead by the scores. Dauroth’s optimism turned to frustration, and he ripped more power from the others for his awe-inspiring spell.
“G-great one!” sputtered Kallel, betraying his fear. “Surely this is enough! S-surely the f’hanos have been returned to their graves and the grand lord shamed beyond redemption!”
“He is not dead,” Dauroth responded tonelessly. “He is not dead.”
No other protests were uttered, only sighs of exhaustion and resignation. The inner circle of the Titans steeled themselves for whatever their leader demanded of them next. They had no other choice. They would obey unto death.
“If it is not enough,” Dauroth said aloud to himself. “Then there will be more. Let us see how long you can dance, Guyvir.”
The other Titans trembled as he extended the spell. Spittle stained the mouths and chins of several of the spellcasters. Kallel looked ready to say something else, but Safrag quickly shook his head. Mouth set, the apprentice studied his master closely then declared, “Take from deeper within me, great one! Bind my full power to yours! If you guide me so, I can help amplify your strength yet more!”
Dauroth eyed the younger Titan approvingly. “Good, loyal Safrag, you shall be rewarded.”
A tendril of black energy darted out from Dauroth’s chest and struck Safrag. The apprentice let out a brief moan then steadied himself. His eyes flared bright with loyalty.
The elder spellcaster nodded. “Now. You and I shall see that no crumb of dirt remains untouched.”
With the other Titans to fuel them, the two combined their wills, multiplying Dauroth’s earlier efforts several times over.
“Garantha may feel some of this,” he admitted to the others. “But in the end, they will rejoice because of it.”
And in the capital of Kern, where hundreds lined the sturdy walls and towering gates and where many stared in awe and shock at the most violent quake ever witnessed in their lives, the ground shifted for the first time. Suddenly, the awe gave way to panic, for no club, no axe or sword was powerful enough to stop a tremor. Against such, ogres could only pray and die.
That the landscape beyond shook even harder than around Garantha itself did not in any manner assuage the populace. What rattled the city seemed powerful enough to level it.
Fragments of the outer wall broke off and fell into Garantha and outside its perimeter. Two guards lost their balance and plunged below. The towers swayed, and in one, cracks began to appear. A massive crack opened up near the gates and began racing with dreadful swiftness through the capital, regardless of what streets or buildings stood in its path.
And with each passing second, the tremors grew worse.
They would destroy everything. They would bring down all of Garantha and sacrifice all its people just to kill him, Golgren realized.
No, the grand lord corrected himself. Not they, but rather he! It was Dauroth’s doing only. He was who demanded of the Titans such monstrous use of their power, even though surely it would risk the lives of more than one of his brethren.
Golgren cursed both the master Titan and the useless vial sealed to his chest. Twice he had pounded on the latter without any success. And even if the vial could be shattered, Dauroth had stated quite bluntly how useless it would be.
The ogre leader had managed to find a massive rock formation to cling to, a wide, flat formation that thus far had not fallen away. But it was surely only a matter of time before he was lost. Golgren eyed the heavens; the overcast sky was filled with red-tinged clouds. Not only did the quake continue, a fierce wind also began to assail him.
In the face of all that, Golgren suddenly laughed his defiance. He raised the stump that had been his hand and shook it at the sky.
“Come, Sargas! Come, all you gods! If you would have Golgren, you must teach Dauroth to strike harder!”
And as if the gods had heard him, the land shook more terribly than before. As the stone suddenly twisted, spinning him around, Golgren saw one of Garantha’s mighty towers fall. A mushroom cloud of dust blossomed above the city walls moments later.
Then his view cartwheeled as the rock he clung to began to sink into a freshly deepening ravine. Golgren looked up and, bracing himself, he searched for somewhere-anywhere-to jump.
There was only one choice, no other. Bracing as best he could, Golgren hurled himself forward just as the vast stone tipped and dropped into the gap, completely disappearing.
The grand lord landed safely. Without warning, a skeletal warrior came from behind, seizing him. Surprised that any of the undead foes were still on their feet, Golgren was nearly throttled to death by the bony fingers before he reacted. Then he struck the f’hanos hard in the jaw, which only battered his own hand. The undead creature’s ragged nails tore at his throat. Golgren reached for his waist, seeking the dagger secured in his kilt-the dagger he had slain the ji-baraki with so long ago-and instead grasped the belt pouch. Feeling a weight within, Golgren tore the pouch free and swung it at the side of the f’hanos’s skull.
A crackle of fiery energy engulfed his fleshless adversary the moment the small bag touched bone. The f’hanos released Golgren. Flailing wildly, the skeleton began to fall apart, the pieces flying in every direction.
Heart pounding, Golgren grabbed for the pouch. His searching fingers plucked out that which he had earlier sought-the mysterious ring Idaria had thrust upon him. He still had no idea as to its origins or what it actually was supposed to do.
But surely there was enough power to help him. Golgren was no spellcaster, tutored for years by some bearded master. He could not explain his odd certainty that Tyranos’s staff would save him against the ghoulish mastark, and yet it had. Nor could he explain why he had such faith in Idaria’s ring.