Yes, that was what was left to do; in spite of the pain, he had to finish Golgren. The rest would fall into place.
Fighting to concentrate, Dauroth located Golgren. A final thrust of magical power, and the grand lord would be no more than a blot of red on the ruined landscape.
Just a final thrust-
His entire body suddenly flinched, feeling as if on fire. Dauroth could not hold back a roar of agony. The pain was everywhere; it was inside him and surrounding him. Only his incredible willpower kept everything from falling apart.
Kallel made things worse by interrupting his struggling thoughts. “Great Dauroth! You must stop! This is taking from you too much-”
“Taking from you. Is that not what you mean?” countered Safrag emphatically. “The master is not so weak of will as you! His strength of mind is more powerful than anything!”
Safrag’s declaration pushed Dauroth to try and overcome his agony. It must pass. Surely it would pass.
Dauroth screamed as his body was wracked with worse pain. He felt as though he were being torn apart. He felt … only pain.
And in that moment, clarity came to him. He understood the cause of his struggles. The vial was not powerful enough to hurt him! The minotaur priestess’s spell work was inadequate! Dauroth had tested the vial several times and proved that he was immune. Her enchantment had been too weak. At the most, it should have caused him a mere twinge, not the abject horror he was experiencing.
Yet … what other explanation was there?
The signet! The ancient signet that somehow had found its way to Golgren. The mongrel must have learned how to use the signet to amplify the enchantment on the vial, actually make the Uruv Suurt priestess’s spell function as originally intended.
But Golgren was no master of High Ogre artifacts and magic. It would take a true scholar of the arts, such as a Titan, to make it function properly.
And not just any Titan … such knowledge, such casting of spells, required a member who belonged to Dauroth’s inner circle.
The Black Talon.
And with that realization, he turned his torturous gaze upon those standing with him, his eyes focusing first and foremost upon Kallel. Kallel, who had protested ever Dauroth’s demand upon the rest for power, who constantly worried about whether there was enough elixir or whether the other sources they had gathered would ever be enough to replace the blood of elves. Kallel … Kallel … the name played over and over in his head, in condemning fashion. Dauroth’s skull pounded.
“Betrayer!” he shouted at last, the shocking denunciation fortified by the torture Dauroth was undergoing. “Betrayer!”
Taken aback, the rest of the Black Talon broke from the pattern, not caring that in doing so they shattered the spell. Kallel, gaping, sought to hide among his comrades. However, they shoved him away, leaving him to face the master alone.
Something had begun to gnaw at Dauroth, a terrible gnawing that grew with each labored breath. “Betrayer!” he managed to gasp again. One hand twisted into a fist. He felt Safrag strengthen him for what he was about to do. “Kallel, you are condemned!”
“Nay, great one! I know not even what you speak of! I did nothing!” Kallel’s eyes were bright with fear. “Nay! Do not-”
“You are an Abomination to me.”
Kallel howled. His body seemed to lose all solidity, as if his bones had turned to butter. His blue skin paled, turning a foul, decaying green. Hideous boils erupted all over his body. Kallel’s face distorted, the eyes seeming to slide to random positions. His mouth deformed. A stench arose from him, one of corruption. His limbs twisted into tentacles.
His own insides twisting, Dauroth let out a sharp cry of his own. With a commanding gesture, he cast the transforming Kallel from the sight of the rest of the Black Talon, sending him to that remote place to which all Abominations were condemned.
At the same time, Dauroth felt Safrag sever the link between master and apprentice.
“Safrag!” The elder Titan spoke in a grating voice, startled by the development. Safrag he counted on as his key to survival. “Safrag! Attend me! Attend me now!”
But his apprentice, staring stonily, merely shook his head. “There is nothing I can do for you, my master.”
The gnawing sensation had been moving up Dauroth’s body, yet he retained enough presence of mind to cast a keen glance at Safrag, and at last he understood. For one of the very few times in his existence, Dauroth knew he had been played for the fool.
Kallel had not been the culprit. Safrag had merely fostered that idea in his master’s mind, just as he had fed so much distrust of Hundjal before, Dauroth realized.
“Safrag! You-”
But it was too late to punish the traitor. The curse upon the vial’s contents took its final toll. It was as if someone were peeling Dauroth apart from the inside. His chest folded open-his ribs, organs, and beating heart were momentarily revealed, to the horror of the others-and from inside of him burst a green-tinged energy that further ate away at the Titan.
In the end, it was not hatred for Golgren or anger over the betrayal by one of his own that was Dauroth’s last thought; rather it was the long-held dream. He beheld the ancient spirit from his first vision, then the golden city from the more recent. The city stretched out before him, the gates open and inviting. The gleaming figure was there too, and at first Dauroth believed he beckoned the spellcaster toward those gates.
But then the guardian transformed into the robed spirit. The beautiful male/female shook its head in sorrow. It waved a slim hand, and the gates shut tight.
You have failed to earn it, the guardian sang. You have failed…
As the rest of the Black Talon watched, Dauroth reached a shaking hand toward empty air, and the last of him was peeled away until nothing remained but dissipating wisps of smoke.
In Garantha, the quake came to such an abrupt halt that nobody could question its supernatural origins. The remaining towers, still teetering, very quickly stilled. Dust drifted over everything, so thick as to be blinding.
Certain the catastrophe would return, Garantha’s inhabitants remained frozen, and the only sounds heard throughout the city were those of the injured and dying calling out unheeded for aid. Only as more time passed and the land remained quiet did more normal signs of life gradually return. Only then did help begin to come to those in dire need.
With the return of normal life came the shock of awareness of the death and destruction that had engulfed the city. The cries and weeping began anew, for even ogres can stand only so much before their spirits break. Yet for all the violence within the city, an even greater menace, encroaching from the west, had been met in battle. Guards peeking over the walls caught their first glimpses of the ruined land beyond, making them thankful the city had not suffered as much by comparison.
The call went out for those who ruled to take command of the emergency and issue instructions for relief and aid, but of the self-proclaimed master of all Kern and Blode, the only signs were the mangled and ruined banners and the cracked images.
Idaria woke first; it was she who first discovered that she was alive. She lay half buried in silt and stone, her body bruised and slashed, but miraculously not badly harmed.
No, it was not so miraculous. Recalling her rescuer, she looked around hopefully. Yet there was no evidence of any silver armor nearby, no hint of a human hand or limb.
“Sir Stefan!” she rasped, her wracked voice sounding like it’d be more suitable for a goblin. “Sir Stefan!”