Finally, the mob broke. Ogres fled in every direction. Even then, Atolgus did not order an end to his troops’ efforts. They hunted down all those too slow in flight, slaying dozens more. The bloodbath stained the area crimson.
It was Wargroch who finally managed to stem the frenzy by riding up close to the eager Atolgus and shouting, “All is ended! There should be no more blood!”
Atolgus nearly turned on him, but at the last moment, Morgada’s puppet calmed. Without any word to Wargroch, he gestured with his sword to a trumpeter. Raising a curled goat horn, the ogre warrior blew loudly.
Hearing the signal, Atolgus’s warriors pulled back. Bodies lay sprawled everywhere; some were hacked apart so badly that they were nearly unrecognizable as ogres.
At last, the warlord spoke to Wargroch. “I leave to you the clearing of the streets!” With that, the former chieftain turned his great mount around and led his warriors back to the palace.
Wargroch was left with the handful of ogres who had followed him out. None of them looked eager to be there.
The Blodian surveyed the massacre. Hardened as he was by his own past, including his own betrayals, Wargroch was nonetheless shaken by the sight.
But there was nothing he could do about it. With a grunt, he called a subordinate to his side. “A wagon. This will need a wagon … two.”
The ogre saluted then rushed off to find the wagons. Wargroch signaled the other warriors to dismount and begin the grisly task.
The wagons arrived but a few moments later, no doubt appropriated from some side street. With the situation under control, Wargroch found himself glancing toward one of the outer walls and thinking of the buried pouch. The Blodian considered how just a matter of a few days had altered the situation greatly. Golgren would have given a Grand Khan’s ransom for the contents. They represented the possibility of one of his greatest hopes coming to fruition.
But all that mattered not. Golgren had departed before the pouch had arrived; then, according to Atolgus, the Grand Khan had been slain by Safrag’s sorcery. The most valuable treasure in the world could have been in the pouch, and it would not change the fact that the Titans ruled the ogre realm and would soon leave their mark on all Krynn.
Nor could an offer of negotiations by the Solamnics concerning a cessation of hostilities and a potential pact against the Uruv Suurt change that reality either.
As tall as Golgren, which made them roughly two feet shorter than full-blooded ogres, the Uruv Suurt greatly resembled him in the design of their bodies, save that instead of the coarse, ogre hair they had fine coats of varying shades of brown, black, and on the rare occasion red or white. However, their coats were not the most startling factor to outsiders. No, that had to do with their heads.
Whether male or female, Uruv Suurt-minotaurs-had heads very akin to those of bulls.
Faros was, by the standards of his people, handsome. His muzzle was sleek, and his eyes penetrating … so penetrating, in fact, that it looked as if they desired to literally skewer the half-breed.
Golgren reached toward the minotaur emperor.
“Betrayal!” roared one of the nearest guards. He and a companion thrust themselves ahead of Faros and attacked the two intruders.
The wizard used his staff to stop his foe’s attack then struck the Uruv Suurt under the muzzle. At the same time, Golgren let his own adversary’s weapon shoot past him. He then drove the stump that was his other arm-considered so little a threat by most of his enemies-into the guard’s unprotected throat.
“Stop!” commanded Faros.
The two guards stumbled back; the one Golgren had struck was still clutching his throat and coughing.
“The Grand Khan Golgren …” The tall, brown minotaur stepped in front of his soldiers, almost within reach of the half-breed. Although the horned figure also wore a breastplate and kilt like his followers-save that the condor on his breastplate was lined by a pattern of tiny, interlinking axes and swords-his uniform did not completely obscure the many horrific scars the ruler bore from head to foot. Even the muzzle and face had not been left unblemished, though those scars were mostly due to battle. The majority of those on the body were due to slavery, first at the hands of his own people then under the ogres.
“The Grand Khan Golgren …” Dark brown eyes narrowed as they surveyed the half-breed. “Or is it the former Grand Khan? We’ve heard much of late.”
“And I hear of Uruv Suurt marching north into the province of Blode.” Golgren waved aside the disrespectful comments. “But I come not to discuss these trivial matters.”
“You should be discussing what reason there is for letting you keep your head,” a female voice added. From behind Faros emerged the occupant of the other throne. Her tone bore even more malice toward Golgren than that of Faros.
“Maritia.” The half-breed bowed. “It is a pleasure to be in your fair presence again.”
The female Uruv Suurt had a less pronounced muzzle and horns only half as long as the two-foot ones of her mate. Her body was more graceful than that of Faros and very much akin, despite the smooth, brown fur, to that of a human or elf female. However, it was a mistake to think she was not as capable in battle as the emperor. Indeed, for a time, she had led the empire’s forces in Ambeon and had even been allied with Golgren against her future mate. But she desired his death more than Faros did, for, at the behest of her mother and eldest sibling, Golgren had imprisoned her and seen to the death of her favored brother, Bastion.
“You’ll find the company of a hungry pack of meredrakes more pleasant if you don’t give us a reason to keep you alive,” she retorted.
“Speak faster,” Tyranos muttered, unusually subdued around the minotaurs. “And wisely.”
“You travel with humans now?” Faros asked, studying the wizard. “A spellcaster, of course. Golgren no longer has your mother to protect him, Maritia.”
Once Maritia had been devoted to her parents, but in the end, she had learned that the Lady Nephera, high priestess of the Forerunner cult, had not only been instrumental in Bastion’s murder, but had used sorcery to cause the death of the Emperor Hotak, Nephera’s mate and Maritia’s father. Maritia had been there when the god Sargonnas, through Faros, had finally delivered unto Nephera final justice, letting the power of her own patron-Morgion, god of disease and corruption-slowly and horribly slay her.
Tyranos’s grip on the staff tightened as the guards stared at him with renewed interest. He said nothing.
“He is of no consequence to you,” Golgren replied to the emperor. “Less than nothing, though useful. It is I to whom all responsibility falls, yes? And it is I to whom you must speak for the sake of all Uruv Suurt.”
“I never know just where your limits of Common begin and end,” Faros muttered. “Nor where the limits of your conniving end either, but this should at least be entertaining. We can always kill you afterward.”
“Don’t listen!” Maritia urged. “That one’s already talked himself out of too many deaths.”
“He’ll speak true. He knows he has to with me.” To emphasize his words, Faros tapped the half-breed’s chest with the tip of his sword right where the half-ogre’s mummified hand hung. The same hand that Faros himself had removed when still an escaped slave leading a revolt. “Still carrying it, I see.”
“Always, Faros Es-Kalin.”
“Wise.” The emperor waved back the guards. “Resume your places-no-better yet leave us.”
“My lord, we should not go,” growled one soldier, who bore a helmet and cloak that marked him as an officer.