When he was finished with his meal, the guards prepared him for the next stage of their journey. To his surprise, they set him atop a stout, brown mount that they generally used for carrying supplies. They must have discussed their captive and decided that more haste was needed. After all, they had captured the Grand Khan of all ogres. Or, at least, the former Grand Khan.
The journey covered hills that rolled up and down as if they were frozen waves. The monotony of the trip did not end until midway through the day, when Golgren spotted something in the distance that he took to be a large encampment. With each successive hilltop that they reached, it came into better view.
His captors spoke only when necessary, which meant most of the time they rode in silence. Golgren was not certain where he was exactly, although the staff had followed his dictate, bringing him to the edge of Golthuu nearest to Solamnia. It had been fortuitous that a band of riders had come along.
Perhaps too fortuitous. Golgren had not forgotten that Sirrion was involved somehow. It was possible that either he or the gargoyles’ master had plans for Golgren and that he was still playing out a role destined for him before his birth.
Finally, they reached the last hill overlooking a large contingent of fighters who had made camp. With a combination of pleasure and irony, Golgren surveyed the full military force. Crisp tents lined the vicinity, all of them in perfect formation. A fine array of horses was tethered to the north. Everywhere, knights in full armor polished their swords, lances, and other weapons. Everyone looked ready to fight at a moment’s notice.
He had found what he desired already waiting on his border.
The sentries at the perimeter watched warily as the party approached. An officer of the Order of the Sword stepped up, the great blade emblem filling most of his breastplate.
“Sir Justin! You’re back early.”
“I’ve need to see the commander,” the lead knight of the party answered. “Is he in the camp today?”
“Just returned-” the other knight halted in mid-breath as he registered Golgren’s conspicuous presence amid the others. “Paladine preserve us! Is that-?”
“Let us pass,” Sir Justin requested, eyes narrowed.
The officer quickly nodded then gestured to the sentries. Sir Justin’s riders slowly entered the camp. As they moved through the immense camp, heads turned and voices whispered; the lone prisoner drew everyone’s attention. More than one knight stood up and gazed or glared at Golgren, some with wide eyes.
At last, they came to a tall, white tent with a variation of the banner of the Knighthood-a crowned kingfisher bearing a sword and a rose in its talons-fluttering above. Two sharp-eyed sentries stood at the entrance with swords gripped tightly. They did not acknowledge the newcomers. Golgren kept his gaze on the tent flap, certain that, despite the sentries’ immobility, whoever dwelled there had been alerted of his coming.
A gauntleted hand thrust through the flap. An elder knight with a long, silver mustache and thinning hair only slightly darker in color peered at the riders from under a shaggy brow. The eyes that studied Golgren were deep blue and shrewd.
“Escort our guest inside,” he ordered in a voice that suffered from an unusual rasp.
The half-breed’s guards reached to assist him down from his mount, but the chained figure slid off with ease. He did not expect anyone to undo his bonds and, therefore, was not disappointed when the Solamnics immediately marched him forward. The commander turned back into the tent as one of the sentries held open the flap.
The interior was sparsely decorated with two simple wooden stools and a small table. A pair of round-bottomed, bronze oil lamps-unlit-hung from short chains attached to the wooden frame at the center of the ceiling. Over to one side lay a well-worn cotton bedroll that showed that, on duty, even the most prestigious of knights slept on the most simple of mattresses-the ground. Despite the heat, the tent smelled clean, for the Knighthood was almost obsessed with orderliness.
A map lay on the wooden table, and although it was rolled up, Golgren sensed that it had been spread out for study only moments before. He was fairly certain it was a map detailing Kern.
The commander drew his long, polished sword and set it to the side of the table, a safe distance away from Golgren. He then sat on the nearest and largest of the two stools.
“Undo the Grand Khan’s limbs.”
Golgren hid the slight surprise he felt upon hearing that his arms, too, were to be freed. His prowess in battle, even with only one hand, was surely well known to the Solamnics.
Rubbing his maimed wrist, the half-breed stepped to the stool. However, he waited to sit until invited to do so.
One eyebrow arched, the commander waved permission. At the same time, he reached for a brown flask of wine that had escaped Golgren’s notice.
“Not elven fare since that’s so rare these days,” the human added pointedly, “but some good Solamnic red.”
He poured some into a worn, silver mug, which he handed without hesitation to his “guest.” At the same time, the guards retreated from the tent. As he sipped his drink, Golgren understood that the commander had given them some unseen sign.
“The Grand Khan Golgren,” the Knight of the Rose murmured after taking a sip from his own mug. “Is the wine to your liking?”
“Yes. My thanks. I was parched.”
“Not a surprise. And my apologies for the uncivil behavior of Sir Justin’s party, but he wasn’t warned about you.”
Golgren raised an eyebrow slightly, the only hint of his curiosity over that odd statement.
“We also expected your arrival to be a tad bit more … straightforward.” The commander set down his mug. “But forgive me. I have not introduced myself. I am Sir Augustus Rennert, Knight of the Rose and overall leader of this exploratory expedition.”
Golgren ignored the man’s titles-even the questionable “exploratory” part referring to the expedition-as Sir Augustus’s surname registered. “You are kin to Sir Stefan Rennert?”
“Didn’t the lad make that clear? He’s my nephew by blood and pretty much one of my sons by pride.”
“I see …”
“He’d warned us that you would be coming soon, but it would’ve been more … prudent … if you’d alerted us yourself. Still, no harm is done as we’re yet awaiting word to the missive I sent to Lord Kardon, he to whom I must report.”
Sir Augustus’s explanations were filled with contradictions and puzzles. He spoke as if he had recently heard from his nephew and as though he expected Golgren to be making something akin to an official visit. Had Idaria reached that place, some of what the commander said might have made sense, but as it was, Golgren grew suspicious.
He kept his face blank, however. “And the details of your missive?”
Pouring both of them a bit more wine, Stefan’s uncle answered, “That I took Stefan’s recommendations seriously, considered the various aspects of acceptance or rejection several times, and finally gave his ideas my guarded approval.”
“So you approve …” the half-breed cautiously began.
“‘Guarded approval,’ I said, actually.” Augustus took another short sip. “An alliance of any sort with a leader of the ogres is one thing, but an alliance with the deposed leader is fraught with questions. Either one, however, presents a complex situation for my superiors.”
Golgren understood. The pact that he had still hoped to initiate with the Solamnics had already been submitted, and was, in fact, under consideration. It was a boon to his cause, but how the pact had been initiated still baffled and bothered him. “I am grateful that the Solamnics will consider this and grateful that your nephew speaks so well of it.”