And although it should have lightened his heart, Faros was also disturbed by the strange dissipation of the Titans’ spell. Not for the first time, the sorcerers’ handiwork had failed. The legionaries believed the cause was the inefficiency of a dishonorable weapon-magic-but Faros suspected the interference of gods.
“I ask no god to fight my wars for me!” he growled under his breath. “I say again to you, Kiri-Jolith, we win or die on our own merits!”
Even as he spoke, something on the ground ahead glittered. Drawn to the object, the emperor paused to pick it up.
It was a medallion, one he was certain had not been there moments earlier. One of the legionaries would have plucked it up, if not him, because its metal was valuable. It was made of steel.
It was a medallion bearing the likeness of a bison-headed god.
With a snort, Faros tossed it away.
Immediately, there came another glitter from the ground just ahead.
Bending, Faros discovered it a second medallion or, just as difficult to credit, the first again. With a defiant shake of his head, the former slave strode past it.
And, for a third time, his gaze was distracted by another glittering object in his path.
In frustration, Faros seized it up again. Although there was no such sign on the god’s image, the minotaur felt as if the visage mocked his efforts. He started to throw the medallion away-then, resignedly, finally thrust it beneath his breastplate.
“A shield I’ll accept,” Faros grudgingly muttered, keeping his voice low as another legionary trudged past him toward the front. “But only a shield. Nothing more.”
“Nothing more,” the other warrior agreed as he strode past, his back to the emperor.
Faros’s eyes widened. He rushed forward to catch up with the legionary, but somehow lost track of him and didn’t know who he was, even though there was no place for the other to have gone.
Thunder roiled, thunder without clouds. Faros glanced up, recognizing the start of another Titan attack.
This had better be for the best! he silently warned both the vanished god and the absent half-ogre who had talked him into that mess. This had better be for the best …
Letting out a shout, Faros urged his soldiers on.
XII
The slavering meredrake hissed, tugging hard on its rusting iron chain and sending spittle flying everywhere as it tried to reach the figure that had suddenly materialized in front of it. The great, green and brown reptile snapped eagerly at the intruder, despite having been recently fed. Meredrakes were always ready to eat, for in the wild, one never knew where one’s next meal would come from or whether one would become the next meal of something even bigger.
A single gesture silenced the fearsome creature, a gesture only one person could make. Golgren eyed his pet, somewhat interested to see that it was still alive. Nothing remained of the palace that had stood for ages, much less his own brief reign, other than the lone meredrake. He pondered its continued presence in a place that Safrag had clearly remade to his own desires, pondered it and came up with only one answer: Wargroch.
Why his traitorous officer would have kept the meredrake was a question that could wait for later or even forever. If given the opportunity, Golgren would feed his pet the other ogre and Atolgus too. There was no possible redemption for either; they had willingly sided with, or been seduced by, the Titans, which in the end, meant the same thing: betrayal.
Golgren peered around. He recognized nothing about the chamber in which he stood save that the image of the Titan’s leader, Safrag’s image, was everywhere. His godlike image stretched across the iridescent pearl floor; it stood tall in each perfectly executed statue that doubled as a column. Wall-sized profiles of the sorcerer gazed toward an arched throne that looked as if it had risen out of the floor. It had been designed not for an ogre, though, but clearly a Titan. Atolgus and Wargroch might believe they would gain their own glory for bowing to the sorcerers, but it was clear who would rule from there.
Golgren sniffed the air. Other than the meredrake’s heady carnivore scent, there was nothing unusual. No one had been in the chamber for at least a day, assuming that it had even existed that long. It was a wonder that the lizard had not perished during all the many abrupt changes.
Golgren’s brow furrowed. He glanced at the beast again then realized his terrible mistake.
The meredrake stood on two legs. Its shape was more that of an ogre. The muzzle was as long and as fearsome as ever, perhaps even more fearsome, with a hint of something slightly ogre.
Safrag had not left the meredrake safe out of any interest in the huge lizard; he had arranged a trap for Golgren just on the off chance that the wily half-breed would escape his eternal prison.
And Golgren had obliged him.
He instinctively reached for a sword that was not there. Sir Augustus had not provided him with any weapons. If Golgren had carried a sword, one of the sentries might have challenged the half-breed before his departure. That meant that Golgren had only a paltry dagger which he knew would not penetrate the meredrake’s scaly hide.
No longer apparently recognizing its master, the transformed meredrake tugged forward. The thick, metal chain easily snapped.
Golgren had no choice but to retreat. He drew the dagger despite its questionable value and kept at least part of his gaze on the creature at all times.
The chain dangling from its throat, the meredrake trudged eagerly toward the smaller figure. Despite having just become half-ogre, the meredrake moved as if perfectly comfortable with its two-legged form.
Brandishing the dagger, Golgren let out a hiss that was one of the commands he had taught the reptile. The meredrake hesitated, its crimson-tinged orbs blinking twice.
Then, tongue darting out, the monster lunged.
Golgren leaped aside as the huge figure dropped. The meredrake crashed into the elaborate marble floor with such force that it cracked part of Safrag’s grand image.
The half-breed immediately jumped onto the meredrake’s back. However, before he could attempt to use the dagger, the beast shook him off.
The force of the creature’s movement sent Golgren tumbling across the chamber, where he collided with a towering column shaped into a beatific Safrag who seemed to be smiling down smugly on his rival. Golgren had barely time to recover from the collision, for the meredrake was already in pursuit.
The creature came closer to catching him. Golgren rolled under its grasping paws and menacing, long, sharp claws. The meredrake barreled through Safrag’s stone effigy, shattering it and sending large chunks flying everywhere.
Rising, Golgren sought the nearest escape. It was not that he feared the transformed reptile so much-although death was likely if he continued to combat it-but rather that the monster was a delay he could ill afford. The longer Golgren was forced to remain in that particular location, the greater the chance that others would come to see what the commotion was.
The half-breed raced toward a side corridor, but the meredrake, rising from the dust, whirled and followed. The corridor was narrow but not enough to truly impede the beast on his tail. Golgren sought to grab something to hurl at or slow his foe, but in creating anew the palace, Safrag had evidently “grown” everything out of the main body. There was nothing unattached. Everything-the statuary, the banners, furniture-was part of the whole structure. It was almost as if he were inside a living thing rather than any building.
The meredrake lunged, but its enthusiasm caused it to slide too far to the right. Its side crashed into the wall, buying Golgren a vital extra breath. He dared not slow his pace, though, for the reptile moved on its two legs and used its new arms.