And as Atolgus’s fingers clutched him, the Blodian felt the coarse fur on his body tremble and spark as though some terrible lightning storm swept through the chamber.
“This is the first of many rewards, loyal Wargroch. She promises that.”
Atolgus’s Titan eyes glowed.
To his credit, Wargroch did not flinch, buth rather steeled himself. When Atolgus released him, the Blodian did not even exhale in relief. He pounded his fist against his chest in formal salute.
“How soon?” he rumbled, referring to the action he was supposed to take against Solamnia.
“Very soon,” was all Atolgus would reply.
The future warlord nodded. Keeping his head low and his fist on his chest, he backed out of the chamber. Under his thick brow, his gaze remained on Atolgus. The warlord had once more seated himself with a gaze of longing and devotion. If there was nothing physically left of the chieftain he once knew, Wargroch saw that there was also very little remaining of that which had been Atolgus’s old spirit. What sat on the throne was entirely subservient to the desires of the female Titan.
The doors shut of their own accord again. Wargroch straightened. He gave the guard handling the meredrake a sharp look, and the other ogre showed more respect. With the doors open, the guard had heard of Wargroch’s impending glory. Like Atolgus, Wargroch was clearly favored by the Titans.
Paying the guard no further mind, the Blodian strode on as if headed to another important meeting. Instead, though, his mind raced. Two things bothered Wargroch, indeed warred within him. One was the honor the sorcerers had bestowed upon him through the changed and changing Atolgus. He was to be ruler of all Solamnia. He was to have a rank almost as great as Atolgus himself.
The hardened warrior finally shivered. An image of himself as Atolgus, as Atolgus had become, disturbed him and would not leave his thoughts.
But while the possible promise of his own transformation set Wargroch ill at ease, it was further compounded by a second concern, concern over a pouch delivered by messenger to Golgren just prior to the seizure of Garantha. Golgren had been absent, so Wargroch, left to guard the capital, had naturally taken the message from the ogre courier.
And though it would have made sense for Wargroch to turn the pouch over to Atolgus or the Titans, he had, for some inexplicable reason, kept it to himself, burying it in a safe place just beyond the city walls. Considering the Titans’ constant alteration of the capital, that choice was fortunate.
The only other soul who knew of its existence-the original courier-would not betray him. Wargroch had taken it upon himself to kill that ogre. He had decided to keep the pouch’s existence a secret. At the time, he had not known why he had acted so out of character, merely that he felt impelled.
It was a decision that, if discovered, would mean an awful fate for him. Wargroch had fought bravely in many a battle and slain many a foe, but he had placed his fate in the contents of a pouch that had, though he had not realized it immediately, planted the first seed of the doubts that assailed him constantly.
It was a pouch with Solamnic markings.
III
The moment that he felt solid ground beneath his feet, Golgren tore himself free from Tyranos.
“Return me to the citadel,” he demanded of the wizard in a low growl.
“That doesn’t seem like a good idea to me just now,” Tyranos returned with equal vehemence. He glanced around, also furious, but for another reason. “We’re still in the damned mountains! We should be beyond them!”
“Good.”
The brawny spellcaster snorted. “Oh, not good at all! His power’s strong here, and if he seizes you, he’ll be stronger yet!”
His comment briefly distracted Golgren from his own ire. “Speak more plainly … if you can.”
Tyranos did not look at all willing to give explanations. “First we leave; then we talk.”
The crystal on the staff glowed. Tyranos reached for the half-breed.
Golgren dodged him. The deposed Grand Khan readied himself to fight hand to hand with the human, aware that Tyranos was one person who might be wily and strong enough to defeat him.
“This is hardly the place for this foolery!” the hooded wizard snapped. He pointed the crystal at Golgren.
The half-breed started to move but halted as he caught sight of a figure who had materialized beyond Tyranos. The armor alone, with its silver sheen and intricate sword symbol on the breastplate, would have been enough to identify the newcomer even if the face of the figure were not somehow visible despite the gloom. The proud face with the short beard running around the chin and jaws was uncommon among Solamnics, who tended toward thick mustaches. There was only one Knight of Solamnia whom Golgren knew who wore his facial hair in that fashion.
“Sir Stefan Rennert?” he whispered.
Tyranos faltered. He spun around and looked where his reluctant companion was staring. “Rennert?”
But there was no one standing there. Golgren’s eyes narrowed.
“That was a juvenile trick, well beneath you, oh Grand Khan,” the wizard began as he slowly turned back. However, upon noting Golgren’s bewildered expression, Tyranos paused. “Or was it?”
Golgren stepped past Tyranos to better see where the knight had supposedly been standing. However, it was exceedingly obvious that no one was there.
“You’re not one to imagine things,” the spellcaster went on. “And that cleric does have a tendency to pop up when least expected.”
“Cleric?”
“Ah, that’s right! You don’t know. Our friend became a cleric of the bison-headed one.”
That made Golgren’s eyes narrow further. “Kiri-Jolith?”
The robed figure chuckled. “I see we share one thing in common, a particular distaste for meddling gods.” Tyranos paused. “Speaking of which, have you come across a more fiery one of late?”
“I have.”
The bluntness of the statement caused Tyranos to grimace. “Then it more than ever behooves us to leave this wretched place-”
“No.”
“Golgren-”
Suddenly the half-breed darted past the wizard. Golgren recognized enough shadowy landmarks to know in which direction the citadel lay.
Tyranos materialized in front of him. The spellcaster sounded exhausted but determined. “We are leaving.”
The two grappled.
The staff flared.
“What by the Kraken?” Tyranos barked, involuntarily letting Golgren know that it was no action of his.
The pair vanished again and materialized a breath later in a place that the half-breed had never expected to see again.
The eight desiccated figures sat around the long, wide table in the exact same poses in which Golgren had last observed them. Standing, each would have been about the height of the half-breed. They were evenly divided between male and female, not that the differences mattered much anymore, not after so many centuries dead. All were clad in dust-covered rags merely hinting at the rich green and blue that they once were.
But the faded color of the ancients’ robes meant little in comparison to the obvious glint of gold remaining on the dried skin still wrapped tightly about their skulls. Golgren already knew who the eight were-what they had been long past-but for Tyranos their appearance was a shocking revelation.
“High Ogres!” the wizard gasped, forgetting the half-breed. He pushed past Golgren to approach two of the corpses. Placing one hand on the iridescent pearl table, he leaned close to a male figure whose face still bore the remnants of a star tattoo under its right eye.
“The lost nine.”
“Except there are eight,” Golgren pointed out.
“There should be nine,” the leonine Tyranos insisted. He studied the parchment skin, stared into the empty sockets. “The writing said the nine who fled …”