Safrag chuckled. “As glorious as the palace fully restored to its former greatness would be, our gifts can be of far better service to you than that, Grand Khan,” the blue-tinted sorcerer said. He gave a low bow that still did not take him down to eye level with the half-breed. “No, I come on business of importance regarding a missing portion of your armies.”
With a wave of his hand, Golgren dismissed the two guards. They retreated, standing far enough away to not hear, but still close enough to be summoned back to duty, if needed.
“The Titans are slow to hear. That news is not fresh news to me, Safrag.”
The Titan leader spread his hands in apology. “Naturally, we knew about it for some time. But it made no sense to alert you without first trying to find out more information. You’d certainly like to know where the missing ranks might be, after all.”
Golgren did not even so much as arch an eyebrow. “And you know?”
“We have … evidence. Strong evidence.” Safrag raised a hand toward Golgren.
A dagger suddenly appeared at the base of the Titan’s stomach. The Grand Khan’s face remained a mask. Behind him the guards could be heard giving a start, turning toward Golgren.
“No …” Golgren called to the pair. They immediately halted.
The dagger stayed pointed at Safrag’s stomach.
“Your throat is a bit high for my dagger, Safrag. But a blade to the stomach can be as fatal, I think, even to a sorcerer.”
The Titan was gracious even in the face of the threat. “But I mean no harm, Grand Khan! I merely have something to show you.”
Over his open palm there suddenly appeared the vision of a mountainous region. Golgren did not remove the dagger while he studied the vision. He vaguely knew that particular area. It was almost directly south of Garantha, in the midst of the rugged mountain chain that extended there.
“That is near the Vale of Vipers,” Golgren finally said.
“So we also found out.”
“The missing hand last marched in the southern reaches of old Blode. To be near the vale, Zhulom would have had to march his warriors far and with much good reason.”
“We thought he might be seeking to build a rebellion,” the Titan suggested.
The Grand Khan’s green eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “To build a rebellion, Zhulom would need the help of the Uruv Suurt. He would be best served staying in the south of old Blode.”
Safrag bowed again. “Your wisdom is great. We considered that also, and perhaps Zhulom has done so previously. But all signs most definitely point to him being near the vale.”
“The vale …” Golgren withdrew the dagger, which he quickly slipped back into his belt. “So very near Khur.”
“Imagine the empire with Khur. And, by proxy, imagine Neraka, Grand Khan.”
Golgren said nothing, showed no emotion.
Dismissing the vision, Safrag continued blithely, “Of course, I wouldn’t expect you to ride there yourself. We Titans shall look into the matter there as best as possible.”
“Yes. You are to be commended, Safrag.”
“The Titans but live to serve you, Grand Khan.”
Grinning without humor, Golgren replied, “So Dauroth also said.”
With a shrug, the Titan leader vanished in a brief flash of black flame that left a slight sulfur scent in Golgren’s nostrils. Slipping his hand to a pouch at his waist, Golgren withdrew a small vial. Expertly popping the bound cork off the tiny green container, the Grand Khan briefly inhaled the potion. The elven scent managed to disperse the sulfur.
Replacing the vial, he summoned back the guards. Without a word to them, the Grand Khan glanced one more time at the wondrous relief, much improved, and continued on.
Khleeg and a second officer met him outside the palace. Wargroch, also a Blodian, was in some ways uglier than Khleeg. His toadlike face was reminiscent of two other ogres who had served Golgren during his rise to power. There was good reason for that resemblance, for both Nagroch and Belgroch had been elder brothers of the warrior. They too had given their lives-in one way or another-in service to Golgren.
“Lord,” the pair rumbled, striking their fists to their breastplates.
To Khleeg, Golgren asked, “Word of Zhulom?”
His second in command turned uncomfortable. “Nothing, lord.”
Wargroch grunted. Khleeg glared at him.
Golgren eyed the younger warrior. “Speak, Wargroch.”
The other’s grasp of Common was better than Khleeg’s. “Grand Khan, I hear of sightings of ogre warriors coming from the south. I understand they march through Khur-”
“All j’nari!” insisted Khleeg to them. “All … rumor!”
The Grand Khan silenced Khleeg with a look. “And the rumor? You hear it where, Wargroch?”
“Mentioned in reports, in stolen messages from Black Shell riders … in other places …”
“It is true?” Golgren demanded of Khleeg.
His second in command shrugged. “True, some word here, some there. How true that word …”
A brief scowl escaped the Grand Khan, a scowl he quickly smothered. “It is decided,” he murmured to himself. “Khleeg, my horse. Wargroch, you and I, we will ride!”
“Ride where?” asked Khleeg, clearly not pleased. His brother had been chosen over him; he would be left behind.
The Grand Khan bared his teeth-not at Khleeg, but rather thinking of the destination he had in mind. “To Sarth.”
The ogre was a rarity among his kind, so old and wizened that he almost appeared to hail from some other race. His body was barely more than bones, and his flesh was so pale gray that he looked like a f’hanos. His two smallest fingers were missing from his left hand, as were the small toes of each foot. Yet the marks that were all that were left of those impairments indicated that the missing digits had been carefully severed, not removed by accident.
The old ogre sat in the mouth of a cave hidden in the mountains just east of Garantha. The cave was not deep, but the shape of the opening evoked the fanged mouth of a serpent. The old ogre sat under the stone fangs, drawing with a stick in the dirt.
The patterns he made were many. Some were recognizable as crude designs of local animals: the huge, elephantine mastarks, the giant reptiles called meredrakes, amaloks of varying sizes, and birds of prey were just some of the drawings. The old ogre mumbled as he drew, and whenever his mouth opened enough, it revealed that other than his two cracked bits of tusk, he had only a few fractured teeth.
His pate was bald, and what hair he bore on the rest of his gaunt body was spread in gray patches. Although the winds that howled through the mountains were harsh, they seemed not to affect the ogre, who wore only an old, torn kilt. No sandals protected his feet, whose soles were harder than leather.
In addition to the drawings in the dirt, there were other markings etched into the sides of the cave entrance.
A sun. A dragon with many heads. A huge tree. A griffon.
Beside the ogre was a tiny fire made from some of the squat brush that managed to survive in the inhospitable landscape. Tendrils of smoke wafted away from the cave and its tenant, finally drifting toward the two approaching riders.
“Gya ihul iGuyviri” rasped the elderly ogre sitting in front of the cave.
Wargroch glanced curiously at his lord. Golgren kept his expression calm, though his eyes briefly narrowed.
“And I see you too, Sarth,” the Grand Khan returned, “who knows I am Golgren.”
“And who speaks the tongue that is not the tongue,” countered the elder, his comment followed by a grunting laugh. “As you wish to speak. Golgren you are, Guyvir. What brings you to Sarth after so many seasons? Not since Ka i’Urkarun Dracon iZharangi-The Dragon Who Is Zharang-brought his f’han to him and called him Grand Lord …”
The elder’s ability to speak Common so well-better, in fact than any ogre other than a Titan-made Wargroch growl suspiciously. Golgren quieted him with a gesture. “A shaman, Wargroch. He is supposed to be a creature of peace.”