“And what could she possibly do?”
Falstoch moaned from pain before managing to respond, The elf slave … She stabbed … She stabbed Grahun, and he melted.
The sorcerers muttered among themselves. Despite their unwholesome appearance, the abominations had been discovered to have some distinct advantages over their former brethren, for their constantly shifting forms made them resistant to magics which even the Titans had to be wary of. Their same shifting ability meant they could literally fit into places nothing else could. The abominations were almost truly liquid. So Safrag had used them to follow Golgren’s trail into the mountains.
There was a third, very important reason why Safrag had chosen Falstoch and the others for that momentous task, a reason not spoken of aloud but known to all. Even the monstrous beings themselves knew it. They were expendable.
But the abominations were so desperate to restore themselves to a semblance of life that they were willing to be used.
“The elf slave stabbed him, and he melted?” The lead Titan studied Falstoch closely. “And what of you? You are wounded also, Falstoch, but you have not melted.”
The mongrel’s elf cut me with her little blade. The pain is still great.
“But you did not perish.”
No. There was blood on the blade.
“An elf … Blood of her race …” Safrag nodded in satisfaction. “Of course. What makes us glorious can also poison us. So said Dauroth, did he not, Morgada?”
“Yes, great one. The elf blood can be turned against our kind.”
“No elf should know it. But she apparently does. And she even knows how it must be done.” He glanced at the others, appraisingly. “Draug. You have watched the slave often of late. What is known of her that I might not recall?”
The other Titan shrugged. “She may spy for Neraka, thinking that they would help free her people. A naive notion, if she believes it. I have not been able to discover her contact there, though, for there is some magic involved-”
“The Nerakans are pawns for us, as are the Uruv Suurt,” Safrag interrupted, dismissing the intelligence as of little importance to his question. “Of her past?”
“Oakborn is her family, strong among elves, but not so great as to claim ties to their leaders.”
Safrag frowned. “Yet she readily guesses the weakness of something she can never have seen before, hmm. No matter! If she lives, she will give up her secrets to us.” He turned back to Falstoch, who seemed to be having trouble breathing. “Tell us all else that occurred.”
Falstoch did the best his labored body and mind could to relate his version of the hunt. He revealed to them the High Ogre markings and the vague comments made by the mongrel and his slave. Of more interest to Safrag, however, was the place where Golgren had used the signet to slip into the stone. From where, the Titan leader surmised, he was transported elsewhere.
“You do not know where you ended up? When you sent out the call, we brought you back. But our link was only with you. We could not sense your true location.”
Do not know.
“No matter. We shall find it readily enough through the Grand Khan Golgren.”
There is more. Falstoch straightened as best he could, although it was clear that his suffering far exceeded that of the duo behind him, who stayed respectfully silent. Falstoch spoke with some of the dignity of one who had once been among the august ranks of the Titans. There is this.
One globular hand thrust out. Although it constantly melted and reformed, what lay in its palm was visible to the sorcerers.
“The signet!” Morgada hissed.
“The mongrel’s signet!” growled Draug.
“You took it from him?” Safrag angrily roared. “You took it from the half-breed?”
Safrag did not want it? the lead abomination managed to gasp, confused. A signet of the High Ones?
“It was the half-breed’s means by which he was able to follow the trail! It responded to him as if he were born to its use!” Safrag’s right hand crackled with black lightning. “I gave no order to you and your putrid ilk, Falstoch, to take the signet from him, not when the mongrel seems the only key…”
The other Titans sat silent as Safrag stopped. He leaned back in consideration, his golden eyes never leaving the signet.
Without warning, he reached his hand out. With a slight wet sound, the signet flew out of Falstoch’s palm and into the hand of the Titan leader.
Safrag suddenly grinned. “You have done us a great service after all, Falstoch.” As the wounded monstrosity tried to bow, the handsome sorcerer added, “Go until you are needed again.”
The abominations had only a moment to bemoan their protest before vanishing. The other Titans showed no curiosity as to where Safrag had sent them. Oblivion would have been the choice of many, but that would have been a waste of minions. Like Dauroth before him, Safrag wasted little.
“Even better,” he murmured. To the air, the Titan sang, “Ulgrod, you are summoned before your master!”
Barely had he spoken than the Titan whom he had called-the last among their rank to be granted that status by the late Dauroth-appeared before Safrag and his fellows. Ulgrod’s nose wrinkled, and he glanced around seeking the source of the lingering stench.
Belatedly, he looked up at Safrag. “Master, you said you’d have need of me! Are we to be done with Golgren at last? Do I bear the honor of skinning the scrawny beast alive and presenting his still living flesh to you?”
“A dramatic notion, Ulgrod, but no, not that way. With your good aid, however, I do believe that we may be done with the half-breed.”
Ulgrod went down on one knee. “I’m yours to do with as you command, master.”
Safrag nodded gratefully. “Your sacrifice will be remembered by all.”
The other sorcerer frowned. “My-”
Safrag vanished and suddenly appeared standing next to the kneeling figure. In one hand he held the signet, and in the other he wielded a black blade made of obsidian and curved like a sickle moon.
The blade carved a slice through Ulgrod’s throat. The blood that flowed from the awful wound was anything but ordinary, for it glowed with a fiery heat and radiated a magical energy that made Safrag’s staring visage terrifying to behold.
None of the members of the inner circle so much as moved a finger, for they were not surprised at the shocking turn of events. They had been made aware of what Safrag intended, and although some had shown looks of horror, those had faded quickly at the promise of what the dire deed might bring them.
The Fire Rose.
Ulgrod managed no final word, not even a final sound. He slumped before Safrag, still positioned on one knee thanks to the slightest use of the other Titan’s power to keep him so.
“Blood is the power, blood is the might,” Safrag intoned.
The other members of the Black Talon materialized, creating a six-sided pattern within which Morgada and three others formed a square. Safrag and the late Ulgrod remained at the center.
The lead sorcerer held the blade high. “Blood is the power, blood is the might,” he repeated. “Blood binds, blood guides.”
Each of the other Titans drew a symbol before them, their personal mark. Dauroth had begun the tradition, and Safrag had continued it. The marks were tied to the very core of the Titans’ beings. By summoning them, they opened themselves to whatever Safrag chose to do with them. By such means Dauroth had had the power to condemn Falstoch and the like to the forms they suffered. Also by such means had Safrag earlier tricked Ulgrod into giving up his life force. Ulgrod had expected to rise to the Black Talon. In a sense that was exactly what he was destined to do, for he would forever be a part of them.