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At last, he could begin remaking the world as it should be.

There was no sound from behind them as they rushed through one passage after another. The great images on the walls and ceiling passed by the Grand Khan, for the most part unnoticed. Golgren paid fleeting interest to a pair of gigantic High Ogres carved in marble, because he was concerned that they, like the vipers, might prove more than merely lifelike.

The two sentinels had been carved to peer down critically at any coming in their direction. One wore an expression almost sad, while the other appeared to be mouthing a warning. The Grand Khan did not care what concerned them, as long as they did not attack him. They were a sign that, after so long, he must be getting close.

The signet ceased glowing.

Golgren’s severed hand shriveled, again becoming the mummified relic he had for so long carried over his heart.

The Grand Khan let out an oath as the illumination around them dimmed. He tugged the ring free and thrust it on his other hand, yet that did not light up the symbols or keep the magical radiance from utterly fading away.

As darkness claimed them, Golgren also heard a short intake of breath from Idaria, who had been keeping up with him all along.

“What is it?” he hissed.

“Someone … There is someone ahead of us.”

Feeling certain that it was either Safrag or some other Titan, Golgren thrust his lost hand into his tunic and braced himself for whatever attack was to come. He continued to hold the signet before him, as it was the only weapon he had, even if it didn’t work very reliably.

Yet no sound came from ahead and certainly no flash of magic presaging his demise. Golgren sniffed the air, but sensed only an ancient mustiness.

No, there was something else: the hint of some flower, or an aromatic scent. Try as he might, the half-breed could not identify the odor.

“What do you smell, my Idaria?”

“It is a place long dead,” she replied. “And I smell that.”

“Do not play games. There is a scent that should be familiar to an elf’s sensitive nature. What is it?”

After a moment, Idaria answered, “It is rosemary, I believe. Dried and ancient, but most likely rosemary.”

“Ah, yes.” He recognized the scent from its use by her and other elves who had cooked for him. Most ogres had no appreciation for such smells, being so used to blood, sweat, and decay.

But their ancestors … They had been more like Golgren, savoring wondrous and delicate scents.

He took a step forward, focusing his will on the signet, demanding that it do something for him as before.

The chamber suddenly illuminated, though the signet remained dull. A golden hue spread over Golgren and Idaria, and allowed them to at last see fully what the elf had only managed to glimpse.

Ahead sat a long, wide table of what appeared to be iridescent pearl, set in the center of a chamber.

Around it sat eight robed figures.

Eight High Ogres.

XVII

THE FIRE ROSE

Their once-flawless blue skin was as desiccated as the half-breed’s severed hand. Their great manes of hair hung like limp strands of spider webbing. The immaculate robes were covered in dust and faded of color.

The eight had obviously been dead for many, many centuries, but their state of preservation was remarkable. Only as the pair moved closer to the bodies did such things as the lack of eyes and wrinkling of the lips show that there was little more than skin and bones left on their gargantuan bodies.

They were seated around the shining table, one at each end and three apiece on the long sides. For all practical purposes, they looked as if they had fallen asleep at different stages.

No … Not all of them. Golgren peered at a male seated at the far end, wearing a pendant over his robes that, ironically, bore a symbol of a griffon on it. His expression was the only one that did not look peaceful.

His expression looked enraged.

The mouth gave that effect, for even in death what remained of the lips still curled. One hand was also clenched tightly.

The High Ogre’s eyes-or rather the sockets of his eyes-peered past Golgren with such an intensity that the half-breed could not help but look back to see if Safrag or some other nemesis was approaching. But the way was dark and silent.

“They were slain,” Idaria reflected. “Only their leader had time to react. He was the most powerful of the eight.”

Just what had killed them was a question that interested Golgren. He recalled the vision he had seen of the eight being assailed by some shadow. However, in that vision, they had been on foot, not seated at a table. Had that been representative of their deaths at the table, or did it concern them at some earlier point in time?

He and Idaria circled around the mummified figures, studying each in turn. Golgren found nothing unusual-relatively speaking, since they were all High Ogres-about the other seven. Clearly they had been powerful beings, but each appeared fairly identical to the next. None wore signets or any other personal item that might have been an artifact of power, and so Golgren quickly lost interest in the seven.

Their leader was another story. His expression told more of a tale. He was the one sure indication that it had been through violence that the High Ogres had perished, not fatigue, hunger, or disease. Golgren leaned over the leader’s right shoulder, closely studying what remained of the leader’s face. He had been older than the rest, likely wiser. He had probably been the one who had led them to the hidden sanctum, which in some ways looked as if it were a memorial to the entire race-

Memorial? The Grand Khan straightened as he considered all that he had seen in the caves. Yes, there was much to the ancient domain that evoked a memorial, or a tomb.

“They are from the last of their kind,” he commented to the elf. “Perhaps the last, yes.”

“My people spoke of the last few before the ogres truly fell. But those tales say little good about the last ones.”

He glanced at her, his teeth just visible. “And did they speak of the Fire Rose, my Idaria? Do you know of it?”

Her face was all innocence … or at least she wore an exceptional mask. “No, my lord.”

The corpse shifted. Golgren stepped back warily, expecting the thing to rise as a f’hanos.

But the High Ogre merely tilted a little, perhaps stirred by the air of words. As the mummy stilled, its pendant dangled.

With little regard for the dead, the Grand Khan tugged the artifact free. The High Ogre slumped on the shining table, his head twisting to the side.

Holding the pendant up, the half-breed studied the design of it. He could sense nothing magical about the piece, but magic was not something inherent with him. Still, it was doubtful that anything worn by a High Ogre spellcaster would be simply decorative. All that he had learned insisted otherwise.

But if it had any magical purpose, it was lost on him. Nonetheless, Golgren took the pendant and, to Idaria’s surprise, placed it over her head to rest on her breast. She touched the pendant reverently, but did not question his act.

“There is more,” he declared evenly. “The dead would not be in the chamber if there was not.”

Yet the chamber did seem to be the very end of the trail. The walls were decorated with the fanciful designs associated with the ancestral race, but none of them, as far as Golgren could tell, gave any clue as to what had happened.

Or what they should do next.

He glanced at the corpse of the leader, and his eyes narrowed.