The beating of wings stopped. The gargoyles grew silent. Their gazes were fixed just beyond Idaria, who suddenly felt the heat of eyes that stared at her from that direction as well.
Her monstrous guards slowly turned her that way. She beheld a high-backed chair that she was certain had not been there moments before. Made of stone, it had two jutting points at the top that were identical to the two points of the castle.
And in that chair-that throne-there emerged a shadowed figure with nearly fleshless white hands and long, oval orbs that glowed a deathly white. Those eyes were all that could be seen of the head or face; the rest was covered by a hood and bound by a tight, golden cloth over its features.
As the figure finished materializing, the gargoyles let out a long, slow hiss. They bowed their heads low and turned their necks in a recognizable act of submission.
Idaria’s two guards also bowed their heads. The elf had no intention of imitating the bows, but her gaze was caught by that of the figure, and suddenly she found herself bending too.
A raspy chuckle filled her head and sent every nerve shivering.
I trust you are better, said a voice.
Somehow, she found her own voice. “Who are you?”
I am master here. The pale hands gestured at the many gargoyles. It is my domain. Those are my subjects. Again came the chuckle. As you have also been.
“I am not your slave. I do not serve you.”
But you already have for so long, came the reply in a voice that, although it was still in her head, sounded exactly like the Nerakan officer whose name she could not remember. And before that even, and just as you will continue to serve me.
“Never,” she responded coolly.
Several of the gargoyles hissed at her affront, but a single raised finger silenced them. Although there was no visible hint, the elf sensed amusement in the voice.
You will continue to serve me, as so many have served me in my desire throughout time, until it is mine. The shadowed form rose, standing at least as tall as Golgren or the wizard Tyranos. You will all continue to serve me until the Fire Rose is finally back in my hands, and the world is set right, my Idaria.
XXIII
A silence hung over Garantha the morning after the attack on Khleeg and his warriors. The populace was used to violent changes in leadership, for it was a part of ogre tradition. Yet the new Grand Khan had not announced himself and, in fact, had been seen by very few.
If his face was unknown, his name had already become widespread: Atolgus. Whispered from one ogre to the next, stories blossomed around the name that had little to do with fact, yet were hardly as fantastic as the truth. Atolgus had been a warrior raised by mountain spirits, was the unknown son of Zharang, was even the half-brother of Golgren, and so on and so on.
Atolgus’s warriors had already secured all military elements of the capital and brought any suspected sympathizers of his half-breed predecessor to the cells beneath the Jaka Hwunar, so that they could be properly and publicly executed if deemed fit. The cells were packed to overflowing, with so many in each that no one could sit, much less lie down. More so than the Dragon That Is Zharang, Golgren had proved to have far more warriors willing to die rather than to swear oaths to another. That, though, did not seem to matter to the new Grand Khan. If the Jaka Hwunar had to be filled with a fresh sea of blood, it would be.
No one questioned how the coup could have been so quickly organized and undertaken. Such things were beyond most ogres. If a warlord managed to seize power, that was all that mattered.
And no one other than a few officers either imprisoned, already dead, or, as with Wargroch, willing collaborators, knew that much of it had been done with the aid of powerful magic.
Titan magic.
At the second hour past dawn, trumpeters blew a summoning call from the walls of the palace. Generations of habit brought the populace out in throngs to the open areas. The assumption was that the new Grand Khan would be presenting himself. There would be a great display at the arena some time later-for that was the normal way of such things-but the presentation of the new Grand Khan would be the opportunity to mark Atolgus as lord of the palace and thus of all else. Only Golgren had done some ceremonies differently from the past. But he had been Golgren.
At the third hour, with the streets filled with tall, hairy bodies already sweating from the heat, a procession of armored guards emerged from the palace. Holding swords and axes high, they marched toward the people. At the end of the procession, two helmed officers strode along bearing long wooden poles upon which fluttered the standard of the new ruler.
That was of interest to the onlookers. Heads craned as ogres by the hundreds sought their first glimpse of the new emblem of the next regime. Already, they could see that the field was a deep blue, a contrast to the plainer brown one that had surrounded the severed hand and bloody dagger of the half-breed. The chosen symbol was unclear at first though, due to the angle at which the wind twisted both standards.
At an opportune moment, the wind shifted abruptly-almost magically-and the standard of the warlord Atolgus unveiled itself.
It was black, and from a distance could have been mistaken for yet another hand, albeit one bent at a crooked angle. But as it was carried closer, all semblance of a hand faded. It was, instead, a set of avian claws.
Talons.
Behind that standard emerged the warlord himself. Many ogres in the crowd roared or barked their obedience to the new leader. Atolgus was indeed impressive to behold. Even compared to before-when Wargroch, who followed a step behind him, had met with him-Atolgus was a little taller, a little more commanding.
A little less ogre.
His eyes bore a golden tint visible even from yards away. Whenever Atolgus turned those eyes on someone in the crowd, the individual felt compelled to fall to their knees in homage. None of the ogres questioned the overwhelming sensation.
The young warrior raised his hands, a sword in one and the other formed into a fist. The warriors on duty at the walls shouted out his name: Atolgus! Atolgus!
He made a sweeping motion with his fist.
The crowd stilled.
“The past is dead!” Atolgus shouted in perfect Common. “Des rida f’han vos!”
His warriors cheered. The crowd picked up the cheer, some within the throng slower to do so than others.
Atolgus demanded silence again. He slashed with the sword and cried, “The day of the severed hand is over!”
He did not repeat the words in the Ogre tongue, but most understood immediately. “Severed hand” referred to only one thing, one person.
Again, Atolgus’s warriors cheered lustily. Wargroch pumped his fist in the air as he shouted out his warlord’s name.
The throng also joined in, and if there were more who were hesitant than before, they were still drowned out by those aware that survival meant life, whereas loyalty meant joining those awaiting their fates in the arena.
In an act that confused the crowd, Atolgus turned to look back at the palace as if waiting for someone else to walk through its doors.
He went down on one knee, his sword held forward in presentation as if to be handed from a servant to a master.
Black flames erupted on the open marble path, flames with no discernible source. They rose high, twice and three times the height of the tallest ogre there.