As quickly as they had arisen, the flames died down, vanishing as if they had never been.
In their wake, three towering Titans appeared, surveying the crowd. Morgada stood at the fore, with Kulgrath and Draug just behind her. She smiled at the assembled ogres and bent down just enough to take the proffered sword from Atolgus. Lowering his arms, he remained in a subservient pose before the sorcerers.
Wargroch knelt to the Titans too. As he did, the warriors in the column performed an about-face so that they, like the rest, faced the trio of Titans. As one, all the guards imitated Atolgus and Wargroch.
At that point, everyone in the crowd knelt. Even those standing so far back that they could not truly see the Titans knelt, for anyone that could make all those in front show their deference had to be very, very powerful, indeed.
Morgada peered around. When it was clear only the Titans were standing, she spoke. Her voice projected throughout all Garantha, ensuring that no one could later claim not to have heard her momentous words.
“The Golden Age is coming!” the female Titan sang. Although she did so in the wondrous speech created by the late Dauroth, even the lowliest ogre understood her as if born to that tongue. So had been the dictates of Safrag for the historic occasion. “The Golden Age is upon us!”
And behind her, the aged palace of the Grand Khans, and the High Ogre rulers preceding them, shook. Huge, crimson flames exploded throughout the great edifice, causing even the bravest ogres to suddenly leap up in preparation to flee before the massive conflagration that threatened to spread. In mere moments, one of the greatest surviving monuments to the ogres’ vanished past was consumed. And yet the fires rose higher. They stretched to the skies, doubling in size, but still not spreading beyond the original length and breadth of the lost palace.
Atolgus did not so much as flinch in fear for his life, nor did Wargroch, nor any of the guards. Indeed, they looked more eager than anything else. The ogres thinking of fleeing fought down their fear, and they and the rest of the crowd watched in amazement as the flames finally died away to reveal something new standing where the palace had been rooted.
It stood like a giant, with sharp, glittering angles and five magnificent towers topped by arched roofs. It was as wide and as deep as the old palace, but twice the height. In the light of the glaring sun, it was at times nearly blinding, for instead of marble, it was made of a sleek substance that shone more than a thousand polished breastplates. Its greenish blue hue was like no color ever seen by the ogres, and more than one among the hushed crowd let escape a sound of awe.
There were six great columns at the front, each carved to resemble the same handsome Titan. Each took a different pose: a warrior with a sword, a teacher with a staff, another holding a lush basket of fruit, and more. But each with the same face, one soon to be recognized by all assembled.
Two great bronze doors marked the entrance, doors bearing the talon symbol. They were immense doors, surely needing three or four muscular guards to open each, yet they swung open by themselves.
And through them glided the leader of the Titans. His visage was quickly recognizable as the one on each of the column figures. He smiled benevolently at the vast crowd, at Morgada, at Atolgus and Wargroch. With one hand he greeted the thronged ogres, and in the other, the sorcerer held up the Fire Rose.
“The Golden Age is upon us!” he sang in the Titan language. Once again, even the most ignorant ogre understood perfectly-understood and envied the ability to speak such a perfect tongue. The Common that Golgren had insisted all learn was rough and unworthy compared to that beautiful language.
“The Golden Age is upon us!” Safrag repeated. “Not the Age of the High Ogres, though, for that is past! The dead shall remain dead; the living shall live anew!”
Atolgus let out a barking cheer. Wargroch and the others followed with their own cries of exultation. Within moments, all in attendance, whether they truly desired to or not, joined the cheering.
But with a voice that thundered even louder than Morgada’s had, and which seemed to reverberate in the head of each ogre in Garantha, the sorcerer cut off the cheers. Holding the Fire Rose high and letting its radiance shine over everything, the blue-skinned sorcerer declared, “The Age of the High Ogres is dead, and in its place shall rise that of the ogre race transformed … the Age of the Titans!”
And as the Fire Rose burned bright, each ogre understood that the Titan leader promised them the very same power that he and the other three Titans present wielded, and that, one day, each would stand as tall and mighty as they.
The world would tremble before a race of sorcerers such as had not existed even at the height of their ancestors’ glorious civilization.
The cheers grew stronger, echoing far beyond the walls of the capital.
Safrag smiled at his children.
The block stood facing in the direction of Garantha, although Golgren had not known that when Safrag had sealed him into the crypt. The Titan had positioned the block as a last jest, even if he would be the only one to appreciate it.
But another came to view the sorcerer’s creation, to view the body sealed within. The newcomer slowly stepped around the crystalline block, observing the still form from every angle.
He took the crooked piece of dried wood he had been using for a temporary staff and struck the block soundly on the side, near the shoulder of the figure frozen within.
A vein shot up from the place where the wood had hit. Another ran to the side, and a third whipped around to the front. As the watcher stepped back, the veins multiplied, spreading all over. Within moments, the entire block was scarred and veined.
He raised the staff and hit the first exact spot again.
The block shattered. The Grand Khan Golgren’s body dropped limply to the rough ground. It bounced without mercy onto the rocks, finally rolled onto its back, and lay still.
The shaman Sarth hobbled over to the Grand Khan’s body. He pressed the end of the wood against the stab wound, which immediately began to heal. He then set down his makeshift staff and removed from his kilt the dagger that had been sheathed there. Reaching into Golgren’s tunic, he pulled free the half-breed’s original, mummified hand. Sarth placed the relic on top of Golgren’s chest and set both other hands atop the severed one.
The ancient ogre drew a pattern consisting of circles within circles over the hands. He gently moved aside the left hand and perfectly aligned the two right ones.
Sarth took up the dagger. Testing the edge, he muttered a few words of power before acting.
Golgren screamed. His eyes opened as wide as shields. He stared at his new right hand, which lay sprawled on the ground next to the mummified one.
Even as the half-breed drank in the horrific sight, Sarth took a piece of green-stained cloth from a small pouch he had carried with him and wrapped the end of the stump with it.
Golgren slowly registered the sight of the shaman. “You! Why?”
“Have you seen the blood?” the old ogre calmly asked in Common. “Ke?”
“Ke. Yes … No.”
The half-breed’s almond-shaped eyes narrowed. Neither the stump nor the freshly cut appendage showed any signs of bleeding. Indeed, at the frayed wrist of the hand, there was flesh, sinew, and bone, but no blood, no moisture at all.
“The gifts of the gods must always be questioned,” Sarth muttered, rubbing the tip of his dagger in the dirt even though it was devoid of even the slightest drop of blood. “To see if they are gifts after all.”
“My hand!” Golgren rasped. He grabbed with his left hand for the mummified one.
Sarth watched him replace the lost appendage under his tunic. “To possess is not to own.”