The Black Talon: Ogre Titans, Volume One (Dragonlance: Ogre Titans, Vol. 1)

by Richard A. Knaak

  He heard something metal scrape on the marble floor, and a moment later there it was: his own magnificent sword, clutched in Golgren’s hand. Despite the weight of the blade, the other ogre handled it with ease and with obvious relish.

  “This sword,” Golgren uttered in the Common tongue that Zharang so loathed. “This sword I once told you was yours, oh Great Khan! You did misunderstand what I meant! It was always meant to be for your finish.” The grand lord chuckled.

  “Ja i f’tuuni!” the wounded ogre rasped. “Ja i f’tuuni, Guyvir!”

  Golgren’s grin turned dark. “Yes, once there was an unborn, my Grand Khan. Marked by a name cursed. Guyvir, he was called. But he is no more.” The triumphant Golgren raised the heavy sword high then slowly turned the blade so its point was poised over Zharang’s throat. “There is only Golgren now.”

  With that, he thrust the blade straight down as hard as he could. Zharang let out an enraged cry, one quickly cut off as the sword point not only savaged his throat, but plunged on until it had buried itself deep in the shattered wooden table beneath.

  The body of The Great Dragon That Is Zharang, the Grand Khan of all Kern, twitched madly for several seconds, as if he were still furious at the unfortunate turn of events. Then, the spasms ceased and Zharang simply stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Blood spilled from his throat onto the food scattered over the table.

  The grand khan’s avian pet, attracted by the delicious scent, immediately leaped atop the khan’s bleeding carcass. With utter disregard for the one who had fed it most of its life, the bird eagerly began to tear at what remained of Zharang’s throat.

  Golgren pulled free the sword but did nothing to stop the bird’s grisly feasting. He held the dripping weapon for all to see. The other ogres fell to their knees and began chanting his name.

  The grand lord grinned.

  IV

  REBIRTH AND DEATH

  The valley lay nestled only two dozen miles from the ogre city of Blöten—capital of Kern’s sister and once-rival, Blöde—yet even the most wily of ogre hunters would have had an all but impossible time finding it. That would have assumed that they even knew that it existed, for powers had been at work for decades to strip all of knowledge of its existence—the powers of those who dwelled within.

  The Titans.

  What had once been, for the ogre realms, an idyllic, forested valley surrounded by imposing mountains was now a fog-enshrouded domain where no sounds of animal life could be detected. Those unfortunate enough to stumble into the deep valley found it impossible to quickly depart, for even the path by which they had entered seemed to change. Instead of heading out, it would lead deeper and deeper into the misty land.

  And once trapped into following that direction, there was no escape from the Titans, the guardians of Blöten.

  The terrifying fate of such poor lost souls was of little concern to the giant spellcasters, especially their master, Dauroth. All that interested them was their ambition and their arts. With the latter they hoped to achieve the former, that being the revival of the Golden Age of their forebears.

  A revival currently being tarnished and twisted by what some referred to as “the mongrel” to whom they had to bow.

  Some questioned why Dauroth let Golgren live, much less command their magic for his own gains, but none brought up the matter to the elder Titan’s face. If Golgren somehow held Dauroth in his sway—for surely there could be no other reason for the spell master’s tolerance of the half-breed—it was also certainly true that Dauroth held the rest of the Titans just as tightly in his formidable grip. After all, only he knew the secret of the process by which they sustained their power.

  And that night, as the fog grew to its thickest, blanketing the entire valley, the blue-skinned sorcerers were busy preparing the ritual of admitting one into their exalted ranks.

  There were many chambers in the citadel of Dauroth, many more than even his followers could tally. Oftentimes, those chambers would change their size and location at Dauroth’s whim. Those who wandered his citadel soon learned that no one even walked around there without the spell master’s permission.

  Crystals the color of Nuitari’s moon illuminated many of the corridors, but in some, fiery balls the size of apples lit the way. Only Dauroth knew why or how. Most of the halls were built of stone, but a select few boasted walls of iron and were decorated with images of tall, magnificent Titans staring back at their living brethren. Again, it was only the master who knew why the walls varied so, although there was certainly reflection and discussion about the subject among his followers.

  In general, there were always two or three of the sorcerers walking the halls to some destination, yet such was not the case at that moment. That night all the Titans were gathered in the circular chamber where most group spells were cast and most general experiments performed. Under the domed roof of the main chamber, the spellcasters—more than five dozen strong—stood in a circle within a circle. At the center of the pattern had been set a platform upon which lay something that to an outsider might chillingly resemble a long, metallic coffin, whose lid could be raised or lowered by use of chains. Yet to the sorcerers, it was not a symbol of death; instead it was rebirth. For it was where all Titans began.

  Dauroth was positioned nearest the sarcophagus, an array of vials and small objects at his side. Next to him stood two others—his chief apprentices, Hundjal and Safrag. His senior assistant, Hundjal, striking and athletic, even compared to most of his brethren, was just then handing a golden bowl to his master. Safrag, almost a shadow in size compared to the other two, silently mixed herbs together.

  Dauroth held up the bowl. The words he spoke were not those of his race’s bastardized language nor were they even, in truth, those in the revered tongue of the ancient High Ogres. They came from the language of the latter only as the elder giant dreamed that language to have existed, just as so much about the Titans of late was the product of his dreaming.

  It was a dream he was determined would soon become reality for all.

  “Aarias asana atilio,” Dauroth sang, for his High Ogre language was pure music. “Afreesia ausias aairias.”

  The other Titans repeated his words with the same fervor as their leader. The beauty of their voices would have touched even the souls of an elf court, though the ritual that musical language accompanied might have shocked the cultured race. Even before they finished their chant, a crimson aura had formed over the top of the golden bowl, an aura radiating from its contents.

  Dauroth lifted the bowl, displaying it for his followers to admire. The crimson glow illuminated the chamber better than the crystal globes, which hovered at equidistant points along the walls. The red tint turned the Titans’ blue-skinned faces into lurid parodies or, perhaps, better revealed their true essences.

  At the top of the sarcophagus was a system of tubes and a long, narrow vent. Into the vent, Dauroth poured the crimson liquid from the bowl. As it seeped inside, from within the strange sarcophagus there came a sound like sighing.

  “Asiriosio anthrayan isul,” Dauroth announced, holding high the empty bowl.

  “Asiriosio anthrayan isul,” repeated his flock.

  Safrag handed his steaming mixture to Hundjal, who handed it to Dauroth. The lead Titan immediately poured the potion into the same vent. Again there came the sighing sound, one that might have been a mixture of pleasure and pain.

  Dauroth’s apprentices retreated into the shadows. Dauroth himself bent over the coffin, the palms of his hands running across its tremendous length. Black energy crackled at his fingertips, an energy that remained there several seconds after he withdrew his hands.

  Gazing up, Dauroth examined the array of tubes. They ran from various points in the darkness above into the center of the sarcophagus. For three nights upon three, he had imbued what would flow through them with his magic. For three nights upon three, he had added the necessary alchemical ingredients to what the magic had created.

  Fo
r three nights upon three prior to taking those necessary steps, the screams of elves had echoed throughout the citadel.

  Nodding his satisfaction, Dauroth turned his gaze back to the sarcophagus. With one taloned finger, he drew several blazing black runes on the edge of the coffin. That, in turn, caused others already etched in the metal to stir to life.

  Stepping back, the senior Titan raised his hands to gesture to his followers. As they in unison repeated his latest movement, the same black energy Dauroth had summoned moments before flared up and erupted around the Titans as a whole.

  Dauroth began chanting, with the rest repeating his words moments afterward, a choral echoing. The dark aura grew stronger, spreading from around them to embrace the metal coffin.

  And at last, when it had fully enveloped the sinister sarcophagus, Dauroth gestured to the shadows above. There was a brief flash of red, followed by a rushing sound, as if water or some other liquid had suddenly begun to flow with tremendous force.

  The tubes shook. The sound of running liquid echoed from inside of them. Then, from inside the sarcophagus, came the first distinct trickle of drops against metal.

  Dauroth’s hand came whizzing down.

  The sarcophagus blazed a startling blue. A shriek escaped from within. Hard, desperate banging arose against the coffin walls, and as quickly the sound faltered and faded away.

  The Titans renewed their chanting, feeding their power into the process of which Dauroth alone was master. The tubes continued to shake as their contents flowed into the fiery coffin.

  For more than an hour, the assembled sorcerers repeated their calls without hesitating for breath. By the end of that time, the container flared as hot and as bright as an azure sun.

  Then Dauroth cut off the chanting with an abrupt wave of his hand. The other Titans took a step back from their original positions, leaving in front only their leader and his two apprentices.

  A snap of the fingers drew two new figures through the ranks toward the red-glowing sarcophagus. Ogres those muscular beasts were—at least according to vague definitions of the race. However, those specimens had heads too small and brains smaller yet. Their eyes were wide and dark like creatures accustomed to only the blackest night. It clearly pained them to approach the hot, blinding sarcophagus, yet they did so without hesitation. Although shorter by far than the Titans, the brutish figures were well muscled. At Dauroth’s indication, one began unlatching the steel hooks that kept the metal coffin locked. With that accomplished, both seized the chains used for lifting the lid and began tugging it open.

  Even with their strength multiplied by Dauroth’s experiments, it took some effort at first for the pair to pull the top free. Finally, with a fierce, sucking sound, the lid came open. A gush of thick, red liquid poured over the sides of the coffin but, oddly, evaporated before reaching the floor.

  In utter silence, the servants slowly pulled the lid higher for all to see what lay within. Expressions of growing anticipation spread among the Titans until at last it was revealed: a bubbling, congealing, red mass. Steam rose from the ugly, red bubble and a scent like that of burned flesh wafted past the nostrils of the watching sorcerers. They did not skitter back in disgust, however; rather, they openly welcomed the smell.

  As his servants secured the chains so the lid would not drop down again, Dauroth approached the sarcophagus. Hundjal and Safrag followed softly in his wake. The apprentices took up positions on each side of the wider part of the coffin and waited expectantly for their master. Dauroth stretched a hand over the bubbling contents and uttered a single word.

  And from within the red mass a howling figure who looked as if he bled profusely all over sat up. The howling went on unabated for several seconds; then the half-seen form shivered. Slowly the red slime dripped and fell away, and for the first time, the brilliant blue skin of the figure became apparent.

  The hand that he had held over the sarcophagus Dauroth offered to the shivering figure. Blinking away tears of blood, golden eyes seized eagerly on the hand. The blue-skinned, blood-drenched figure reached for that hand, but his own slipped.

  Dauroth smiled like a patient father. Stepping back, he gestured for the figure to rise. When the other faltered, Hundjal and Safrag immediately grabbed him—for it was clear by that point that the striking figure was male—by the arms, assisted their master in guiding the dripping being out of the coffin, helped him to a standing position next to it.

  “Issura assalias,” murmured Dauroth. The rest of the solidifying red slime burst from the figure’s body, but rather than splatter those watching, it immediately dissipated in the air.

  Before the assembled spellcasters, the new Titan stood blinking and, to all appearances, looking around. He was perfect in the eyes of the others, just as each thought himself so. Handsome, lean, and muscled, he was the newest and latest created as gods over their kind—over all races—an ogre who could crush other ogres as easily as ogres crushed bugs.

  Once he had been a subchieftain by the name of Ulgrod. He had bowed to Golgren but with a reluctance not unnoticed by Dauroth. Ulgrod’s ambitions and his passion for Dauroth’s dream had enabled him to rise up despite many enemies, and in the past he had eagerly performed certain “tasks” for the lead Titan.

  What had occurred had been Ulgrod’s reward for showing that his loyalty was to Dauroth, not to the half-breed pretender.

  The apprentices waited only long enough to make certain Ulgrod could stand on his own then retreated into the shadows again. The new Titan eyed Dauroth, awaiting his command.

  But Dauroth did not speak yet. Instead, he pointed at Ulgrod, and suddenly from the darkened recesses of the chamber, cloth and metal converged on the former subchieftain. In the space of a single breath, garments akin to those worn by the others had materialized to clothe the naked form.

  Ulgrod stared in wonder at himself then looked again to Dauroth. Ulgrod’s expression twisted awkwardly as he clearly tried to form words that were as yet beyond him.

  “We shall speak in Common for the duration of this joyous occasion,” Dauroth declared to the transformed ogre. “The barbaric tongue you were once used to is fit only for commanding the unblessed.” He put a welcoming hand on Ulgrod’s shoulder. “By the morning, the glorious language of our forebears will be known to you as if you had spoken it from your first birth on.”

  “My head—” Ulgrod murmured, his eyes darting around from one sorcerer to the next in the surrounding circle. “So much fills it! My thoughts are sharper than they’ve ever been.”

  “It is only the beginning, my brother … only the beginning.”

  Staring at his right hand—taloned—Ulgrod summoned a ball of fire the size of an apple. Dauroth watched with stoicism, well used to such activity by new converts. The first day was always one of adjustment and amazement; a freshly reborn Titan was like a child given a new toy. They had to test the limits of what they had become, learn what they could do.

  “Such power!” the former subchieftain gasped. He stared at the flames at his fingertips; the fiery ball had swollen in size yet did not in the least singe his skin. “I can do anything!”

  Dauroth frowned, shaking his head. “No, not yet. That will come with time, as I have indicated, my friend.”

  As if not quite believing this, Ulgrod glared at the fiery ball, furrowing his brow. That time, though, nothing happened.

  Ulgrod dismissed the flames. An evil grin spread across his handsome features. There was still enough in those features to enable anyone to recognize his former identity. All of the Titans retained faint glimmers of their old visages.

  “Power enough,” the new Titan proclaimed lustily. “Enough to drag that half-breed from the throne he covets and feed him kicking and screaming to the meredrakes!”

  “No!” Dauroth’s vehemence made Ulgrod step back in surprise and fear. The other Titans wisely kept silent, although among them there were one or two nods of agreement with the newcomer’s impulsive sentiment.

&n
bsp; “No,” the lead Titan repeated more calmly and yet also more threateningly. “Golgren is not to be touched.”

  “Great Dauroth! I meant no disrespect—”

  Dauroth cut him off. The elder giant smiled, his sharp teeth very much in evidence suddenly. “You are new and, therefore, Ulgrod, you are forgiven.”

  Underlying the sympathetic statement was the threat—quite evident to all who listened—that any further suggestion from Ulgrod of removing the grand lord would not be allowed to pass. Ulgrod swallowed and immediately bowed his head.

  “Hundjal. Our brother Ulgrod will need to orient himself to his ascension. Guide him to the meditation room, where he may understand and learn better what he has become.”

  The apprentice took the new Titan by the arm and led him out of the room. As the pair vanished, Dauroth turned to face the rest of his followers, who knelt before his glory. He acknowledged their gesture then silently strode from the chamber.

  Safrag followed at his heels. Not as athletic in build or fair in face as Hundjal, Safrag was still typical of the Titans in his dark beauty. Yet where his counterpart usually walked at Dauroth’s side, Safrag always kept a respectable step behind.

  The apprentice did not dare speak until they were far away from the ears of others. When Safrag finally gave voice to his thoughts, the Titan did so in the Common that his master had used in addressing Ulgrod. Safrag did not feel that his concerns were worthy of the wondrous high language Dauroth had introduced to him and the others, which they used in the ceremony.

  “They do not suspect how risky that was this evening, my master.”

  “But you do, of course,” returned Dauroth without looking back at his apprentice. “You understand very well, Safrag.”

  “The mongrel must either give us more fresh subjects or stand out of our way while we take them!” The Titan grew more strident as he walked and talked. “And he must be taught that he is less than the dirt beneath your glorious feet! The way that he spoke to you earlier, at the very site of battle, a battle that would have proven far more costly to him and his side had you not agreed to lend our talents to his dubious cause!”