The wind grew to staggering proportions, but oddly, it seemed most focused on the grand lord’s enemies. A dust storm quickly arose that threatened to blind those in the motley horde.
Alerted prior to the battle that such a thing would happen, the armored ogres kept their gazes fixed directly ahead of them. Their desperate adversaries swung wildly. Golgren’s minions calmly picked their targets out and marked them for death. The battle grew more brutal, the outcome more and more apparent.
But that did not yet satisfy Golgren, who searched the collapsing horde for one particular individual … until he finally found him.
Slashing through the stomach of another opponent, the grand lord fought his way toward a gargantuan figure, who was busy chopping down one of the armored ogres under Golgren’s command. Blood caked the giant’s torso, and despite the fact his horde was in danger of being routed, his expression was one of murderous glee.
The gargantuan ogre wore a battered helm with a much-abused crest signifying that it had once belonged to an officer of the minotaur legions. Jagged scars covered his face, some of them aligned so perfectly they could only be ritually self-carved.
Golgren knew him as the most important, the most powerful of the three chieftains.
“Jari i oGolgreni, iTrangi!” the grand lord shouted to get the gargantuan chieftain’s attention. “Come to me, Trang!” Golgren repeated in Common for his own amusement. No other ogre could speak Common so well, and the grand lord loved to flaunt his superiority even in the midst of such a pitched struggle.
The other ogre paused in the midst of throttling another victim. Like Golgren, he was on foot, but standing erect, his broad shoulders rose well above his rival’s head.
Trang grinned like a hungry meredrake. He indifferently tossed aside his unfortunate foe and turned toward Golgren. “if’hani… ” the vicious chieftain rumbled. “if’hani iGolgreni.”
Trang barreled through two other fighters, knocking them aside. Golgren waited calmly, assessing each twist and turn of the other’s charge. Trang had a reputation among all ogres; he had been, in fact, the one who had instigated the uprising, the battle, the insult against Golgren’s primacy among the race.
Trang’s dripping axe came down on the smaller warrior. The grand lord parried the attack with his sword. Their weapons clanged together, Golgren’s entire body vibrating from the collision. Trang’s incredible strength was no mere legend.
With a barking laugh, the giant brought up his axe for another powerful strike. Golgren immediately lunged in under his guard with his right. He intended to rip out the chieftain’s throat with his metal claws, but Trang was more agile than most ogres and twisted away. Instead of the throat, Golgren’s talons drew several crimson lines across the left shoulder.
The wounds were shallow, however, and did not elicit more than a grunt of annoyance from Golgren’s adversary. The chieftain continued his assault, battering away with his huge axe. It was all Golgren could do to keep from being forced to his knees, so heavy and relentless was the rain of blows.
Trang’s grin widened in anticipation of his enemy’s demise. However, that grin and the smugness it represented were what the smaller ogre had been waiting for. Suddenly, Golgren dodged to the side of Trang’s axe. He came up on the chieftain from the right, slashing quickly under the other’s upraised arm.
That time, his blade sank deep.
Still, instead of slowing Trang, the wound seemed only to outrage the massive chieftain. He countered with a swift sweep downward of his axe, shattering Golgren’s blade. The grand lord raised his talons to deflect the axe from his chest, but the blade’s momentum—coupled with Trang’s strength—enabled the weapon to rip off his well-secured false hand.
Golgren let out a cry as the tight straps and fastenings tore free from his maimed limb. He stumbled back just in time to avoid another swing. Trang chuckled darkly, his eyes red with bloodlust.
But his target still proved to be nimble. Three times Trang’s axe shot toward the grand lord, and three times it found only empty air. Golgren fared no better; he had only a dagger, not yet drawn, available to him, so he was forced to duck and weave.
Around them, the rest of the combatants unconsciously gave space. No one sought to stumble into the path of two warriors of such reputation.
There was still only so much area in which to maneuver, and Trang was seeing to it that Golgren had less and less.
Yet again Trang brought his axe down hard, barely missing severing his smaller opponent in half. Frustrated at his near miss, the chieftain started to pull his weapon back up … when, with his lone hand, Golgren snagged Trang’s wrist. Startled, the chieftain did not immediately react.
The grand lord swung himself up and over. Trang made a grab for him, but it was too late.
Golgren’s legs had wrapped around the chieftain’s thick neck. Despite the fact that he was bigger and heavier, Trang could not keep his balance and teetered backward.
The chieftain fell with a loud thud, but Golgren found one of his legs caught underneath his foe and his good arm slammed against the hard ground. Both ogres momentarily lay there, stunned.
It was Trang who stirred first. Growling, he pushed himself up on his elbows, and instantly Golgren slipped his leg out, struggling to find his footing. Fumbling with his hand, the grand lord drew his dagger.
Trang already had his axe gripped tight. Still rising, he spun around. His axe was aimed directly for Golgren’s midsection.
The chieftain’s target flattened himself on the ground. The axe swooped past just inches above his torso.
Golgren half crawled, half lunged.
His dagger lodged deep in the base of Trang’s throat. Trang coughed and let out a long, choking sound. Despite his terrible wound, the chieftain tried to stand and renew his attack.
But his axe rose, then tumbled out of his shaking hand. Golgren shoved the dagger in deeper. Trang clutched madly at him, heavy paws groping for the grand lord’s throat.
Fighting for breath, Golgren forced the dagger sideways, tearing open a huge hole in the throat.
The gargantuan ogre chieftain shivered and fell back, dead.
Golgren leaped atop the corpse. Continuing to work with his dagger, the grand lord cut through the rest of the neck until the ogre’s head finally came off. Blood and other fluids dripped over his garments as he raised the grisly evidence of his victory high over his head, letting out a bestial howl of triumph.
Those nearest turned at the sound, noting the smaller ogre commander’s victory over his mountainous opponent. The sight further disheartened and panicked the warriors of the horde.
An armored ogre on horseback fought his way to the grand lord. The moment he reached Golgren, the warrior leaped down and handed the reins to his leader. Golgren thrust Trang’s head into the warrior’s waiting hands then mounted.
“Do not lose my prize,” he warned in Common. All those who would serve close to the grand lord had to learn the tongue, for Golgren felt it a part of “the fruits of civilization” he was bringing to his people.
“Will not!” grunted the warrior loudly, his round eyes showing his fear of his commander.
As his minion retreated to the back lines, Golgren procured a new sword from another underling. Armed once again and with the reins secured to his maimed limb, he let out a louder, more bloodcurdling cry and eagerly urged his steed into the struggle.
The slaughter continued.
II
WARY ALLIANCE
The mangled bodies lay strewn as far as the eye could see, and well beyond that. Severed limbs and other bloody parts could be found everywhere. Now and then, an island of brown fur rose among the ogre corpses. More than half the mastarks in the day’s battle had been slain, as had many of the meredrakes, some simply because they had grown so maddened from the scent of blood that their handlers could not control them any longer and had to kill them to prevent unnecessary casualties on their side.
Although many b
odies lay clad in the once-gleaming breastplates and helms, far more of the dead were easily marked as the uncouth warriors of the horde. Few had survived, as ogres are very brutal in victory or defeat. Those that still lived were marching along in chains, their fates possibly even more terrifying than that of their dead comrades. Examples would have to be made to emphasize the glory of the winning side.
The architect of that victory watched astride his second horse as guards shoved the beaten warriors and as others ferreted among the slain, seeking spoils. Born to a land offering little, ogres were practical; if an item could be utilized in any manner, why leave it to rot with the dead? Even the mastarks were still of some use; warriors scrambled up, over, and around the huge bodies, not only skinning the beasts, but salvaging what meat there still was. The stomachs of ogres welcomed flesh long past what other races would deem safe.
Those who had died for Golgren were respectfully burned so they would not feed scavengers. There would be no pyres for the dead enemy, however, in contrast to what was often done among other races such as the Uruv Suurt or the humans. Fuel was too valuable to waste on the defeated. Besides, after the carrion eaters had stripped the bodies, the bleaching bones would present a monument to the grand lord. The other chieftains would be reminded of the consequences of defiance of his will.
With whips and swords to prod them forward, a new set of prisoners was brought before Golgren. His garments were still bloodstained, but his hair again was neatly brushed. He surveyed the sorry lot. Two figures immediately caught his attention.
“Wulfgarn … Guln … ” The grand lord kept his speech in Common. His gloating grin was terrible to behold. “It is a sorry thing, this disaster into which Trang led you.”
Wulfgarn, an older chieftain with one eye long gone to a sword slash, frowned as he tried to translate the foreign sounds. Guln, much younger and with a thick head of black, unruly hair, grunted bitterly. He understood well enough.
“It is a sorry thing Trang led himself into,” added Golgren, gesturing to the warrior next to him. That ogre hefted the gory head of the dead chieftain. Trang’s expression was one of astonishment, as if he were only then discovering that he was defeated.
Wulfgarn spit in Golgren’s direction, though the missile fell well short of its goal. The older chieftain was rewarded with a savage whipping that sent him facedown on the ground.
The prisoners that were lined up behind those two—all subchieftains—looked anxious at the sight. They well knew the fate of most survivors. The grand lord might have them pulled apart by mastarks or bound spread-eagled among several meredrakes.
Looking past the two chieftains, Golgren picked out four ogres standing among the much-battered group. The guards undid their chains then kicked the hapless ones forward.
“Dakara i duru if’hani?” he asked of the chosen, eyes glinting. “Will you stand with or deny these dead?”
All four answered as he expected, falling down on one knee and bowing their heads to him. After acknowledging their submission, Golgren gestured for them to rise then had another guard present them with thick, weathered clubs stained with dry blood. The four ogres peered at one another, then at their captor.
The grand lord indicated the rest of the subchieftains, those he had passed over. Guards were already forcing those condemned souls to their knees. More than one had to be beaten down, for the prisoners knew what was coming. Other guards dragged Wulfgarn and Guln off to the side.
“F’han,” Golgren quietly commanded.
The four moved in among the kneeling subchieftains. Clubs rose high and came down with savage strength. The thick skulls of the condemned easily gave way under the onslaught.
It took only one or two heavy blows to execute each, but wanting to show their enthusiastic allegiance to their new lord, the four subchieftains bashed away over and over at their targets, leaving most in piles of unrecognizable pulp.
When there was no more killing to be done, one of the four started toward Guln, but the grand lord waved him back. The subchieftain quickly retreated to stand close to his companions.
With another wave, Golgren dismissed the survivors, who were led away by one of his officers. Wulfgarn and Guln were also taken off elsewhere, their fates—it would have been Trang’s, too, had he survived—already planned in advance. Golgren felt the need to set many examples for his people.
“A barbaric display,” came an almost musical, cultured voice at Golgren’s right. “But necessary, I suppose.”
The Grand Lord Golgren did not turn to face the speaker. In fact, he did not even reply right away. While his guards shifted nervously, their eyes drifting in the direction of the new voice, he continued to gaze ahead, waiting. One hand retrieved his vial. The grand lord took a slow, casual sniff.
Finally, there came the light movement of sandaled feet and the faint swishing of cloth. Despite the overcast sky, strong shadows stretched before the mounted ogre leader. They were followed by one, then several more, such forms, each of whom dwarfed even the tallest of Golgren’s warriors.
Each was one and a half times the height of an ordinary ogre but proportionately sleeker of form. They moved with an unnatural grace, almost gliding rather than walking. Their long, silken robes—dark blue with shimmering hints of red—flowed as part of them, accenting their wearers’ perfection.
The giants wore crimson sashes that draped over their right shoulders and came down their left sides under the golden belts at their waists. Their left shoulders were covered by an armor plate more decorative than functional, with their arms unclad, save for red, silken bands on the wrists of their left arms and silver metal ones on their right arms.
But as elegant as their garments were, they paled in comparison to the faces of the ones gathering before the grand lord. No, perfection was not a word that adequately described the countenances of the newcomers. Their flawless features made the most beautiful elves look dull and drab in comparison. Several of Golgren’s warriors stared, awed by what their eyes beheld and suddenly ashamed that they were lesser beings. It was hard for any among them to believe that those godlike creatures were kin, were also ogres.
The giants’ skin was bluer than the open sky and without blemish. Their upswept, golden eyes seemed to glow from within. Their ears were long and pointed but in a graceful manner. Most wore their midnight-black hair bound in a thick tail.
Their leader, the one who had spoken in the cultured voice, gave Golgren a low bow. His lips parted, and suddenly the perfection gave way to something monstrous. The giant evidenced twin rows of savage, pointed teeth, reminiscent of a shark.
“The day is yours, oh Grand Lord,” the figure pronounced in his almost musical voice, loudly and in succinct Common. “We give our congratulations to you on this great victory.”
He bowed low again, the others behind him following suit. With the exception of a few personal touches to their garments, the members of the astounding group—all male—looked nearly identical to one another. Their leader showed a few peculiarities; his face was a touch older, wizened. A streak of silver—not gray—rose from the hairline on his back.
“Your words are most gracious, Dauroth,” Golgren returned with equal ease of the tongue. He took another sniff from the bottle then returned it to the pouch. “And thus accepted by myself.”
The grand lord noted a slight stirring among Dauroth’s followers. They did not approve of his grandiose airs, he knew.
Golgren’s hand casually grazed his chest, where a pair of chains around his neck indicated that more than one thing hung hidden inside his garments. “The Titans performed their duties adequately,” he continued, ignoring the sudden darkening expression among those in the back at his careful choice of words. “Even though not all went in a manner so timely as might be desired.”
One of the Titans emitted a low, angry mutter. Dauroth’s head tipped slightly to the side, and the offending sound ceased. The lead Titan straightened to his full height. Even on horseback, Golg
ren was shorter and had to look up to meet his eyes.
Nonetheless, Dauroth showed nothing but subservience to the smaller ogre. “I must apologize for our missteps, oh Grand Lord. I promise that we shall endeavor to be of greater efficiency and value to you when next our services are needed.”
“The tremor was a most amusing touch,” Golgren commented offhandedly.
Dauroth smiled, displaying his sinister teeth. “I will personally see that we strive to enhance its effect in the future. This entire scenario was a first trial for us in such spell work, as you no doubt recall.”
Golgren nodded once then pretended to lose interest. “We are done here, Dauroth. You and your Titans have my permission to depart.”
“You have but to summon us again at your leisure, oh Grand Lord,” the senior spellcaster intoned, golden eyes suddenly flaring bright with magic. “And we shall stand before you, ready to do your bidding, in the blink of an eye.”
A whirlwind abruptly sprang to life around the Titans. Even though its reach did not extend beyond the magnificent giants, the nearby guards backed away. Only Golgren, his loose mane just slightly rustled by the wind, did not budge. The grand lord looked bored at their latest magical marvel.
Although they stood within the whirlwind’s center, the Titans, too, were barely grazed by the magical wind. They huddled closer together, gleaming eyes narrowed in concentration. Dauroth raised his hands to the sides, revealing in that moment two other jarring discrepancies in the Titans’ overall beauty. First were the bony, hooked spurs that sprouted from their elbows, almost five inches long. Yet more unnerving were their hands themselves. They were strong and sleek, true, but they ended in fierce, ebony nails—much like the claws of raptors—that stretched at least three inches.
As the wind rose, Dauroth looked to the sky and uttered certain words in a musical language. As one, the Titans vanished.
The wind died down as soon as they were gone. Golgren let out a grunt that marked for all around him his lack of amazement at Dauroth’s act. The other ogres quickly tried to copy his facial expression, wary of possibly letting the grand lord think that anything frightened them that didn’t frighten him.
The Black Talon Page 2