The Black Talon

by Richard A. Knaak

  The mark of the severed hand had been painted on the door, and the skill of the artist was such that the famous lost appendage looked monstrously real.

  The armored ogre thrust a heavy, muscled arm in front of both Stefan and the suddenly trepidant Atolgus. The pair waited nervously while their companion trotted over to the carriage.

  Stefan had not quite known what to expect, but certainly it was not the face, the vision, that peered out at him. It was no ogre. Rather, the female’s slim form and ethereal beauty marked her as naught but an elf … and one born of high station.

  She peered almost ruefully at him then spoke in whispered tones with the officer. What they said, Stefan could not discern, but after they were finished, the elf woman surprised him further by extending a hand—a manacled hand—to the human.

  “Please enter. As a guest.”

  Blinking, the Solamnic merely stood there. Taking that as, at best, reluctance, or at worst, defiance, the ogre near the carriage reached for the heavy sword sheathed at his side.

  “No, Khleeg,” murmured the elf, concerned eyes on Stefan. “Please,” she repeated. “As a guest of the grand lord.”

  The knight rediscovered the mobility of his limbs. Atolgus did not wish to release him, but the ogre had no choice. As Stefan neared the carriage, the ogre named Khleeg reached for a dagger near his sword. He came around to the human’s back.

  As the elf silently reassured Stefan with her pitying eyes, Khleeg sliced away his bonds. The knight tensed, ready for whatever injustice was next, but a look from the elf stilled him.

  “Inside,” ordered Khleeg. The Blödian looked past the human knight to where Atolgus still stood, agape. “Follow.”

  The chieftain did so obediently and without protest. Stefan, meanwhile, had climbed inside the carriage, where the elf indicated he should sit across from her. Despite her chains and weathered clothing, she sat like a regal lady of the court.

  The pretty image of her was abruptly ruined by the intrusion of Khleeg, who sat at his side. The ogre took up more than half the seat, and his helmed head nearly poked the ceiling.

  A strange spitting sound was heard from without; then the carriage started moving. Flexing stiff arms, Stefan asked, “Uh, the grand lord … how did he find out so fast that I am here?”

  His question had been directed at the elf woman, but it was Khleeg who initially responded. “He is Golgren.”

  Stefan understood such an answer coming from one of the grand lord’s minions but hoped for more enlightenment from his attractive companion. Instead, though, the elf merely nodded solemnly and repeated what the ogre had said. “He is Golgren.”

  And for some reason, those same words, echoed in a drone from the elf woman, left the Solamnic most disturbed.

  X

  BEFORE THE GRAND LORD

  The meredrake hissed, the first hint that something was happening. The guards, stationed at evenly spaced intervals around the ancient chamber, were already standing at attention; they attempted to look even more wary. Golgren, seated upon the stone throne used by countless grand khans of the past, stirred from his dark reveries. Images of a burning village and a dead elf woman retreated but did not entirely vanish.

  Nostrils flaring, the meredrake tried to move in the direction of the fresh scent, but the chain attached to its leather collar yanked the beast back toward the wall on Golgren’s right. Frustrated, the giant lizard continued to hiss until the grand lord signaled one of the guards to throw it a piece of fly-covered mastark meat from a clay pot near the great reptile. With savage gusto, the meredrake happily tore into the rank tidbit, the approaching intruder momentarily forgotten.

  The doors swung open and four figures entered the audience of the grand lord. Two immediately went down on one knee, while the third—Idaria—silently strode over to her master, taking her place on his left. Behind her, the fourth visitor stood defiant.

  Golgren hid his bemusement. Having met that kind of human before, he had expected nothing less from him. Solamnic Knights were nothing if not stubborn and proud. It was a trait—or fault—of theirs that he had exploited more than once in the past.

  Khleeg had just noticed the human’s disrespect for the grand lord. With a growl, the other ogre rose. The meredrake, sensing a clash, grew alert and hopeful. It dropped the piece of mastark, for something fresher and bloodier might be imminent.

  Though unarmed, the Solamnic stepped back into a fighting stance. Khleeg swiftly drew his sword.

  Golgren deigned to interfere. “Such a fight this would be,” he said with a loud sigh, “but the human is guest, Khleeg.”

  “Shows no respect!” Yet the armored ogre, obeying his lord, backed away, sheathing his sword as he glared at the knight.

  That settled, Golgren gestured not to the knight, but rather at the chieftain who had brought him this prize. “Tahun ur?”

  The young ogre slapped a meaty fist to his broad chest. “iAtolgusi! Ur nahm i fallo hucht!”

  “Gefyn ol oKomeni?”

  Atolgus beamed. “Yes, talk good Common!” He pointed at the knight. “Talk him!”

  “So good.” Golgren leaned inquisitively toward the human. “I am the Grand Lord Golgren,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone that belied his vaunted prestige. “What name have you?”

  Abandoning his fighting stance—although as a Solamnic Knight, he intended to stay vigilant—the bearded figure responded stoutly, “I am Sir Stefan Rennert, Knight of the Sword!”

  Then the human clamped his mouth tight. There were a thousand ways by which Golgren could have wrenched more information out of him, but that was not what the ogre desired—at least not at the moment. His gaze shifted back to the chieftain. “His armor and weapon? They are not here?”

  Atolgus, likely fearing some extravagant punishment for his unforeseeable mistake, looked suddenly worried at the drift in the conversation. “We have! We have! Can get!”

  “Do so.”

  With a frantic bow, the younger ogre fled the chamber. Golgren dismissed any further thought of him. If Atolgus brought all of the Solamnic’s items back quickly and in good order, he would receive ample reward for the knight’s presence. If not, then there were also a thousand ways by which Golgren could punish the fool. The Solamnic’s trust would be hard to gain, but gain it the grand lord was determined to do at all cost.

  Golgren studied the knight. “My Idaria. Our guest has come a long way. He needs food and wine.”

  Without a word, the elf scurried to find sustenance for the human. Despite his deliberately impassive expression, the very mention of food and wine must have momentarily made the knight’s spirits soar. Though he was a prisoner of the “savage” ogres, at least they were not going to starve him. And he was, Golgren was sure, famished.

  The meredrake grew restive. Possibly disappointed in the lack of violence and blood, the beast again began tugging at his chain.

  Stefan, alarmed by the creature, reached instinctively for the sword that no longer hung at his side. Golgren extended his arms in an apologetic gesture, which in part served, as he planned, to bring his missing hand to the attention of the human.

  “You see this? The emperor of the Uruv Suurt—the minotaurs—he once took offense at it,” the grand lord quipped, his mouth twisted to approximate, as best he could, a human grin. “As he takes offense at humans who tread upon his Ambeon.”

  The knight, thinking he was being provoked, made no comment, but at that moment, after so much deprivation, his strength began to give out and his body swayed noticeably.

  Golgren frowned. “Khleeg! My guest will sit!”

  To his credit, the massive ogre moved quickly enough to catch the wobbling Stefan before he could collapse on the ground. Almost as if guiding a child, Khleeg led the man toward his master while another ogre rushed forward with a small wooden bench.

  The Solamnic accepted the seat with a grateful nod. “I thank the Grand Lord for his courtesy, but if he wishes any facts from me, he will not get the
m either by pleasantries or torture.”

  The latter was debatable, Golgren thought, but “facts” were not exactly what the grand lord desired, not entirely. And the knight’s defiance amused him. Before Golgren had a chance to say another word, however, Idaria returned with the food and drink.

  “So!” Golgren merrily exclaimed. “No talk of torture! No talk at all! First, Sir Stefan Rennert, Knight of the Sword, you will dine! The food will be excellent”—he gave Idaria a warning glance—“for it is cooked by fine elves!”

  After an appraising look at the meal, which consisted of seasoned goat meat, black mushrooms from small caverns located underneath the capital, and some rare, pale-yellow tzena melons—one of the few fruits hardy enough to exist in the northern climes of Kern—Golgren allowed Idaria to serve the knight.

  The Solamnic immediately dug into the appetizing meal. Perhaps because he had expected poison and, thus, fully intended to die earlier or maybe because he wondered if the food would be taken away at any moment, Stefan ate with a frantic speed that caused even Golgren to stare incredulously at the knight.

  “Please! Better to slow down!” said the grand lord.

  Idaria served the knight just as she always did her lord, but her unusual attentiveness caught Golgren’s gaze and caused him to frown, despite his desire to keep an air of amiability about him. As she leaned close to pour the human more wine, the grand lord irritably snapped his fingers, recalling the elf slave to his side. Once she joined him, he reached with his hand to take one of hers. Her beautiful countenance gave no hint that he deliberately squeezed much harder than he knew was comfortable.

  “You serve me well,” he murmured, finally loosening his grip on the elf. “You serve me always.”

  He released her. Idaria retreated behind him.

  The knight ate more slowly then, with his eyes darting around the chamber. Golgren noted that those eyes lingered on each of his guards for more than several seconds. Even in the very heart of the ogre realm, the human was on alert, constantly analyzing his surroundings. He was clearly more than a mere scout.

  “You did not come to our realm alone,” Golgren interjected with another smile. The grand lord tried not to sound accusing, even though there was no good reason for any Solamnic to cross the border into lands inhabited principally by minotaurs and ogres.

  Stefan finished a swallow of goat meat and said, “No, I didn’t. Giant … giant baraki caught us by surprise.”

  “Ah, the ji-baraki, they are treacherous.” Atolgus would have to be questioned later about the veracity of his information, but it was clear to Golgren that the knights had been probing deep inside his lands; Khleeg had informed him the Solamnics were caught near the site of his victory over the rebellious chieftains. “Your comrades, they are mourned.”

  Under the circumstances, the human had to acknowledge the grand lord’s apparent sympathy. Stefan nodded, still chewing.

  The rest of the story Golgren could figure out. So Atolgus had come upon the knight and captured him, understanding his value to a higher lord. Still, it was a credit to the human to have made the rough trek all the way to the capital. Stefan Rennert was a fighter strong of will and body, just the type of person who might prove to be some real use to Golgren.

  “The home of the Solamnics, it is very beautiful, it is said,” the ogre suddenly commented, shifting topics.

  Stefan swallowed another bite of goat. His expression was one of undisguised pride. “The finest of all lands.”

  “And protected by good warriors like yourself. Much I hear of Solamnia. Tell me, Sir Stefan Rennert, what do you think of my warriors?”

  The knight’s expression grew wary as he more openly regarded the guards in the room. “They seem strong and brave.”

  “And better armored, more disciplined than expected perhaps?”

  Stefan hesitated. It was as though Golgren had read his thoughts. Finally, the human nodded. “Certainly not what I expected.”

  Khleeg, who was close by standing watch, grunted in amusement. To his lord, he muttered, “Junach i falgos tuum.”

  The human eyed the armored ogre distrustfully. He thought he heard some insults aimed at him. Golgren, shaking a finger at his subordinate as if the latter were a small child, moved quickly to defuse the situation. “Ah, good Khleeg! For our guest, only Common must be spoken … and with politeness, yes?”

  As Stefan waited, Khleeg, eyes narrowed in concentration, said to the knight, “Warriors must … always … expect … all.”

  It was not what Khleeg actually had said, but the Solamnic appeared to accept that as the translation. Had the ogre’s statement been accurately translated—Khleeg had commented on how naive and stupid warriors die the quickest—the Solamnic would have had to take umbrage. Golgren didn’t want that to happen, and neither, for the moment, did Stefan.

  The grand lord did not wish to take any more chances at provoking a confrontation. “Khleeg, you may go now.”

  The officer slapped his fist against his breastplate and marched out.

  Stefan finished his food. Sliding the remnants to the side, he stood before Golgren, his jaw set. “If I am a guest, then am I permitted to leave Kernen now?”

  “Soon … and sooner than you might think, Sir Stefan Rennert.” Golgren also rose. He rubbed his chin. “But we must speak first, yes? Of a—a partnership—between our peoples.”

  As he had expected, the knight looked utterly amazed. There had not been any contact between the ogre and human races for many years, not since Solamnia had stopped sending men to train ogres to fight against the Nerakans. Even that had been done “unofficially” on both sides, and the grand khan knew little about it.

  “A partnership?” Stefan blurted, brow furrowing.

  The grand lord shook his head, pretending he was rummaging for the proper word. “Nay!” His face lit up and he grinned. Extending his good hand toward the human, Golgren declared, “Not partnership, but alliance, an alliance between the humans and ogres.”

  It was fortunate that Golgren stood with his back to Idaria and that the Solamnic’s attention was focused on the ogre. Neither of them noticed the fleeting expression of dismay and disbelief that crossed the elf slave’s usually placid features.

  Stefan also looked incredulous, and at first he couldn’t imagine that ogres and knights shared any common interests … that was, until he thought about Neraka and Silvanost.

  It was true they might find common ground on those two subjects.

  “An alliance?” the human repeated, involuntarily shaking his head, as though to clear it of musty ideas of the past.

  “Yes.” Golgren stepped down to approach the knight, trying to put them on even ground, eye-to-eye level, as much as possible. Idaria had watched the grand lord brilliantly manipulate many who had come before him with their hopes and entreaties, including many who thought they were manipulating the grand lord. But if Golgren desired some sort of pact with Solamnia, he had his work cut out for him, she thought.

  That was not the urgent thought in her mind, however. She had to warn her own partners, her confederates. But that would require some maneuvering of her own; another message dispatched so soon after the last one was risky; Idaria feared discovery.

  Yet she would risk all for the freeing of her homeland from the minotaurs; she would do anything to save her people from not only the pitiable slavery to which they were subjected, but from the foul arts of the Titans. Compared to the Titans, Golgren was almost a benevolent despot. Certainly because of him, scores of elves had been saved from the terrible fate that had been prepared for them in the hidden sanctum of Dauroth.

  Of course, Golgren had kept the slaves from the Titans’ grasp largely to satisfy his own ambitions; Idaria’s influence on him was subtle, and what little she had accomplished had cost her heavily. There was a part of her that buried the painful experience of the months of her captivity, and what she herself had elected to do: become a slave—then the concubine—of the ogre half-b
reed. She had strived hard to sneak to his notice, and she had succeeded. Idaria had willingly done what few other elf women could imagine.

  She, who had been safely ferried out of the ancient home of her people at the expense of her parents’ lives, had returned with the aid of her friends and comrades in order to contrive her capture by the personal guard of the grand lord himself. If Idaria somehow helped her people regain their freedom, the cost of all that would be worth her life … and her tainted honor.

  “The two races have many concerns in common,” Golgren was saying smoothly to the human. “The black-shelled ones are a bane on both Solamnics and ogres. They have long been so. Yet they are not what troubles us most now, yes? There is also Ambeon, from where the minotaurs eye more lands west and north.”

  Stefan nodded agreement, even as he reflected that it had been Golgren and his followers who had aided the horned warriors in gaining a foothold on the continent in the first instance.

  “But come!” continued Golgren companionably, all but throwing his arm around the human’s shoulder. “You have eaten; you are tired now. Of course, tired. All talk of grand things we do will come after Sir Stefan Rennert has slept, yes?”

  The Solamnic indeed felt near to exhaustion, but it was not entirely natural. At Golgren’s earlier bidding, Idaria had put a sleeping herb in the human’s food. Stefan would slumber peacefully for hours, giving the grand lord ample time to set in motion his scheme to win over the man.

  Golgren himself helped the Solamnic in walking, but when Idaria also came to assist—as was her duty—the ogre bared his teeth. Startled, the slave retreated. The grand lord led the sleepy human out of the chamber and toward the large rooms once inhabited by Zharang’s favored concubines.

  Idaria followed at a safe distance, her eyes on her master’s back. Had he trusted her less, Golgren would have been granting the elf slave an easy target. He knew that she would not strike him down for any reason, though. She dared not, and not merely for her own sake. If Golgren perished, whoever succeeded him would revenge his death on her enslaved brethren.