The Black Talon

by Richard A. Knaak

  As the Titan’s howl spread through the chamber, something white and gauzy spewed from the hapless figure’s mouth then his nose, his ears, and even the tear ducts of his eyes. It struggled as it spread over and around the Titan, its vague outline reminiscent of Varnin himself. At the same time, the spellcaster’s physical form became more and more emaciated.

  Then the gauzy form shrieked, shrieked as not even Dauroth could have imagined. Even the leader of the Titans felt his heart pound faster.

  The ethereal figure was sucked into the box.

  The box shut itself immediately after. The physical Varnin, his expression terrifying in its absolute deadness, its emptiness, collapsed then suddenly as if boneless.

  Some of the others edged toward the corpse and the box.

  “No one goes near!” shouted Dauroth. He alone approached the pedestal. After a brief study of the fallen spellcaster, Dauroth took the box and placed it in a pouch at his waist.

  “Varnin has offered a lesson to you all. Open nothing that you cannot identify. Eagerness has its costs.” To Safrag and Kallel, he added, “When you are done safely transporting the bones back to the citadel, see to the removal and disposal of his remains.”

  Safrag bowed. “As you command, great one.” The apprentice and his companion had finished setting the bones of the ancient Titan in an organized pile. The shreds of clothing, no longer protected, had become ash. “We are ready to take these away.”

  “I will assist.” Dauroth joined the pair. The three stood facing the bones of the ancient. At the lead Titan’s signal, the trio sang the spell.

  Black tendrils arose around not only the bones, but Safrag and Kallel as well. The two lesser Titans ceased their singing, enabling Dauroth to seize control of the spell. Safrag placed one hand over the remains.

  And he, they, and Kallel vanished.

  “It will take them a few minutes to prepare the container for the bones,” Dauroth blandly informed Hundjal, who stood nearby. “Now come. I rely on you as much as myself to see that nothing such as Varnin’s fate befalls the rest of us.”

  All but kneeling, the senior apprentice replied, “You may trust in me utterly on this or any other matter, my master. I am and shall always be your most faithful servant.”

  In that brief moment when Hundjal turned his gaze to the floor, he could not see the dark look that Dauroth flashed at him. All the younger spellcaster saw, when he turned his eyes up again, was the pleased expression that he expected. “I would expect nothing less of you, Hundjal, nothing less at all.”

  “And to prove myself further, my master, I think in another day I shall give you something far greater than this discovery, something to assure the Titans’ guidance over our race.”

  Dauroth had expected that. His smile widened, the sharp teeth well displayed. “For that, you shall receive a reward such as you would not imagine, good Hundjal … such as you would not imagine … ”

  XIX

  DAUROTH’S REVENGE

  Despite the determination of a ji-baraki stalking an injured amalok, Khleeg could report no progress on the investigation. The ogre officer kept his head low, fully expecting punishment, but all the grand lord did was nod thoughtfully. That only served to make Khleeg more nervous, for not only did his master’s favorite meredrake lay chained to the wall near where the warrior stood, but the beast had not yet been fed. Its hunger was surely made the worse by the great copper bowl of raw amalok placed just out of its reach, according to the grand lord’s bidding.

  “The ogres were said to be loyal, yet they attacked the Solamnic right here in my palace. Strange. The matter will have to be pursued, yes,” Golgren finally said, speaking Common, as he was determined to do in private and public from then on. He would prove even to himself that he was properly civilized. “But other matters must not fall neglected because of it.”

  “Yes, the crowning,” Khleeg grunted, grateful for the change in topic. “The crowning is serious matter. Dangerous time, Grand Lord. Dangerous time. Assassins come then.”

  “Nay! A glorious time! Grand khan and lord chieftain I will be!” The ogre leader leaped from his seat and snagged some of the raw meat, tossing a gobbet toward the meredrake. The huge lizard strained at the chains as it snapped up the morsel. “And better able then to deal with Shok G’Ran and Uruv Suurt.”

  As the beast swallowed its tidbit and begged for more, Khleeg, too, swallowed. Golgren hesitated. It would not be the first time a ruler of his people had fed a failure to one of its pets. But Golgren let Khleeg fret for a moment then stepped away from the beast. Khleeg breathed a sigh of relief.

  “The summer soon gives way to the autumn, Khleeg! All must be in readiness for the glorious occasion! Is it so?”

  “The Jaka Hwunar, it readies!” blurted the officer. “The guards, they ready! The slaves, they busy making fine clothes for the grand lord! They carve great faces of him and paint glorious battles he won!” That brought to mind a subject Khleeg wanted to ask about, diplomatically. “Grand Lord, is it true … that the elves, they go … they go free when the crowning is done?”

  Golgren’s expression grew veiled. “This none concerns Khleeg! Khleeg should be concerned about the crowning, yes?”

  Again, the officer swallowed, glancing at the meredrake. “Yes, Grand Lord! No one will break the walls of warriors! Golgren will be grand khan, lord chieftain of all Kern and Blöde!”

  “Golthuu,” corrected his lord. “We should both remember that from now on. When I rule, the ogre lands will be renamed Golthuu, in my honor. No more Kern. No more Blöde.”

  “Golthuu. Yes, Grand Lord. Golthuu.”

  “Go! All must be in readiness! You will do it, yes, Khleeg?”

  The heavy ogre struck his breastplate. “I swear!”

  At that moment, Wargroch entered. The younger warrior repeated Khleeg’s breast-beating gesture then announced, “Grand Lord, you wished to practice. Practice is ready.”

  “Good!” To the departing Khleeg, Golgren growled, “There must be no delay.”

  The senior officer nodded hurriedly before vanishing from the chamber. A moment later, the grand lord and Wargroch also left. The two marched noisily through the palace, down to the ground level, and through several halls. Soon enough, they came to an inner doorway where two hulking guards stood at attention. One quickly opened the door for Golgren.

  The unrelenting light of day rushed over the grand lord. He stepped out into what was almost a miniature version of the floor of the Jaka Hwunar. High walls upon which had long ago been carved an idyllic garden scene—replete with dancing beasts and beautiful High Ogres watching while one of their own played a lyre—surrounded a stone and sand floor. Other than the door through which Golgren had entered—a door immediately sealed from inside the palace by the guards—there was only one other way in, an arched entrance four times as wide as the door and blocked by a toothed, metal gate that could be raised or lowered.

  The burning sun illuminated well the many old crimson stains on the walls. Suspected by Golgren to have originally been a true garden, the area was a kind of brutal playing field; long ago it had been designated as such for the amusement of the ruler during the days when the High Ogres’ decline into debauchery and sadism had been in full throttle. There, instead of the onetime garden of peace and music, prisoners fought other prisoners or beasts, or simply fought to survive some insidious torture.

  There the grand lord enjoyed a daily practice regimen. With only one hand to use in fighting, he had to keep his reflexes sharp and his mind sharper. Six burly warriors stood watch over the small arena, but they were not there to act as his opponents. Instead, the metal gate squealed open, and two surly figures trod inside. They were low-class prisoners, their crimes varying, but both with tempers more ferocious than most of their kind. Each outweighed Golgren by half again as much, and one was nearly a foot taller than the next largest fighter present.

  Both were chained but stood quietly under the watchful eyes of two gu
ards; a third undid their bonds. The two prisoners rubbed their wrists and gazed wearily around at their captors.

  “Jaduum!” called Wargroch. “Hysta idor—”

  Golgren gestured for silence. “Common. Always speak Common. All must learn it, know it.” To the two criminals, he asked, “You know Common?”

  The one on the left nodded warily. The second cocked his shaggy head then finally let out a raspy, “Yes.”

  Golgren beamed with pleasure. The odds were that their understanding of Common was minimal at best, but that would do. “They have been told?”

  Wargroch grunted. “Their freedom if the grand lord is beaten or dead.”

  “F’han,” murmured the larger of the prisoners, his blood-shot eyes glinting.

  Golgren smiled at him. “Give weapons. Leave fight.”

  The guards looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Grand Lord,” Wargroch protested. “Better I should remain—”

  “My command. Obey.”

  With a shrug of surrender, Wargroch indicated that the captives should be duly armed. A guard handed one of them a long sword and the other a chipped but very serviceable axe with the marking of a Solamnic Kingfisher etched into its face. Golgren made a mental note to have such weapons secreted in the palace while the knight was still his guest. It would not do to remind the human of past hostile encounters between ogres and humans.

  The captives wore only kilts and, in one case, not even sandals. The two had obviously led rough lives even in comparison to most of their kind. Partly for that reason, Golgren expected a good fight out of them. The grand lord wore a kilt of much finer make and sandals equally new. Atop he wore a light brown tunic that enabled him to hide what he hung around his neck.

  The grand lord patted his tunic once to let his adversaries see that he hid no breastplate or other protection beneath the thin garment. The first prisoner grinned wide, revealing several gaps in his yellowed teeth; the other’s eyes narrowed maliciously.

  Golgren held up the stump of his arm and Wargroch attached to it a variation of the claw device that the ogre leader used in his battle against rebellious ogre chieftains. There were four claws, banded tightly together. They were also shorter but sharper, and the base was better designed to grip his stump by a series of leather straps rather than the hooks that sometimes ripped his flesh. The new false appendage had been finished that very morning, and Golgren was eager to try it out.

  The prisoners shuffled uneasily at the sight of Golgren’s arm stump and false claws, but after a moment, both giants recovered their confidence. For Golgren to use the steel talons, he would still have to come well within arm’s reach.

  In addition to the sword and axe, the prisoners each also received a dagger. The first slipped his into his kilt, while the second gripped the small blade for more immediate use. As for the grand lord, he had hidden away his ancient dagger, replacing it with a serviceable, wooden-handled one designed for more mundane purposes.

  At Golgren’s signal, Wargroch and the guards retreated through the arched entrance. The criminals were wise enough not to attack Golgren immediately, waiting until the others were well and truly gone and they were alone with the grand lord.

  The gate shut again. Golgren raised his talons. “Begin!”

  The pair came lumbering at him. With his longer strides, the taller ogre reached the grand lord first. His axe immediately angled toward Golgren’s skull, but the half-breed had amazing reflexes. By the time the blade crossed where his head should have been, Golgren was far to the left, taking on his other foe.

  His jab to the sword-wielder’s waist drew a flash of blood, albeit not enough to slow the prisoner. Baring his teeth, the shorter criminal performed a lunge whose sloppiness nearly enabled him to fumble past Golgren’s defenses. The grand lord parried the blow just inches from his throat, then had to turn and contend with the return of his axe-wielding adversary.

  Fortunately, the pair didn’t think to coordinate their attacks. They fought for position over each other as much as they fought the grand lord. The taller one elbowed aside his partner, eager to kill the grand lord first. A warrior who slew Golgren in battle would gain not only freedom, but an enviable reputation.

  But they, like so many others, underestimated Golgren. The prisoner’s axe came within a hair’s breadth of Golgren’s shoulder, and as momentum carried him past, Golgren slashed his wrist with his strapped-on talons.

  The huge ogre growled, his weapon dropping and blood pouring from open veins. He gripped the bleeding wound tight, his eyes turning as red as his hand. A berserker fury filled him.

  And while that happened, the other prisoner launched another attack, aiming for Golgren’s leg. The thrust was an obvious one, however, and the grand lord moved to the side.

  Without warning, he felt something clutch at his chest, squeezing it painfully.

  That pain was superseded a second later by a more painful slice across his thigh. Golgren hissed and stumbled back, but his attacker followed after him closely. All but smelling his victory, the prisoner threw himself at the smaller figure.

  And again, there came the tight and startling clutching of pain in his chest. Stumbling, Golgren dropped to one knee. He gazed up dully as the sword drove for his throat.

  Raising his metal talons saved him, but the effort ripped them loose. Golgren immediately dodged underneath the sword and plunged his own weapon into his adversary’s thick stomach.

  No sooner had he dispatched that prisoner than the second had tackled him from behind and wrestled him to the ground. A bloody hand crushed his face. Ragged breathing filled his ears, and a heavy weight shoved most of the air from his lungs. Blood trickled down Golgren’s chest, which still felt tight with pain.

  But the giant ogre turned his head briefly, and Golgren saw his opportunity. He raised his own head as best he could and bit at his foe’s ear, tearing into it almost with gusto.

  His foe howled and pulled away, in the process helping Golgren rip a piece of flesh away from the ear. Spitting out the bloody bit, the grand lord brought his sword up between himself and the prisoner. With as much strength as he could muster, Golgren shoved the sword into the other’s chest.

  The larger ogre fell back, his life fluids splashing over Golgren in the process. Wasting not a breath, Golgren slashed at the ogre’s throat and with pleasure watched the blood pour out.

  The prisoner grabbed at the gaping wound, but his struggles were in vain. He flailed for nearly a minute before the grand lord put him out of his misery with a thrust to the heart.

  The gate opened and Wargroch and the others trotted forward, relieved grins on their faces. Wargroch started to congratulate his master, but suddenly the grand lord felt that same terrible clutching pain at his chest.

  “Away!” he snarled at the others. “Away!”

  Before they could react, Golgren turned toward the other door, the one through which he had entered, banging on it. The moment it was open, he barged past, leaving his retinue behind.

  The guards stationed at intervals in the corridors were wise enough to say nothing as he staggered past them. Golgren cared for nothing at that moment save reaching his quarters.

  To the sentries standing outside his doors, the ogre leader commanded, “No one enters!”

  As they quickly shut the doors behind him, Golgren scanned the room for any sign of Idaria. Relieved that she was absent, he immediately took hold of the front of his tunic and tore the garment off in shreds. As he did that, Golgren headed to a gilded mirror whose elegant floral etching marked it as yet another prize from lost Silvanost.

  And there, the grand lord eyed the two items dangling by chains over his breast.

  The smaller of the pair was the tiny, transparent vial no larger than a pin in which a few small drops of thick red liquid were suspended. Golgren touched the vial with his index finger, feeling the warmth of the contents, aware how they were bound to him. The vial was valuable to him—assuming it worked as the Lady Nephera had said
it would—and not the cause of his pain.

  That, Golgren knew, fell to his severed hand.

  The mummified appendage dangled from a thick chain that was laced through the remnants of his severed wrist. The yellowed fingers were still bent as if ready to grab at something. After the Uruv Suurt Faros had cut his hand off in battle and fled the scene, Golgren had scoured the site of his loss until he had found the precious remains. Using ogre embalming techniques generally reserved for the dead, the grand lord had preserved the hand as a grim reminder of his failure that day.

  He had worn the hand over his heart since then, even when sleeping. In a morbid manner, its presence also brought him a measure of comfort and confidence. In addition, the rumors that he carried around his severed hand added to his reputation for fierceness, especially since the severed hand was represented on his banner.

  But during the fight … but during the fight, the hand had disturbed him.

  He prodded the mummified hand. The appendage swung back and forth slightly then stilled. The nails, polished finely, barely grazed the hairs on his chest. The hand was as dead as it seemed. True, death was not always the end of things; his precarious alliance with the late Nephera had proved that. With the powers granted her by her mysterious benefactor—said to be at times either dread Takhisis, foul Morgion, or both—Nephera had controlled the spirits of the dead. Those dead—those f’hanos—had wreaked much havoc, and even Golgren had the occasional nightmare concerning one malevolent spirit of hers.

  Takyr.

  But Nephera was long dead and, as far as Golgren knew, she would remain so.

  Perhaps he had been mistaken about the source of his discomfort. The grand lord started to prod the hand one more time when someone dared pound on his door, demanding entrance.