“But it risks too much use of our power,” argued another Titan. “And we are surely safe here, so many days away and in this hidden valley. Let the grand lord deal with this trouble.”
Dauroth raised a hand for silence. “The destruction of an army of bones would be no difficulty for the Talon, with or without the help of the rest of the Titans.” He allowed himself a slight smile. “And, as for the grand lord … his part in my designs is at an end.”
Kallel leaned forward. “So you will let him be taken? After all this time, you will let him be taken?”
“In a manner that will mark his downfall and disgrace. Hundjal … ” At Dauroth’s behest, Hundjal caused the sphere to change to an image of Garantha. The Titans watched as the palace raced into view.
And there they saw hundreds upon hundreds of restless ogre warriors, dressed in the armor of the Grand Lord Golgren, waiting for the order to march. Mastarks with metal helms and body plates trumpeted impatiently, forcing several mounted fighters to struggle to bring their horses under control.
A horn blared. and out from the palace itself appeared their leader. Golgren was dressed as he liked to be when heading into battle, his armor immaculate and shining. He was accompanied by the Solamnic, also dressed in battle gear. Grinning confidently, Golgren saluted his warriors as he and the knight descended to a pair of horses with the grand lord’s elf slave a few steps behind them.
“The cur even brings his favorite pets along to keep him company in death,” Morgada purred. “Should we not at least save that little silver-haired morsel? Her blood must have much strength to have enabled her to survive his hungers.”
Dauroth shrugged. One elf more or less was not of any importance at that moment, and he didn’t care about the human either. “They will all die together, and the race will see that the great Golgren was less than a fherkuut with only one good leg.”
Fherkuut were small rodents with long snouts and tiny eyes. They had carved a niche for themselves in inhospitable lands by devouring other animals’ excrement and using the few nutrients within. To ogres, they were the lowest of all life.
The others laughed heartily at his clever mockery of the half-breed leader. Dauroth rose. “Come. Let the Talon prepare itself. The grand lord wishes our magic to fall upon the f’hanos. We would not want to disappoint him.”
Leaving their seats, the eleven spellcasters gathered like eager ghosts around Hundjal’s sphere, eyeing the first movements of Golgren’s force as it headed out to meet the f’hanos. Amusement glinted in the eyes of most Titans. They were finally going to be rid of the half-breed and in a manner that would curse his memory among ogres for all time. They did not know exactly what Dauroth had in mind but trusted in the leader of the Black Talon; he knew many cunning ways to kill his enemies.
And after Golgren was dead, the Titans, led by the Black Talon, would save the ogre race and take proper control of their destiny.
Dauroth took his place in the center of the group, dismissing the sphere and its image with but a glance. The others took up their appointed positions, creating a pattern with five points and five intersections. Hundjal and Safrag went to their usual places at an intersection opposite their master.
“Nay, my good Hundjal,” called the lead Titan. “Your place is close by me for this occasion.”
“Great one?” The apprentice could not hide his pleasure at that statement. To stand with Dauroth meant to take a lead in the spellcasting. It not only marked Hundjal as Dauroth’s most favored, but also emphasized his likeliness of rising up when the elder Titan stepped down from his hallowed position as their leader. Several of the others looked envious. Safrag merely stared downward. The Titans adjusted their pattern so as to accommodate the alteration that Dauroth’s invitation warranted.
Guiding Hundjal to the spot where the sphere had been, Dauroth placed his hands on the apprentice’s shoulders. “Dear Hundjal, my Hundjal! Ever daring, ever inquisitive! You hunt secrets with as much determination as you do your prey.”
Hundjal beamed proudly. Some of the others nodded their appreciation of the master’s assessment of his disciple. Morgada gave the senior apprentice a beguiling smile.
“I seek only to follow in your footsteps, my master. Your teachings are my existence. As you preach, I seek to emulate.”
“This will be a spell requiring some sacrifice,” Dauroth informed both Hundjal and the others. “And I think that, Hundjal, you understand the necessity of sacrifice, do you not?”
“Of course.”
“I am so gratified to hear that.”
Black flames suddenly blazed from Dauroth’s hands, enveloping the apprentice with searing heat.
Hundjal let out a gasp but seemed unable to move. The other Titans—with the exception of Safrag—couldn’t hide their shock.
“Stay your positions!” Dauroth demanded, his song-voice threatening. He leaned close to Hundjal so his next words would be heard by only his apprentice. “You have touched the forbidden, my pupil, transgressed against me—me!—in an unforgivable manner! I do set the law among us and no one, not even you, dear, precocious Hundjal, may break my rules … not even despite my wish and my guidance for you to do so!”
The apprentice’s eyes, darting wildly, widened as he understood that he had been manipulated into using the fragment. Hundjal had thought he was cleverer than his master. He was not.
“With you will die any impulse by others to wield that accursed thing! But fear not! You shall serve me and our cause in one last, grand manner and your memory will be honored for it.”
Hundjal let out a pathetic gurgle. Dauroth sang three words, three words that would have sent the rest of the Talon recoiling if they had not already been warned to stay in their places. They heard the terrible three words, the ones that condemned those who betrayed the master to a fate worse than even Donnag’s.
To become one of the Abominations …
Almost. Such a fate was not quite what Dauroth had in mind for Hundjal, for then his apprentice’s tremendous power would not be available to him for the spell against the f’hanos.
So there was a slight alteration to the words.
Then a horrified gasp escaped from the mouths of several of the Titans, for Hundjal suddenly and utterly liquefied. The beginnings of a howl issued from his lips and was quickly, mercilessly, cut off. The apprentice, robes and all, poured through Dauroth’s fingers onto the stone floor.
But it did not end there, for no sooner had the stomach-wrenching liquid pooled on the floor than it started dissipating into nothingness. As that happened, tendrils of glittering blue energy—a Titan’s magic—wafted upward.
And as the tendrils passed over the heads of the Titans, Dauroth opened his mouth wide and inhaled the magic, in the process seeming to swell in size. His body radiated a fearsome azure aura and he looked stronger, more powerful than ever.
His grin wide, the lead Titan casually gestured at the others. They felt their own power, their very essences, surge and bind with his greater power. More than one feared that they would be next to follow the late Hundjal, but Dauroth had merely brought them into the spell in order to take the next step of his plan, dealing with the situation outside Garantha.
And, most important, dealing with the Grand Lord Golgren.
Mounted on a tall, wide ogre horse, Sir Stefan tested the balance of his sword. Whether or not a blade would work against those fiends was a question that would soon be known. The f’hanos had no vital organs, nor even muscle or sinew. Skeletons were all they were, and there must be a way to stop them.
A horn sounded. A rider approached from ahead, his mount moving like a blur. The fear animating both the ogre and his steed was evident long before they reached the grand lord.
The scout barked something to Golgren in the native tongue. Golgren did not order him to repeat everything in Common, as the ogre’s transgression was forgettable, understandable, in the face of such calamity.
“They come,” explained t
he grand lord quietly after dismissing the scout.
The sun was only just beginning to rise, but the day looked to be oddly overcast. Many took that as an omen or some evidence of whatever mysterious evil possessed the f’hanos.
Golgren’s army spread out, deploying according to his instructions. Stefan had been impressed by the grand lord’s strategy. Golgren had his foot soldiers, cavalry, and archers arrayed in a manner that would have done any Solamnic commander proud.
But whether or not the most brilliant strategy would deter an undead enemy remained to be seen.
“They must come no farther,” Golgren proclaimed loudly, standing in the saddle for all to see and hear him. He adjusted his helmet slightly as he sat again then shouted, “Horn!”
Pulling the curled goat horn to his fat lips, the nearby trumpeter quickly blew the signal to advance. With one ferocious roar, the ogres let out a lusty challenge to any who would face them, then began marching swiftly forward. The banner of the severed hand fluttered everywhere.
Khleeg and Wargroch rode close to their lord, while lesser officers took immediate command of the rear ranks and flank troops. Idaria also rode near the grand lord. The elf still wore chains, and as far as the eye could tell, she didn’t carry any weapons but seemed entirely unconcerned about any danger.
Stefan had tried to talk some sense into her as they had mounted up. “You should not be with us! This is no place for you!”
“I go where my master goes,” she had replied evenly, her stern glance at him ending any further discussion.
As they rode, the dim, gray light revealed the first hints of something vast pouring over the western landscape. Stefan gripped the pommel of his sword and heard a gasp from Wargroch.
Golgren straightened. Again, he shouted, “Horn!”
The trumpeter let loose once more. Immediately, the ranks shifted, spreading out widely on both sides. The mounted warriors edged forward, preparing for a charge. Archers readied their bows, although of all weapons available to the grand lord, he had the greatest doubt about the efficacy of arrows. What could the missiles accomplish, save bouncing harmlessly off bone?
But then the signal changed and other ogres went over to the archers, bearing small cloth pouches that they bound to the heads of their arrows. Their task complete, those warriors fell back to be replaced by others bearing oiled torches.
“Neeska if’hanosi!” rasped Khleeg suddenly, shaking his head at the size and sound of the dark horde converging on them.
The enemy was coming close enough to be seen clearly, and some of the individual figures were frightening enough to cause murmurs and hesitation in the ranks.
They were just as the lone scout had described.
Skeletons.
There were ranks and ranks of marching, ghastly skeletons. They headed toward the ogres with a steady rhythm, their empty eyes gazing at the living enemy with what almost seemed jealousy.
Closer and closer the skeleton army advanced, and still Golgren issued no new commands. Several ogres glanced worriedly at their leader. Yet Golgren looked both confident and resolute. There was no sign of any uncertainty, certainly no sign of fear. Despite the superstitious nature of his race, the grand lord seemed unperturbed by facing an enemy of walking dead.
Idaria suddenly leaned close; one hand reached to her gown. “My master—”
He ignored her. “Fire!”
His simple, calm command almost caught the trumpeter by surprise. The warrior swiftly put the gnarled horn to his mouth and blew as hard and long and loud as he could.
The torchbearers lit small wicks dangling from the pouches. The archers immediately aimed high into the air in the direction of their foe.
A vast torrent of flaming arrows shot forth.
At a gesture from Golgren, other ogres began to pound a steady beat on the round copper drums that they carried, held by tanned leather straps reaching to their powerful shoulders. The ranks steadied as training and battle adrenalin took over.
At that point, the arrows descended and began exploding.
Shattered bones and mounds of ravaged dirt flew everywhere into the air. The legions of the undead walked into the explosions as if they did not have the minds to dodge or swerve. Not only were the first ranks utterly decimated, but continual rains of arrows tore asunder many of the skeletal ranks that followed.
An entire fleshless mastark erupted into flames, its scattering pieces taking apart scores of skeletal warriors surrounding it. Everywhere, bits of what had once been monstrous fighters lay strewn like a graveyard upturned by a huge worm.
“Cease!” roared Golgren, eyes flaring with relish. “Cease!”
Alerted again by the horn, the archers lowered their bows.
A victorious shout arose from the grand lord’s followers. Even Sir Stefan cheered, he hoped not prematurely. There were still many f’hanos marching toward them, though far fewer than before. A good sword or club would undoubtedly shatter the things to harmless bits that could be gathered later and burned.
But then the destroyed skeletons—the pieces of skeletons, the battered and broken pieces that had so cheered the ogres—suddenly whirled back up into the air, gathering here and there and reattaching themselves with ungodly swiftness.
“Kiri-Jolith’s horns!” the knight gasped.
The ruined skeletons were becoming whole again. It took barely more than a breath for each of them to reform, some with pieces incorrectly assembled, making them even more monstrous. And after reforming, the skeletons resumed their march, joining the others who were steadily approaching the ogre ranks.
“Not possible!” grunted Khleeg. “Not possible!”
An ogre soldier in the first ranks slipped away. Another followed suit, both of them racing away to the side of the battle. Golgren quickly gestured to the nearest archers. They glanced at him then raised their bows toward the pair.
Two expert shots brought down the fleeing ogres.
Stefan looked horrified. “Grand Lord—”
Golgren glared his way, his eyes so ruthless that the Solamnic immediately shut his mouth, recalling he was still a prisoner there and ogres had their own battle traditions. “There must be order and discipline,” the grand lord snarled, “if we are to survive.”
As the stunned ogre army stared at their approaching enemy, the f’hanos progressed toward them in eerie silence, save perhaps the occasional creak of bone upon bone. The distance separating the skeleton army from the ogres shrank by the minute.
Golgren sat in his saddle, watching the skeletons approach, wondering if they had any possible weaknesses.
Without warning, Idaria grabbed the grand lord’s hand and thrust something into it. “Master! Take this!”
Golgren eyed the small object—a sinister-looking ring—then stared at the elf. She stared back at the ogre leader with an expression that was mixed with so many emotions that Sir Stefan, watching, couldn’t understand what was transpiring.
The slave murmured in Golgren’s ear. “Tyranos! He thought it important to give this to you! It has … much ancient power.”
The grand lord put the signet into a pouch and, glancing again at the elf slave, pointed back to Garantha. Idaria firmly shook her head, but Golgren summoned a mounted warrior.
“Take this one back to the palace!” Golgren ordered.
Perhaps as eager to be away from the battle as he was to obey his lord, the warrior snagged the reins of the slave’s horse and dragged her off. Idaria glanced over her shoulder at the ogre leader, then spared a quick look at Stefan.
Yet the knight agreed with Golgren; the elf slave should be taken away from the battle scene. He rode up to join the grand lord. Golgren was staring at the undead enemy, coming closer and closer.
“What are your orders?” Stefan asked.
Golgren laughed harshly. “Fight, of course.”
The grand lord signaled the trumpeter. The horn wailed one last time, sounding both defiant and mournful.
And
as the sound washed over his warriors, Golgren let out a bestial war cry that was joined by his army and rode forward.
The ogre army surged toward the undead. On both flanks and in the very center, a gap opened. Through those gaps streamed the mounted forces, including Golgren and Stefan at the lead. Golgren roared louder as he swept past his front lines. Khleeg and others took up his exultant cry, and even Stefan joined in.
The riders—the foot soldiers on their heels—smashed into the enemy.
Stefan swung at the first skeleton within range, throwing his full strength into a blow against its skull. The well-crafted Solamnic blade easily severed the head from the neck and for good measure the knight kicked the creature hard in the rib cage. The skeletal figure tumbled over into pieces.
Coming upon a second, he repeated the attack with equal fervor and success. The f’hanos were clumsy fighters at best. As he headed toward a third foe, Stefan cried out, “For honor and victory! For honor and—”
Something snagged him by his ankle. Looking down, he saw that the second one of his fleshless opponents had already half reconstructed itself. Even lacking its head, the horrifying thing clutched at him, almost dragging the human from his mount. Worse, joining the effort was Stefan’s first victim, the skeleton he had beheaded that was again completely whole.
Stefan managed to batter away the one holding onto him, but then the other one seized his leg. The strength of the monsters was incredible; it was all the Solamnic could do to keep in the saddle.
But others were not so successful. Beyond Stefan, two other riders were dragged down. The two vanished under a torrent of grasping, clawlike hands. Even the mounts were not spared, the f’hanos dragging them to the ground with equal zeal.
Facing such a chilling fate, Stefan struck out harder and harder. He managed to free his leg, but then pale bony fingers seized his mount by the legs, the tail, and the torso. The frantic animal kicked, shattering more than one of the skeleton figures, yet not only were there too many all around him, but every one that was temporarily broken soon resurrected itself.
The Black Talon Page 29