The Black Talon ot-1

by Richard A. Knaak

  “By the Kraken,” he murmured.

  Tyranos had found a signet.

  “Yes … yes.”

  He held it up to inspect it, focusing the full illumination of his staff upon the ring. The signet in its center was circular with a rune that looked like a double-bladed sword turned upside down at the center. Half a circle arced over the sword, and underneath both lay a symbol the spellcaster recognized from his studies as representing heat or fire.

  Wanting to look closer still, Tyranos brought the staff’s head nearer.

  The rune shimmered bright orange. What felt like an invisible hand briefly caressed the wizard’s countenance.

  Then the rune lost its glow. Tyranos held the signet as close to the crystal as he dared, but there was no repeat of that shimmering, that strange sensation of an invisible hand.

  Recalling some of his researches, the wizard uttered some runes he knew. None, however, caused any reaction in the ring.

  Rather than frown in frustration, he suddenly chuckled. The High Ogres had, for most of their existence, been meticulous recorders of their magical craft. His brief glance at the wall niches had taken in scrolls, tomes, and other forms of documentation. Somewhere among them would be the key to using the signet. Tyranos had only to look hard.

  But when he turned his gaze to the niches, there remained in each only a few rusty boxes and thick piles of dust that had moments before contained the secrets he desired more than anything.

  Secrets that his impatience to reach the signet had evidently condemned to the dustbin of history. When the mortal remains of the dead ogre had been awoken and returned to their basic elements, so, too, had the protected works of his life.

  Tyranos more than chuckled at that; he bellowed with laughter, bellowed at the foul jest played upon him by the ghosts of the past and his own greed. The High Ogres had planned for his ilk; so long as the tomb served its venerated purpose, the dead would forever have his life, his power, surrounding him. By shattering the sarcophagus-as any base robber would have done, thinking only of riches-Tyranos had dispersed the spell holding the coffin, the dead body, and the ancient magic together.

  And so he had been rewarded for all his strenuous effort … with nothing.

  The wizard ruefully raised the staff toward one of the nearest niches, shoving aside the piles of dust and overturning one ruined box. The rusting container clattered to the floor, revealing that it contained only more dust. Dust here, dust there.

  Tyranos let out a snort and went through a few more niches. There was not one item of value to him …

  Not one item save the signet he grasped in his hand.

  He studied it closely again. It once held immense power. The spellcaster could sense that. Even after so many centuries, it must hold that power undiminished. Somehow, Tyranos would find out the key to unlocking that power. Somehow he would yet wield it.

  There was only the small matter of time running out.

  His thoughts abruptly turned to the ogre, the Grand Lord Golgren. The two of them were playing a dangerous game with Dauroth and his Black Talon. Tyranos’s blundering made it essential that he either steal the secrets of the Titans’ find from them or see to it that they ended up, like him, with nothing. Golgren need not know about his failure, of course.

  He eyed the signet. It would take some risks, but it would be worth it.

  His decision made, the tall wizard abandoned the burial chamber. There was nothing remaining for him there. Even the beautiful runes and depictions had fallen to ruin, the images little more than vague outlines; the magic that had enabled Tyranos to relive one glorious moment in the dead ogre’s life was gone. He grunted to think of that loss; the lost history of the High Ogres was precious, all but a mystery to the modern world. In the end, however, all that mattered was the plan. And Tyranos would endeavor to give the grand lord what he needed to gain the upper hand over Dauroth and the Black Talon.

  The crystal barely lit his way, his overuse having drained it of some power. Soon it would revitalize itself, but for the time being, the spellcaster would have to rely upon his own talents only.

  He stepped out onto the hillside, the shadows deep with scant light coming from above. Raising the staff, Tyranos resigned himself to using it one last time for the day.

  But as he aimed its illumination, from somewhere among the trees he heard the flutter of heavy wings. Tyranos quickly turned to face the sound, the words of a spell forming on his lips.

  A gray shape swooped down. It landed before him, a huge brute of a gargoyle more than half again the size of the one the wizard had presented to Golgren. The creature’s wingspan stretched nearly twice Tyranos’s height. Red eyes glared at him from under its thick brow, and the thing’s heavy jaw moved back and forth, its sharp teeth scraping together.

  The gargoyle, a male, moved closer to Tyranos, moving as much on its knuckles as on its feet.

  The lion-maned spellcaster lowered his staff. “Ah, it’s you.”

  XV

  DONNAG

  The prisoner screamed. Golgren made a tsk sound. No one outside of that place could hear the screams, so he was not concerned about alerting Sir Stefan Rennert, but thus far the screams were all his torturers had gotten out of the temple guard.

  The imprisoned ogre was stretched tight across a huge oak table worn from decades of torture work. Much of the wood was no longer brown but had turned a dull red. Red-green ropes made from the dread mavau plant had been bound around the captive’s wrists and ankles. The curled thorns dug into his flesh, sending blood dripping to the floor. Struggling only made the bleeding worse and had little effect on the bonds; hardened mavau vines were nearly as strong as steel.

  The Solamnic would never have believed it, but the grand lord did not act unreasonably or viciously by the standards of his people. He had not selected the guard at random, as Zharang might have done, torturing him until agony made his victim confess to anything, however implausible. Golgren had first conducted an investigation to determine that that sentry was the one most likely responsible, at least in part, for the disastrous ceremony. Only then did he have the unfortunate dragged to the chamber deep beneath the palace.

  The hexagonal room, with its thick, mossy stone walls and wide slate floor, was perfect for such torture and had been so utilized for centuries. However, Golgren knew that once it had been a different place where magic spells had been tested and cast. Tyranos had informed him of that history once, when the mage was visiting. In fact, Tyranos had seemed unusually uncomfortable in the chamber, evidently having to do with the residual magic still permeating the walls. At least, that was the impression the wizard had given Golgren.

  What mattered at that moment, though, was determining just who claimed the guard’s loyalty, so much so that he would suffer on their behalf. Golgren had his suspicions but needed to know with certainty. His hand moved to the hidden dagger as the grand lord reflected on how a careless move could hurt him; he could lose all.

  Other races did not think ogres capable of subtlety, but they were wrong. The device keeping the prisoner’s eyes open was a fine example of subtle craftsmanship. The needles that prevented the lids from shutting even a little had come from the tuscru j’in, a thick, barrel-shaped plant that thrived in the hottest and driest parts of Kern and was believed to be part of an amalok’s diet. Thousands of needles covered the tuscru j’in, but only those of a certain length and diameter, which did not break or pierce the eye, were used in the tool. It took a skilled hunter to pick those out and, with even more skill, to fashion from other needles the frame that held the first in place.

  The eyes needed to be open, for the torturer worked in their reflection. There were a variety of methods that ogres used for torture, but the eyes were a favorite part of the body for the best results. Ogres might boast tough hides and stubborn wills, but their eyes were soft and sensitive.

  The torturer silently reached into a clay jar and removed, with the aid of brass tongs, a scorpionlike
arachnid with a heavily bloated thorax and only a vestigial tail. The creature, perhaps the length of Golgren’s tiniest finger, hardly looked sinister enough to affect a muscular ogre, but the sight of it caused the captive to renew his struggles, albeit in vain.

  With another set of tongs, the torturer took hold of the thorax. There were scars all over the arms and hands of the ogre entrusted to handle the grand lord’s work, far more than even the most veteran warrior would have garnered. None of them were ceremonial, either, but rather the results of occupational hazards, such as the tiny vermin with which he now dealt.

  The torturer turned an equally scarred visage toward Golgren. The grand lord nodded approvingly.

  “Kifu i harag ne! Kifu i harag ne!” shouted the intended torture victim, but his claims of ignorance about any plot fell, as they had for the past half day, on stone-deaf ears.

  With deft precision, Golgren’s servant positioned the arachnid over the suspected traitor’s left eye. The bloated thorax hung less than two inches above the pupil.

  The tongs holding the thorax squeezed ever so slightly. A single yellow drop of liquid slipped from the tip of the tiny tail. It landed without a sound on the eye.

  The ogre strapped to the table shrieked. He tore at his bonds with such vehemence that the thorns in the rope tore bits of flesh away. A guard stationed at the doorway moved to reinforce the prisoner’s bonds, but Golgren waved him back.

  “Venemok,” the grand lord murmured just loud enough for his captive to hear. “Venemok.”

  The eye was blood red and badly damaged. Even had the tortured ogre been allowed to shut it, he would have found the simple act impossible. The eye was swollen and growing more so.

  “Kifu i harag ne!” the prisoner blurted. “Kifu i harag ne!”

  The torturer, bald from age, had only one tusk, one that was almost completely broken off. He grunted at the defiance and looked to Golgren for his orders once more.

  Baring his filed-down tusks, Golgren indicated the torturer should get on with his work.

  A second delicate squeeze of the thorax sent another miniscule drop squirting onto the ogre’s eye, landing almost exactly where the other had fallen.

  And just as happened with the first drop, that one sent the traitorous guard into shrieks and spasms of agony.

  “If you would have commanded it,” said a voice in Common. “I could have given you his answers long ago, oh Grand Lord.”

  The guard on duty flinched, belatedly readying his heavy sword for action. The torturer, who had seen so much in his job, only gave Golgren’s visitor a surreptitious glance before resuming his study of the effects of the arachnid’s poison.

  “Dauroth.” Golgren’s tone indicated he had expected the Titan, even though there had been no request by the ogre leader for the spellcaster’s presence. “Your studies have gone well?”

  “Well enough,” the Titan replied vaguely.

  Golgren returned his attention to the prisoner. At his nod, the torturer prepared the arachnid for another application.

  “The ghlideesh is an effective torture for most prisoners, but this guard appears especially resistant, oh Grand Lord.” The Titan glided forward. Out of deference, the torturer quickly pulled back. “Please to allow me.”

  Golgren said nothing. The giant spellcaster leaned over the prisoner, who reacted to him the same way he had reacted to the ghlideesh, writhing and shrieking.

  “Hush,” whispered Dauroth, slowly moving his palm above the captive’s face. “Calm.”

  “Kifu i harag ne,” murmured the bound figure. “Kifu i harag-”

  “Hush … silence.”

  The prisoner suddenly became motionless. Dauroth brought his other palm over the victim’s face. A faint, purple glow emanated between the spellcaster’s two hands.

  The torturer watched closely because he was always interested in variations of his craft, even magical ones.

  “Zin isala, zin isol… ” The Titan repeated the words several times. Although they sounded like words in the ogre tongue, for Golgren and the rest they had no obvious meaning.

  But the captive guard reacted to them as though he understood. His body jerked, his eyes focusing on the purple glow.

  “Venemok… venemok,” Dauroth said slowly.

  The figure on the table gasped. His eyes-even the reddened one-glazed over.

  “Venemok,” continued Dauroth. “The name … ”

  But the first sounds out of the prisoner’s mouth were far from a name. “D-d-d-”

  The Titan’s hands drew nearer to the face, the tips of the ebony talons actually digging into the flesh. The captive did not even flinch, so utterly did Dauroth control his will.

  “Venemok … ”

  “D-d-Donnnnaggg … Donnag. Donnag. Donnag. Donnag.”

  It seemed likely the temple guard would have gone on repeating the disgraced chieftain’s name forever if Dauroth had not jerked away from him as if he’d been slapped in the face. The lead Titan spun toward Golgren.

  “Grand Lord! We have nothing to do with this treachery! Donnag is not even one of us anymore! You cannot believe-”

  “Donnag is guilty, yes, this and only this I believe,” Golgren, his face set grimly, replied.

  “Naturally, it is we who should deal with this monstrous traitor.”

  “No. Donnag shall present his head to me. As you said, the chieftain is not a Titan any longer. They and you should not be concerned, yes?”

  Dauroth bowed his head in agreement.

  Emerald eyes narrowed, Golgren strode past the spellcaster to inspect the abject prisoner. The former guard was only just coming out of the trance that had been cast over him by Dauroth. His frantic eyes met the grand lord’s.

  “F’han,” the ogre leader whispered to him.

  Golgren’s lone hand shot out, striking the prisoner directly across the throat with incredible force. The prisoner gagged for a moment; then his head slumped to the side, the needle framework keeping the dead orbs staring sightlessly.

  The grand lord turned to give his attention to the giant spellcaster, but Dauroth was already gone.

  A grin that held no mirth spread across Golgren’s half-elf face.

  The riders and messenger birds departed within the hour to alert all khans and chieftains in both ogre lands that Donnag was guilty of high treason against the grand lord and that any, even clan, who offered the former ruler sanctuary would share his fate. The word of the Grand Lord Golgren was absolute.

  But even Golgren knew that there would be those who would aid Donnag despite the danger to themselves.

  Donnag’s transformation continued unabated. Even his most loyal kin and guards-many of whom had served him since before the days when he, not the mongrel, had seemed destined to unite the ogre race-sought to avoid contact with him as much as possible. He would have turned for aid to his son, who was a mage, but Maldred was as despised by Donnag as he was by Golgren, and besides, Maldred had mysteriously vanished some months back. The once-great chieftain had fallen so low he would have been willing to scrape before his dubious offspring.

  Donnag was well aware of the Abominations, Dauroth’s punishment for those he felt had betrayed him. At least his fate was better than theirs … for the time being. Though, as his degeneration continued, Donnag wondered if a point would come when there would be little difference between him and the accursed ones.

  A terrible thirst overcame him. He was always thirsty. No matter how much water, wine, or other liquid he swallowed, the once-mighty chieftain always felt parched. Thick stubs that were all that remained of the fingers on his one hand clumsily fought to grip the handle of a curved, clay jug. After a struggle, Donnag managed to maneuver the vessel close to the lips of his misshapen mouth and pour most of the contents-yellow-tinted tuscru j’in ale-down his gullet. As usual, the rest of the quickly-souring drink spilled over his chin and down his robe, which was already badly stained and soiled.

  In a sudden burst of frustration at his
inability to perform even that simple task, the mockery that had once been a powerful warlord hurled the jug to the side. It bounced harmlessly against the interior of the goatskin tent then struck the rocky ground hard enough to break, cracking open. The tuscru j’in ale spilled over the ground inside the tent.

  Donnag rose to his feet, although he was far from the height he had once commanded. When younger, he had stood nearly ten feet tall; as a Titan, he had actually been taller than the others by a hand. That time seemed a long-ago dream, not any past reality; a period so short he could barely recall it.

  A young female entered through the goatskin flaps of the tent to check on the disturbance she had heard. Her curved hips and smaller tusks enticed Donnag, but he made no move to grab lustily at her as he once would have done. The obvious revulsion and fear in her eyes were only part of the reason; Donnag was beyond the pleasures of the flesh, and his own shame at what he had become made him simply wish for her to leave.

  That the female did the moment she had retrieved the pieces of the shattered pot. With one last, fleeting glance at the former ruler-likely from fear that he would after all try to clutch her-the other ogre vanished through the tent flaps.

  Donnag let out a growl, which out of his twisted throat emerged more like a rasping cough. Spittle dripped over the thick growth that passed for his lower lip. With tremendous effort, he shoved himself up off the soiled animal skin upon which he had been resting and tried to straighten up. Unfortunately, his back was more malformed than ever, so he stood bent and looked as though he were contemplating his feet.

  His first step nearly sent him tripping over the hem of the ragged brown robe he wore. The robe made him feel like an elderly female. He, who used to go into battle with his chest unprotected, covered himself from head to toe. His most ardent supporters could not bear to see his disgusting flesh, and even he was revolted by the sight of so many thick boils, the rampant scaly patches of skin, and worse sores.