The Black Talon ot-1

by Richard A. Knaak

  “I’ve seen other ogres dressed in finery like those of elves,” Stefan pointed out with a quick glance at Idaria. “Ogres dressed even more grandly than yourself.”

  “All will someday be dressed so, as we learn the skills. Perhaps Solamnia can help teach us these? That, too, can be part of our alliance. I have seen such good clothes on humans.”

  “Aren’t your slaves proficient enough?”

  The question-its accusing tone-might have caused a crude ruler such as Zharang to order the knight flayed alive over a pit of hungry meredrakes, but Golgren did not blink. “Ogres must learn to rely on themselves alone, as humans most of the time do, yes?”

  He did not care to remind Stefan that there were many areas of so-called human civilization where other races were enslaved, even fellow men. The Knighthood, Golgren knew, was choosy about what races it befriended and what slaves it freed. Therefore, Stefan could say anything he wanted, and Golgren found it amusing. After all, he sought a pact with these choosy knights.

  The grand lord signaled the escort to turn further east, which caused Idaria, at least, to glance up briefly in surprise. The Solamnic did not appear to have noticed her reaction.

  Then, ahead of them, came a sight that forced the party to grind to a halt. Stefan stood in the saddle to get a better look, staring at the huge, lumbering beasts. Under the guidance of several handlers, the three mastarks-collars around their thick throats and massive chains attached to the backs of those collars-strained together as they headed to the north. Their chains rose several stories in the air behind them and looped over a series of wheels, creating pulleys.

  The object of their labor was a gigantic piece of newly cut marble on which had been carved a relief of Garantha’s powerful patron spirit. The griffon image was shown leaping into the air, its tremendous wings so detailed in their craftsmanship that one could note the individual feathers. The work was very skilled, Stefan had to admit. At the moment, the block was being lifted up to enable several ogres high above to maneuver it into place on a new tower being constructed.

  The half-built tower appeared to be another marvel. Oval in shape, its newness alone made it stand out among the many ancient, often decrepit structures in the vicinity. Immediately striking were the several massive, almond-shaped openings on one side of the tower-openings resembling nothing less than the grand lord’s eyes. The other side of the tower had been left utterly blank with no windows and not even a door in sight.

  “The House of Night,” answered Golgren to the Solamnic’s silent question. “To mark the passing of the iSirriti Siroth, Sirrion’s Burning. The wall with no opening, it faces the morning, when the Burning comes. The other side, with many windows, counts the final fall of the sun. Twelve intervals of growing shadow, twelve windows. It is a ritual of many ages ago, after the High Ones fell and Kern and Blode suffered more and more heat. It is a ritual with special meaning to this humble servant.”

  Stefan continued to watch the mastarks toil at their herculean task. The shoulder muscles of the great beasts strained as they pulled tons of stone higher and higher.

  The pulley framework creaked and shook as the block rose, but somehow it held. Already, the block was some five stories up, with maybe two yet to go.

  “How tall will it be when the tower is finished?”

  “Five levels upon five, as the first was. Two windows at the bottom, two at top. The old tower, it was destroyed many generations ago from the earthquakes.” Kern, especially, was a land prone to tremors and quakes, some of them exceedingly violent. “This one,” the grand lord went on proudly. “This one will stand stronger. It is built … it is built more clever.”

  Indeed, within the half-open structure, thick oaken beams-as valuable as gold in Kern-could be seen crisscrossing the length of the temple. The crossbeams would give Golgren’s new project more solidity and stability during tremors.

  “Garantha cannot live only on the old,” the ogre leader went on. “To grow, Garantha must also have the new.” To stir his people to the glory of old, so they would be worthy of him, Golgren needed to remake his chosen city into a jewel.

  “Impressive.” Stefan admitted. “It will be a great accomplishment when it is done.”

  “Perhaps you will return to see it then.”

  The knight said nothing. The handlers urged on the mastarks. Only a few more feet remained before the block would rise to a level even with the workers. For the last steps, the beasts had to be led cautiously; if they did not work precisely, the framework might lean to one side, leading to catastrophe and, worse, the grand lord’s displeasure.

  The huge stone rocked back and forth. From it dangled several thick ropes, which the workers above used hooked staffs to snag and hold. One by one, the ogres caught the ropes with the unusual tool, then seized those ropes in powerful grips.

  Elves, although strong, could never have been trusted with such a formidable task. The Uruv Suurt-the minotaurs-would have been perfect, in muscle and size, but the ogres only pretended a friendship with the bull-men, for the moment. His own people, Golgren had decided, worked best. Besides, the grand lord had found that when his warriors were kept busy with building, they did not have the tendency to fall into brawling.

  “Come,” commanded the grand lord, deciding that the building demonstration had served its purpose for the moment. He brushed back his dark, leonine mane, which had fallen over his upturned face while watching the work. “We ride on.”

  Stefan continued to eye the impressive construction as they moved past it, which pleased Golgren. As they passed the site, it was the Solamnic who again broached the subject of an alliance.

  “I’ve been thinking … ”

  Golgren merely cocked his head and waited. He kept his lips pursed, the better to accent his nonogre traits. The grand lord wished the human to feel as comfortable as possible.

  “If … it was at all possible to consider an agreement of peace and cooperation between our two lands, my superiors would expect much more proof of the ogres’ desires and plans.”

  “So many things to discuss, yes, but first there must actually be discussion set in motion. Would not it show Solamnia’s great influence in all of Ansalon if peace would be agreed between knights and ogres? Would not all say, ‘Look! The lords of Solamnia, they have tamed even the ogres! Such power! We, too, must seek alliance with the civilizing knights!’ ”

  That brought a chuckle from Stefan. “My superiors would love all to say that, although I doubt I’ll live to see such a miraculous day.”

  “Perhaps not … perhaps though … ” Ahead rose a high wall formed by layers of mud-packed stone. At its center stood a single vast iron door with the crude image of a griffon, guarded by half a dozen armored warriors. Golgren looked to Idaria, whose eyes momentarily revealed the confusion her face usually hid. She fully expected the half-breed ruler to turn about and head in the opposite direction, yet he did not.

  “Sir Stefan Rennert,” the grand lord began carefully. “The lords of Solamnia, if they were to be given proof that ogres seek this peaceful alliance-so that Ansalon can be spared any further conquest by the minotaurs, let us say-good proof, then they would discuss this, yes?”

  “I must be honest. They would expect very much from you. They would probably expect more than you could offer.”

  “Yes?” The high wooden wall waited only a short distance ahead of them. Warriors on the walkway above and at the tall gate toward which they rode did their best to come to smart attention. Golgren grinned, pleased by their effort. “There is perhaps one thing that might make them listen … ”

  He gestured dramatically at the gate. After a momentary pause to enjoy the curious look on the Solamnic’s face, the husky, heavy-browed officer grunted a command.

  Inside, they could hear a large bolt being slid aside.

  Then, with a loud creak, the gate swung open. Golgren led the party forward.

  “My lord-” Idaria started, but Golgren paid her no mind. With S
tefan riding next to him and the elf on her horse lagging behind, he entered.

  “By Kiri-Jolith’s beard!” exclaimed the knight, seeing at last what the walls had kept veiled.

  Before them stood elves, more elves than Solamnia likely ever suspected were held in all of Kern and Blode combined. There were hundreds of elves. Most wore ragged clothes that had once been counted as finery. The slaves themselves could be described as ragged, worked hard by their masters. There were adults and young, far more of the former than the latter. Many bore tattooed marks on their cheeks, the parts of their bodies where ogre overlords often placed their signs of ownership.

  Yet if one studied the elves closer, they could see that, despite such long servitude, they were mostly fairly healthy. They were thin, perhaps, but not starved. Golgren had insisted that Khleeg make certain that they were fed well for the past several days before the knight saw them.

  They tried to carry on some semblance of a civilized life there. They shared food, they attempted to keep clean despite the surrounding filth, and more. However, whatever they had been doing before the party entered, all actions jarred to a stop as the slaves recognized who it was who had just entered.

  “Barbaric!” Stefan blurted, all his previous congeniality swept away by the spectacle. The Knighthood had not always been on the best of terms with the elves, but only the most hardened fighter could not have been disturbed by the degradation of slavery.

  “Barbaric?” Golgren gestured beyond the throng. “There is shelter,” he pointed out, indicating row upon row of thatched, roofed long houses, all of recent make. They were simple-and made of the same stone as the surrounding walls-but sturdy, far better housing than in some lands, Golgren reckoned. “There is food,” the grand lord continued, pointing at a younger elf munching on a piece of coarse bread. “Perhaps,” he added, “it is not the wondrous, lavish fare said to have been served in Silvanost, but the elves are not starving and the food is by no means inedible.”

  “Such slavery is still barbaric!” the human insisted. “And it would make any hope of peace, let alone alliance, impossible between us!”

  Golgren nodded. “So, too, I thought.”

  “What?”

  “Sir Stefan Rennert, all of these you see, are they as you would expect? Truly?”

  “A slave is still a slave,” the Solamnic insisted, “but no, I expected worse, I must admit.”

  “And it has been.” The grand lord swept his arm across the scene. “But it shall be no more.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “It is very simple, Sir Stefan Rennert. I sincerely wish this pact of no aggression, this alliance against the wave of Uruv Suurt, so very much that I will do this! When I am crowned grand khan, if Solamnia will merely agree to meet for peace-merely that-all these that you see here-all elves elsewhere in my domain-they will be set free.”

  His declaration left not only Stefan speechless, but Idaria also open mouthed. The grand lord grinned at the knight, then turned a much more thoughtful expression to his slave.

  “All elves will be set free,” he repeated for her. “All of them.”

  It was not the time of year for the river to overflow its banks, but overflow it had, sweeping the three legionaries off to their dooms. Most minotaurs were exceptional swimmers, but those three could not fight the treacherous current, especially weighed down as they were by their armor.

  And so the series of misfortunes and mishaps striking the northernmost legions continued. Some of the generals suspected that the “accidents” were more than that, but there was no proof.

  For the Titans, especially those in the Black Talon, were meticulous about covering their tracks.

  Hundjal watched the last trace of the legionaries vanish beneath the waves. The bodies would not be found for some time and distance, if at all. Once again, he had pleased his master and the grand lord.

  The Titan spit, the ground sizzling where the liquid hit.

  A waste of energy and effort, he thought not for the first time. The mongrel ever holds the rein on Dauroth! It cannot continue!

  Hundjal did not fear the half-breed. But Dauroth’s wrath was something to be feared, especially by the one who knew him best. Over the past few days, Hundjal had come up with some ideas about what to do about Dauroth, but he would have to tread lightly.

  Of course, none of that mattered until he was able to return to the sanctum. He could hardly accomplish anything while still essentially exiled to that foul wilderness.

  Hundjal spun about, a gleaming dagger of gold suddenly in his hand. The point of the magical blade paused at the very flesh of the one who had materialized behind him.

  “Safrag,” the senior apprentice greeted the newcomer, sharp teeth bared in a smile. “You come to visit me?”

  “I come bearing word,” replied the other, eyes poised on the weapon at his throat, “and surely I am not mistaken for the Uruv Suurt.”

  Hundjal laughed harshly. “One of them might someday think to take up the arts, crude as the effort would be.” He dismissed the weapon to oblivion. “And what word do you bring me, menial one? Does the mongrel command that Dauroth now send us to Nethosak itself to deal with the Uruv Suurt’s emperor?”

  “Nay, and your tone should be more grateful. The master desires you back at his side, for there is work that must be done to safely open the magical seals of a tomb of the ancients.”

  “Is that so?” Indeed Hundjal’s new tone sung his gratitude at Dauroth’s decision. “It is all intact, then?”

  “It is and it shall stay so until the Talon can find the manner in which to not destroy what we seek.”

  “And thus I am needed. Praise Dauroth for his wisdom! If he had only summoned me back earlier, we could already be enjoying the fruits of success!”

  The junior apprentice grimaced. “Promise not too much to the master; he may expect everything from you.”

  “He shall have it!” Hundjal spit again at his surroundings with the same sizzling results. “But come, Safrag! I would already be gone from this wretched place!”

  The second Titan concurred. As the two prepared to combine their efforts to ease the teleport to the sanctum, Safrag murmured, “Between us, Hundjal, the master is so insistent that this tomb be breached quickly that he will certainly grant you-and only you, I say with some envy-access to his innermost secrets and research!”

  That happy revelation nearly made Hundjal forfeit his concentration. “I am truly his favored again!” The air around the Titans shimmered. “Make no mistake about it, Safrag, I’ll delve deep into everything, leave nothing untouched.”

  As was his way, Hundjal took guidance of the spell they were casting. Safrag lent his power but otherwise was passive. As the pair vanished from the borderlands, he murmured to his companion, “And that is what the master hopes, good Hundjal. That is exactly what the master hopes you will do.”

  XVII

  ASSASSINS WITHIN

  Golgren’s promise had thrown Stefan off guard. Up to that point, Stefan’s true interest had been in analyzing the ogre’s character and his stronghold, then, if at all possible, escaping to report everything he had learned to his superiors.

  Yet the half-breed had again proven himself a surprising leader, much different from what the Solamnic had assumed. His vow to release the elf slaves was significant, and it was true that the Knighthood was very anxious about the minotaurs’ spread west.

  Although he dined with Golgren that same evening, the grand lord said nothing more about the elves. His conversation concerned only the knight’s impressions of the capital, which were as favorable as the ogre had hoped. All the while stern guards kept watch over the dinner. Idaria joined them while two other elves took care of serving the meal, the centerpiece of which was a wonderfully seasoned, roasted side of amalok. For such an ill-tempered beast, the amalok proved quite tender and savory on the palate, one of the finest meats upon which the Solamnic had ever dined. Turmeric and rosemary added to the uniq
ue flavor.

  “This is superb, Grand Lord,” Stefan remarked as he swallowed another bite. “I think that any of the great houses of Solamnia would serve it with pride to their most illustrious guests. Perhaps you might offer a small herd as a token during negotiations-”

  “The amalok is good eating, yes,” interjected Golgren casually. “I have raised them myself in the past.” The ogre then went into some detail concerning the care of the creatures, including how sometimes they had to be tethered during feeding time so the handlers would not be injured by a frenzied bite or kick.

  The slaves tending to the meal acted like ghosts, silent and almost invisible with their tasks. With ample opportunity for the slaves-or the cooks, for that matter, for they also were elves-to poison the fare, Golgren had insisted that all the food be tasted before he and the human ate. The casual manner in which Idaria had tasted not only her master’s meal, but the knight’s as well, left Sir Stefan frowning.

  “They will not poison her, who they so love,” the grand lord remarked upon noticing the knight’s tense expression. “And thus, she and we are all in no danger, but it is better to always make certain they know she will do some tasting first.”

  Near the end of their repast, Khleeg marched into the chamber. Slapping his breastplate, he muttered in the grand lord’s ear. Golgren’s face revealed nothing of his reaction, but he did rise immediately from the table.

  “Please to forgive my need for departure, Sir Stefan Rennert! My Idaria will certainly be much better company, yes?”

  Stefan, who had risen politely at the same time as his host, bowed deeply. “I hope to speak with you tomorrow.”

  “We shall, we shall … ”

  As the ogre leader-Khleeg at his side and several guards surrounding both of them-stalked out, Idaria’s hand reached to gently touch the Solamnic’s arm. Again, she had walked up so silently behind the veteran warrior that he hadn’t noticed. “Your meal is unfinished, Sir Stefan. Please, be seated.”