But Donnag had erred even more stupidly than the grand khan. Golgren cleverly built alliances, and one of those had been a partnership with the foul Uruv Suurt priestess, Nephera. The Titans blamed Nephera for much of their troubles, for her malevolent deity had enabled the witch to steal the secrets of the spellcasters and pass some of those secrets on to Golgren. That put them into the hands—hand—of the dog from Kern.
Dauroth alone did not seem to regard Golgren suspiciously, and, in fact, the leader of the Titans appeared to welcome Golgren as a potentially useful tool in re-creating the High Ogre race. Action was in Donnag’s blood; he had moved to squash the half-breed, rashly convinced that, together, his magic and his might would be sufficient to destroy the spindly half-breed.
But he had underestimated Golgren. Donnag had failed, and for his failure, Golgren had commanded—commanded—that no Titan provide the elixir and spell work that the chieftain of Blöde so badly required to resuscitate and maintain himself.
Within two months of his defeat, Donnag had lost all of his magical ability. His understanding of the Titan tongue had melted away, and even Common and Ogre required tremendous effort. Worse, as his mind went, his body degenerated at an even swifter pace. His once-glorious form had suddenly bent and twisted, and none of his limbs moved as they should. The festering boils and strange warts popped up with grim abandon.
By the end of three months, Donnag had become the barely sentient blight that tried to stand before the Talon.
“W-why?” he asked Dauroth again. “Why?”
“Donnag knows the reason why,” returned the lead Titan as succinctly as possible in Common. “Donnag did not listen. Donnag was told his course was wrong, but he failed to listen.”
The once-glorious Titan shambled past Morgada, who, although she had acted as his sponsor, seemed eager to edge away from his stench. “Know this!” growled the macabre form. “Know this! But—but look!” Donnag held up a hand that was more a paw. Two of his fingers had fused together, and the others had grown stunted. “G-grows worse! No—never s-stops!”
That was what frightened any Titan, even those of the inner circle, the most. The degeneration did, indeed, appear to be endless. Always there was something changing, something mutating. There was no one there who did not recognize how Donnag had grown worse since last they had glimpsed him. Then he had been petitioning for some relief, some assistance, from the Black Talon or, more to the point, from Dauroth.
But Dauroth was unmoved, just as on those past occasions. “Donnag brought this sorry circumstance upon himself. He knows that there is nothing we can do for him—”
“Coward! Bec-cause Dauroth—Dauroth is coward!”
Even Hundjal gave an involuntary shiver as the rest of the Black Talon froze, waiting for the punishment that would surely befall the chieftain for his blasphemous words. Yet Dauroth did not burn Donnag to ash or have his insides become his outsides. Rather, Dauroth looked calm and even solicitous, gazing upon the monstrous figure with a mask of pity.
“Donnag will be excused for his words, for all here know his mind is slowing, his understanding of his actions is regressing.” Then the spellcaster stood, a giant towering even among the other giants in the room. “There is a balance currently necessary to the goals and ideals of the Titans that goes far beyond the needs of one. Donnag will and must accept this.”
The fallen Titan’s grotesque features shifted back and forth luridly as he fought with all his mental faculties to comprehend Dauroth’s reply. Morgada, meanwhile, had moved away, so far away from the repellant creature that the Titaness had become lost in the shadows at the edge of the chamber.
Dauroth’s burning gaze touched every Titan present. “Donnag will not come here again unless I have summoned him.”
The dark flames erupted again. At first, Donnag did not seem to recognize their presence, but when he finally noticed the flames, beckoning him, he reached instead toward his former mentor and shouted, “No! Not—not send me b-back—”
The flames swelled to engulf Donnag … and he vanished.
“Morgada.”
At Dauroth’s summons, the lone Titaness swept back into the center of the chamber, her eyes meeting the leader’s. Her blank expression covered any resentment, much less fear she might be hiding.
Dispensing with Common as he switched to his own beloved tongue, Dauroth sang out his challenge, “Morgada, how is it that you, of all of us, dare to press Donnag’s cause despite the past?”
Also reverting to the Titan language, she replied without guilt, “Donnag was blood, and called blood in order to plead my aid.”
“You are one of us, and that is the only call you will answer. All past ties are gone and have never been, my Morgada.”
The dark temptress bowed her head. “You are correct as always, master.”
“Raise your eyes,” Dauroth commanded, looking kindly on her. “The fault is Donnag’s more than yours, I know. You will remember this incident well and, I suspect, repeat it not.”
“No, master.” Under the thick lashes, the golden eyes stared at the lead Titan as if no one else existed in the chamber.
“We will speak no more of this, yes?”
Morgada nodded, a slight smile crossing her perfect features. Then, at Dauroth’s gesture, the flames engulfed her too and, like Donnag, she vanished from the Talon’s sight.
“This will not end it for Donnag,” Hundjal murmured as his master sat back down in his tall chair.
“No.” Dauroth’s tone, which seemed more understanding when he was speaking with Morgada, suddenly grew cold, dangerous. That coldness frosted the words he sang. “No … as with so many things, I will likely have to act.”
Uncertain what the leader meant and not really wanting to know the details, Hundjal nodded vaguely. If he noticed that Dauroth turned his back slightly to him, the younger Titan gave no sign.
“And so,” began the Black Talon’s master, “we must now discuss just how the grand lord’s goals and ambitions for the border with Ambeon shall be fulfilled.”
Another night came and Golgren slept without experiencing the dream. It was a rare dreamless night for him, and he slept well. Sleep was rare enough for him since seizing power. The grand lord often went for two or three days without so much as a nap, during which he always contrived to appear to have one eye still open. That was one hazard of ruling; even in the safest of places, it was never safe enough to sleep truly.
Golgren lay sprawled on the array of elven pillows, his closed eyes toward the ceiling. That night his dutiful servant watched over him, and if there were anyone the ogre trusted to keep him alive and protected, it was Idaria.
Elves themselves had peculiar sleeping habits. Rarely did anyone see Idaria looking as if she needed rest; she was almost always present or nearby just when her master ordered some task.
And the elf slave did not look in the least weary ever, certainly not at that moment. Neither, it must be said, did she appear to be overly concerned with Golgren’s safety, for the silver-haired maiden stood expectantly at a high, arched window that overlooked a drop of several stories. She had stood there for more than half an hour, her sharp ears listening not only for noises outside the room, but alert to the ogre’s breathing. She counted on the steady breathing of sleep with no alteration.
Finally, there came a slight fluttering of wings, so light only the elf could hear it approach. A moment later, a small brown bird alighted on the sill.
Idaria cooed quietly as the bird flew to her hand. She petted the bird gently then glanced over her shoulder for reassurance. The grand lord remained lying on his back with his hand cupping the object that rested atop his chest.
Satisfied, the elf sought the bird’s left leg. There, she located a tiny leather pouch bound to its limb. From the pouch, Idaria pulled forth a piece of parchment. Unfolding it, she read the brief missive with eyes well accustomed to the dark.
The reading took but a few seconds. Whatever the contents of
the message, Idaria’s expression betrayed nothing. Placing the note in a fold of her garment, she then withdrew from another fold a similar parchment and thrust it in the pouch.
Making certain that the missive was secure, Idaria brought the bird’s gaze to meet her own. The communication that passed between them was thought to be a folk tale by most other races, and such ability was rare even among her own kind. But the bird knew where it had to go and when it needed to return.
“Fly carefully,” Idaria whispered, a warning she always gave. The bird endangered itself for her out of love, and the elf regretted each time she had to exploit the creature.
Raising high the hand upon which the bird rested, the slave waved her messenger up and away. As quietly as it had arrived, with its light fluttering, the bird departed through the window.
Even as it vanished from her sight, from the pillows behind her Idaria heard a shifting. Her footfalls quieter than the shadows, the slave returned to her proper place near her master—without disturbing him—despite the chains she always wore.
Even then, Idaria had barely stretched out near Golgren before the ogre’s eyes flickered open. His hand closed, as if he sought to reassure himself that he still clutched what hung around his neck. That done, the grand lord’s eyes sought out Idaria.
“Master,” she murmured, lowering her gaze.
The ogre brushed her cheek. “My Idaria … always watching, always faithful, yes?”
“Yes, my master.”
“It pleases—” The grand lord tensed. Idaria likewise froze.
“Such a touching scene, a king and his concubine.”
Abruptly, from the shadows, materialized Tyranos. The towering mage tapped the floor once with his staff. The crystal’s silver light softly filtered through the darkness. “Perhaps you can find another elf slave to paint it.”
“You are concerned all of a sudden with the elves?” returned Golgren. “Perhaps Tyranos now hopes to plead their freedom?”
“What you do with them is of no concern to me, unless it happens to interest the Titans.” Glancing at Idaria, Tyranos performed a mock bow. “Oh dear, my words have made you shudder. Do forgive me.”
As a slave, Idaria did not—dared not—respond. Golgren rose from the pillows to face the wizard on equal footing.
“Tyranos must have something he wishes urgently to speak of to come to a place he has never been permitted to enter.” Golgren stared past the intruder to the doorway through which guards should have already been bursting. “And to spend precious magic to shield what goes on in here from all outside.”
“Indeed. I’ve brought something very interesting for you to see.” The leonine face cracked into a grim smile as the mage turned the crystal toward the floor. “Careful … he bites.”
And under the staff’s magical light, a winged form took shape. At first it was no larger than a songbird. From Idaria there came a gasp she could not stifle, but fortunately the thing that Tyranos had summoned proved to be—not her pet—but such a creature that both the spellcaster and Golgren could have taken her exclamation for fright, not concern of discovery.
Within a single breath, the creature had grown to the size of a hound. In two breaths, it was already nearly the length of a human. Its wings were long, wide, and leathery—and at the moment bound tight by invisible bonds gripping its scaly body. Under a ridge of thick brows, red eyes both animal and intelligent glared ferociously at the three of them, and from the toothy, almost beaklike maw erupted a vicious snarl. Its body was as broad as that of an ogre and well muscled. The gray beast attempted to slash out at Tyranos with taloned hands but encountered an unseen barrier just inches beyond its body that sparked hotly where the tips of its talons touched.
The tall human grandly gestured at his prize. “I’ve been told that Garantha is the city of the griffon. Look what I found. Have you chosen to take the symbol of the gargoyle instead?”
Golgren, his hand resting on his chest, strode toward the creature. The gargoyle, in turn, tried to lunge at the grand lord but again ran afoul of Tyranos’s magical barrier.
“I’ve told the beast he’s just going to hurt himself, battering away like that, but you know how thick headed they are, especially the mountain varieties.”
“This was found in Garantha?”
“Found atop your palace,” the wizard replied with a chuckle. “Perched like a statue … a statue with long, acute ears, though.”
Gargoyles were not unknown in the ogre lands, especially the mountainous regions. Ogres sometimes hunted them for sport or simple extermination, for gargoyle meat was foul by even an ogre’s low standards of edibility. Of course, the winged creatures were not adverse to doing a little hunting of their own, and no ogre excursion ever returned without having suffered a few victims. They were legendarily ferocious creatures.
But gargoyles were not simple-minded animals. Their intelligence was said to be nearly as great as ogres, and there were rumors that some could even speak a crude form of Common.
That thought ran through Golgren’s mind. “You have questioned this beast?”
In response, Tyranos uttered a single, odd word. “Tivak!”
The crystal flared. The barrier around the gargoyle revealed itself in a savage crackle of silver energy. Within, the winged captive let out a mournful shriek. It dropped to the floor, writhing. Idaria’s eyes widened, evincing some sympathy for the gargoyle’s plight despite its ominous presence in the capital.
“Tivak!” The fearsome crackling died down. As the gargoyle lay there panting, the brown-robed mage nonchalantly replied, “As you can see, if he had anything to tell, he’d have told it gladly. I merely brought him along with me to ensure that you’d not think I was making it up when I told you live gargoyles are skulking around your palace.”
Golgren nodded, his interest darting from the creature to the wizard and back again. “This watched over the palace this very night?”
“I trust I have made that clear.”
“And good Tyranos happened to be nearby and noticed.”
The broad-shouldered human let out a gruff laugh. “I’ve a vested interest in your welfare, oh Grand Lord.”
“Yes, you do.” Golgren turned his back on both spell-caster and gargoyle. He stared pointedly at Idaria then, still facing the elf, commanded, “Release the winged one.”
“I beg your pardon?” asked Tyranos.
“I would have you release the voru tzyn,” the grand lord repeated, using the old ogre term for gargoyles. Golgren still faced Idaria. “Here. Now.”
Tyranos grunted with amusement. “As you like.”
From the direction of the gargoyle there came a flash. Golgren, though, didn’t turn around; he watched Idaria’s eyes, which opened wide.
The gargoyle screeched.
Golgren whirled around. In his hand there was a long, slim dagger. He hurled it at the gargoyle just as the creature was about to leap at the ogre with its three-inch-long talons.
The blade buried itself in one eye. With a howl, the gargoyle collapsed on the floor again. It twisted in agony for a moment and finally lay still.
With satisfaction, the grand lord retrieved the elegant dagger from his victim. He wiped the gargoyle’s life fluids off on its leathery wings.
“A very pretty and effective blade,” remarked Tyranos. “Another elven spoil for you to enjoy, I see.” Glancing down disinterestedly at the gargoyle’s corpse, the mage added, “Of course I could have done that for you with a lot less bother.”
Golgren returned the dagger to its hiding place. “Yes. You could have.” He gestured at the gargoyle. “You may still take that thing with you. Its blood may still be good.”
“I am not a Titan. I’ve no need for this filth.” The crystal flashed once more and the silver light enveloped the dead creature. A moment later, the corpse and all other traces of it vanished. “As to its reasons for having come here, I’ll investigate further … and inform you of my findings, naturally.”
The grand lord nodded his appreciation, but Tyranos did not depart. “You have some other reason for visiting, spellcaster?”
“Yes, there was one more thing. A minor thing. You’re to have a visitor in—oh, I’d say two days. Providing he does not die in the meantime.”
He had Golgren’s attention. “A visitor? Yes?”
The crystal dulled. At the same time, Tyranos’s voice grew less distinct. “A Solamnic … a sorry Solamnic, but still a Solamnic.”
That brought a sudden, wide grin from the wizard’s host. “Ah! One of the shelled ones? A true Solamnic? That would be a rare pleasure.”
The hooded figure grinned back. “I thought you’d be pleased.”
And with that, Tyranos faded into the shadows.
IX
HUNDJAL THE HUNTER
The minotaur patrol stalked through the rising landscape, each soldier growing more wary as the forest gave way to the drier, hotter landscape north of Ambeon. Yet the seven-foot-tall, breastplated figures moved with a confidence borne of recent triumph, thanks to a leader whose command they respected.
High hills spread before the patrol, which consisted of five squads of ten soldiers, each led by an officer called a dekarian. Some distance to the east, another fifty—similarly divided into five squads—also marched north, deeper into what was the territory of their former allies, the ogres. That fifty were led by the overall commander of their expedition, a hekturion named Kulanthos, who once had served the emperor himself when the latter was an outcast from his native realm.
The hundred legionaries and their officers had been ordered by their general to probe the region for any evidence of ogre incursions. The minotaurs were not technically at war with their neighbors, but neither side would have shunned a fight.
The Black Talon: Ogre Titans, Volume One (Dragonlance: Ogre Titans, Vol. 1) Page 12
