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.
Quickly grabbing the tatters of his tunic and draping them over his hand, Golgren whirled toward the entrance. “Who dares? Enter!”
“Gaho i verizo na!” blabbered a bug-eyed Khleeg. “Gaho i verizo na iGolgreni!”
For Khleeg of all his people to forget his master’s edict concerning the learning and speaking of Common, with severe punishment for the perpetrator, made the ogre leader instinctively grab at Khleeg and pull him close. “You are forgiven for your intrusion as you ask, Khleeg, if the reason is good.”
Trying to keep his composure, the officer blurted, “F’hanos, Grand Lord! He says much f’hanos!”
Golgren squeezed the hidden, mummified appendage harder as he attempted to understand what Khleeg was saying. Had his thoughts of Nephera brought her creeping back from the beyond? Surely he had heard wrong. “You mean f’han? Someone is dead?”
“No! It—may I bring someone in?”
Impatient, Golgren bade him to do so with considerable haste. Khleeg barked a command at the doorway, and a guard ushered in a warrior who was battered, bloody, and beaten and stared with eyes half-insane that darted to every shadow as if expecting to find something terrible lurking within.
“Thraun,” Khleeg said by way of hasty introduction. “Rode with Captain Tarkus. Toward the west … toward where happened the glorious victory of Golgren over the three.”
“And so?” Judging from the addled expression on Thraun’s face, something terrible had happened to his captain, as well as the others. “You speak of f’han? All dead in the patrol?”
“F’hanos!” shouted Thraun, suddenly flinging himself at Golgren’s knee. The huge warrior clung to his lord as if a child. “F’hanos!”
The repeated word defied Golgren’s comprehension. He looked up at Khleeg. “Explain!”
The officer seized Thraun and pulled him up. Thrusting his face into the shaken warrior’s, Khleeg roared, “Tell all!”
“Bre—” Thraun swallowed then, seeming to come half out of his panic, said in Common, “Dead. All dead! Only bones! Ogres! Mastarks! Meredrakes! Horses! Saw—saw maybe Trang even!”
“Trang?” Khleeg snorted. “No Trang!”
“Ke! Yes! Him!” The disheveled ogre made a slicing motion across his neck. “But no head!”
“Forget Trang!” Golgren commanded. “Speak! Bones walking! Is that what you say?”
The rest of the story poured out in incoherent fashion. Thraun had been ordered to deal with the mounts. He had just finished with his duties when the shouts arose and the fighting started. Of Captain Tarkus, there was no sign. Thraun had started to go to the aid of the others, only to witness them quickly slaughtered by voracious undead. Two meredrakes, bits of their dry, scaled hides still clinging to the bones, ripped apart one hapless warrior, he said. Other f’hanos—most of them mere bones—surrounded the others like packs of ravenous wolves.
At that point, aware that to stay in place was to die horrifically, Thraun undid the horses’ reins and tried to free them. In his clumsiness, he nearly lost all the animals, for the moment that they were free, they panicked and careened into one another.
One failed to make it away, for the f’hanos were nearer to Thraun than he had realized. Only the fact that the horse tried to race in the wrong direction likely saved Thraun from death. Instead, the mount was swarmed by four foul creatures.
However, as the horse went down screaming, another undead tackled the ogre. Empty eye sockets stared down at Thraun; he recalled cold, fleshless fingers clutching his throat. Yet somewhere he managed to find the strength to fight free. He struck the dead skull hard, breaking one of his own fingers. The force of the ogre’s blow sent the f’hanos stumbling back.
Struggling to his feet, Thraun discovered one horse with its reins tangled. He undid the frantic animal and leaped aboard.
As he rode from the nightmare, he heard a long wail from a comrade who had outlasted the others before silence took command.
The recollection of his ordeal proved too much for the warrior. Thraun collapsed into a trembling heap at Golgren’s feet. Ogres were powerful and fearless in battle and lived for their bloodlust, but f’hanos represented one of their greatest fears. Death was death; f’hanos went against reason and logic.
Khleeg and the others looked to Golgren, who stood silent and impassive. The grand lord was not a believer in coincidence. The horde of undead was marching toward Garantha at just the time when he was about to be crowned ruler of the ogres.
Golgren could think of only one being who could command such peculiar magic, although why he should choose to do so remained a mystery.
“Khleeg! Summon those kept ready! We march when the first embers glow,” he ordered, referring to dawn in the phraseology of his people.
“We fight f’hanos?” asked Khleeg uncertainly.
“We destroy f’hanos,” the grand lord corrected him. “Now go!”
His lord’s evident confidence brought some of the fighting spirit back to the officer. He saluted sharply then took command over the others. The sentry who had dragged in Thraun managed to get the mad ogre to his feet and out of the chamber.
Golgren stood stone faced until the doors were again sealed. Then he turned to the ceiling and hissed, “Dauroth! Attend me!”
But after far more time than was permissible, Golgren still stood alone. The grand lord called the Titan’s name again and again with an equal lack of success.
And that made him finally toss away the ruined tunic again, once more gazing down at the tiny vial. Shoving aside his mummified hand, he gripped the vial tightly, then tighter still. It would take only a little more pressure to destroy it. So the Uruv Suurt witch had said. His hand could do what a hammer or a rock could not; to all else, the vial was said to be impervious. Its fate was entirely and literally in his hand.
And tied to its fate, if Nephera had not lied to him, was Dauroth’s. After all, it was his essence—not merely his blood—that the vial contained. Lady Nephera had crafted that little gift for Golgren, albeit at a high price. If Dauroth tried to slay the grand lord, the vial would be his revenge.
As far as Golgren knew, Dauroth was ignorant of the vial. It had been created as a secret weapon. Golgren had always relied on a variety of factors, other magics, to keep the Titans at bay. He understood that, at least until that moment, he had actually performed a vital service for Dauroth, organizing the ogres in such a manner that the Titans could focus on their own desires.
It appeared, though, that Dauroth found his usefulness of diminishing value.
He spit then tried one last summons. “Come, Dauroth. Come.”
“I am here, oh Grand Lord.”
Golgren cursed, jumping at the suddenness of Dauroth’s voice. He turned to face the blue-skinned giant. “At last! I summoned you before this! Where have you been? There is a threat to us all!”
The Titan did not reply at first, instead gliding along the floor in a circle around Golgren. All the while, his golden eyes remained fixed on the grand lord, who turned as the Titan did to keep the towering
figure in front of him.
When he had completed his circuit, Dauroth offered a condescending frown. “Such a sorry little mongrel! This is what the ogre race has fallen to! Not even a full-blooded creature, but a miserable half-breed tainted by an elf legacy!”
“You should understand it well, Dauroth. Understand and appreciate.”
“I do not appreciate impurity, imperfection, Guyvir.”
The grand lord’s pulse suddenly pounded. “I am Golgren.” He gripped the vial again. “You have been warned—”
Dauroth leaned forward, his countenance still utterly disdainful. “Crush it, Guyvir. Shatter it. It matters not. I have known of it for a long time. It is too weak a thing to slay me.”
“Impossible!”
“There is magic, I tell you, far more formidable than that of the Uruv Suurt bitch who made that for you!” Dauroth snapped with abrupt, uncustomary fury. His face immediately relaxed again. “Titan magic … the magic that will return the ogre race to its rightful place.”
Golgren let the vial drop against him. He recalled the painful clutching at his chest. “Was you, then! You who made this move!” He indicated the mummified appendage. “You who command the army of f’hanos marching on Garantha!”
“You are babbling, oh Grand Lord.” Dauroth gazed heavenward, a deep frown spreading over his handsome features. “But not about the f’hanos evidently. Fascinating! Not me, not me. But who else have you irritated so much, Guyvir, that they would send the very dead after you?”
So it was not the Titans. Golgren hissed. “The f’hanos will not stop with me. They will destroy all! The Titans, they must help defend Garantha when I ride to meet these creatures! You shall summon storm and quake and—”
“I will do nothing more for you. You claim the right to be grand khan and lord chieftain in one? Let us see the true cunning and power of Guyvir without the Titans coming to his rescue! Oh, we shall protect Garantha but only when you are outside its gates, dying in a vain attempt to kill those already slain!”
Golgren bared his teeth, wishing that his tusks were long and sharp as he stared up at the smug sorcerer. Dauroth knew his vulnerability. If Golgren waited in the city until the f’hanos attacked, he would lose all the prestige he had built up among his kind. With the possible exception of a few diehards such as Khleeg and Wargroch, most of his officers, the khans and chieftains, they would all turn on him.
Yet if Golgren led his army into battle against the dead without the benefit of the Titans’ magic, it was highly probable that the greater part of his forces would be routed and the remainder would perish with him in ignoble defeat.
Dauroth folded his arms. “Now our little talk is done. It is time for me to deal with another who thinks himself higher than he is. Then … then at last, I can go back to my holy tasks without any more interruptions!” His eyes suddenly glowed. “But first, something to remember me by! You shall wear it to your bitter end.”
Golgren bent over in horrific pain. He managed to keep from uttering more than a slight moan. His chest burned.
The agony eased. As the grand lord straightened, he heard a slight clatter on the floor and saw the chain that had held the vial lying there. However, the vial itself was nowhere to be seen.
He shoved aside the mummified hand.
Embedded in his chest was the vial. A thin layer of skin shrouded the sinister container.
“Think of me as you fail, oh Grand Lord.”
The Titan vanished amid a swirl of black, smoky tendrils.
Golgren threw himself at where Dauroth had stood but far too late. Panting, the grand lord clawed at the vial, but to touch the area sent spasms of pain coursing through him.
Wargroch called from without, begging permission to enter with some news. Grabbing another tunic, Golgren gave his permission, trying not to gasp as the pain gradually subsided.
The younger ogre was quick with his report. “A scout from a patrol. Says that there are f’hanos—many, many f’hanos—near Kubli!”
Kubli was a small, forgettable settlement save for one thing: it was barely more than a day’s march from Garantha. What little time Golgren had left had shrunk just like that.
“Khleeg has orders! All must be ready to fight! We ride before the Burning! Make this known to him!”
With a slap to his breastplate, Wargroch fled the chamber.
Golgren’s expression shifted to one that was almost passive. He had made his decision. He would face the undead horde and he would defeat it or, at the very least, the ogre race would sing of the legend of the grand lord’s great stand.
That was supposing, of course, that there would be anyone left alive to sing it.
Idaria was with Stefan when the news began to spread of some great threat to the city looming on the horizon. The knight, true to his nature, demanded details from the nearest guard, which nearly got him into a fight with the ogre.
The elf managed to calm the situation then took the Solamnic aside. “Let me find out the truth.”
“I will follow,” he insisted. “If there is a real threat, I must know what it is and how I might play a part against it.”
With a shrug, Idaria led him toward Golgren’s chambers. On their way, though, they crossed paths with Wargroch. “What is it?” she asked of the officer, forcing him to pause and speak to her despite his obvious haste. “What causes such turmoil?”
At first he shook his head, but then, perhaps because he was uncertain as to her influence on the grand lord, he finally rumbled, “F’hanos, slave! Army of f’hanos marches to Garantha!”
Wargroch said no more, barging past the pair and all but running down the corridor.
“F’hanos?” Stefan muttered, looking perplexed. “What does he mean? I’ve heard f’han, but that means ‘death,’ doesn’t it?”
“In a hundred variations. This is not a word I am familiar with. Golgren will know.”
They reached the chambers. Idaria had no trouble gaining entrance, but the guards blocked the knight’s path.
“Haroth!” Golgren shouted from within, momentarily lapsing into the tongue of his birth.
“Master,” Idaria immediately answered, “forgive me for not being here to attend you.”
He glanced past her to the Solamnic. “Sir Stefan Rennert! It is good you came. But it is a shame no alliance yet exists. It is a shame that I must face this threat alone.”
The human bowed. “Grand Lord, what trouble threatens this city? An army, I know, but if it is one that is also an enemy of Solamnia, then perhaps I can offer my arm—”
To that, Golgren abruptly laughed. Idaria stared, realizing the desperation behind that laugh. “They are f’hanos! I think such as they are enemies of all that live!”
“But what are f’hanos, if I may ask?”
The grand lord snarled, as he started walking around, grabbing things that he would need, half talking to himself. “The dead who walk. It is the dead you and your comrades discovered! They are risen and seek vengeance against me, it seems.”
His declaration left both the elf and human gaping. There were such stories even among Idaria’s people, stories of necromancy.
The knight at last found his voice. “If what you say is true, Grand Lord, then I do indeed offer my assistance! I will not stand by while such abominations walk the mortal plane, for it is true they can mean no good purpose for my people either.”
Golgren turned, his face brightening. He grinned. “Good! We shall grind their bones into dust, yes? Or die together!”
Stefan only nodded, his countenance as grim as the ogre’s.
The two of them left Idaria in their wake. The slave watched them vanish down the hall, her expression changing from shock to thoughtful calculation. She glanced at the nearest window, then seemed to dismiss that idea. Instead, her hand went to her gown and something she had kept secreted in the folds.
The signet seemed to burn briefly as she pulled it free. Idaria had not given it to Golgren as Tyranos had commande
d, for the elf had sensed its latent magic power and had herself sought to probe its secrets … sought the secrets and failed.
Idaria glanced again in the direction Golgren had gone.
She replaced the signet in her gown and followed.
XX
DEATH AND THE UNDEAD
The Black Talon had gathered for several reasons, the least of which was to welcome the Titan who would replace the unfortunate Varnin. Dauroth extended his hand into the darkness beyond the ten, singing, “Come forth, chosen one.”
It was not entirely a surprise that Morgada entered the light. She bowed deep and sang, “I shall seek to ever prove myself worthy of my place in the Talon.”
“You will have sufficient opportunity for that very shortly,” replied the lead Titan. “Take your seat next to Safrag.”
No one in the inner circle showed any jealousy that Morgada had been rewarded with a place so near Dauroth, but he was aware that envy existed. However, Dauroth looked with indifference on such petty emotions; after all, both the Titans and the Black Talon were his creations. Did he not, then, have the absolute right to do with its members as he pleased?
The second item of business was the disappointing example of Hundjal.
The athletic apprentice sat proudly at his master’s side, bathing in the favor of his master. He had opened the tomb so that all its treasures, especially the precious bones, had remained intact. Hundjal had every reason to be pleased with himself save that, in solving that puzzle—and delving into yet another mystery—he had secretly and without regret broken one of his master’s cardinal laws. That Dauroth had manipulated the matter so his senior apprentice would do such a thing was beside the point. Hundjal should have known better.
Then the sudden rise of f’hanos—whose origins perplexed Dauroth—presented a perfect opportunity for the leader of the Titans to attack not only Golgren, but also Hundjal.
It was a perfect time to begin.
“Hundjal, summon for us the image of what faces Garantha and the grand lord.”
With a cocky smile, the apprentice rose and gestured toward the seated members. A green, spiraling sphere burst into existence then expanded until it was greater than the height of the tallest Titan.
The Black Talon: Ogre Titans, Volume One (Dragonlance: Ogre Titans, Vol. 1) Page 28
