The Black Talon

by Richard A. Knaak

  Breathing heavily, the ogre stomped toward him. Again, Stefan avoided the reaching, clutching hands. Then, all of a sudden, Thraas staggered, momentarily seeming to lose his bearings.

  The ogre’s wounds were taking their toll. Stefan barreled into his adversary. Caught off guard, the injured giant was knocked back.

  Thraas collided with several ogres in the line of the circle. They shoved him forward then began swinging.

  The first blow fell squarely on Thraas’s already damaged shoulder. The second slammed into his legs. Under the onslaught, he buckled, first to one knee then to all fours.

  Despite being their favorite, Thraas was clubbed eagerly, over and over, until he crawled away from his tormentors. Without his monstrous strength and tough hide, he wouldn’t have survived.

  But survive he did, and somehow the ogre got away from the onslaught. Bruised and bloodied, Thraas finally straightened and again moved toward Stefan. Arms spread wide, the ogre herded his smaller opponent to one corner of the circle. Thraas looked battered and weary but still capable of great harm.

  Taking a deep breath and making a short, silent prayer to the patron gods of the knighthood—Habbakuk, Kiri-Jolith, even lost Paladine—Stefan again surprised the ogre by charging straight at him.

  The tusked behemoth waited, grinning. His thick arms embraced his victim just as Stefan smashed into him. Despite his injuries, Thraas absorbed the collision and held on.

  But Stefan, his arm bent wildly, jammed his elbow hard into Thraas’s throat. The ogre let out a harsh rasp and couldn’t breathe again. He bobbled his grip on the human. Stefan elbowed him hard again, that time in one eye, and Thraas turned away, gasping frantically for breath and stumbling.

  He almost stumbled within range of some of the guards—their jaws agape at the sudden turn of events—but fell down on one knee and tried to crawl away.

  Stefan, himself panting, stepped up behind the struggling ogre. He grabbed Thraas by the head and twisted with all his might. There was a sickening crack, and Thraas struggled no more.

  As he let the ogre’s body fall forward, the circle suddenly gave a roar and began to batter the ground with their clubs.

  The battering rose in volume as Atolgus stepped into the circle, his own club in his hand. Although the Solamnic was too exhausted to defend himself anew, he nevertheless straightened, refusing to beg or die without honor.

  Atolgus raised his club then turned to the other ogres and shouted something unintelligible in his own tongue. Immediately, the cries from those in the circle—from all the ogres present—increased tenfold. Grunting barks filled the air.

  They were cheering Stefan’s victory.

  “Ahgarad, Shok G’Ran,” rumbled the young chieftain, using his free hand to slap Stefan on the shoulder so hard that the human nearly collapsed. “Good fight!”

  “I—I am honored by you—and your people, Chieftain Atolgus. Thraas fought well; I w-will remember his name.”

  Atolgus slowly digested his words, making sure of their meaning. Then the tusked giant nodded. However, bearing something of a grin, he then added, “Shok G’Ran still prisoner.”

  Maintaining a proud stance, the knight was marched away with Torma and his guards. As a mark of his victory, the guards did not tie him up until he was far from the circle. Torma then brought him a water sack and, using her own hands to guide the flow, let Stefan drink to his heart’s content. The clear liquid was a valuable commodity in that harsh land, and was the surest sign that Stefan had risen in the ogre’s eyes.

  Torma left him, and the guard took up a position farther away. Bones aching as he stretched out, the captive human pondered the mercurial nature of his captors. He had no idea who killed the ogre guard or why. And it was as if the others had utterly forgotten his supposed earlier transgression.

  There is no understanding ogres, Stefan thought. But understand them he would have to if he hoped to have any chance of escape.

  And that brought his mind back to the shadowy creature who, he now understood, was seeking to unbind him in the dark, and he wondered just what that unseen creature wanted of the Solamnic.

  The village was burning. Most of the males were dead, including his father, for whom he had never had much love. His mother, though, his mother was cleverer, far more clever. She would still be alive… if only he could find her in time.

  It was ironic that his shorter, slimmer frame for once was of great advantage to him. Unlike his brutish brethren, he could hide better, run faster, and thus, avoid the killing blades. A horse snorted. Out of the smoke rising from another fiery hut, a black-armored figure emerged, mounted on a sleek, brown steed, and nearly ran him down. Although the face was hidden by the visored helmet, it was clearly one of the humans his mother called “Nerakans.” The word sent a chill through him, for he could never have imagined humans—only about as tall as he was, as a youth—so easily slaughtering muscular warriors who towered over them by several feet in height.

  And yet it was happening to his village.

  The rider swung at him with a sword far sharper than the rusty, pillaged one his father had wielded. Only swift reflexes saved the youth, and even then the tip of the blade left a burning cut in his left shoulder.

  With nowhere else to go, he leaped into the burning hut. Flames licked at his body, and his kilt smoldered. He expected the human to charge in after him; then in an instant understood why he didn’t.

  The roof of the hut came crashing down. It was only by a miracle that he was not buried under the burning wood and furs. In the background, the sound of hoofbeats receded. The Nerakan assumed he was dead, which would be the case if he did not hurry.

  Beating at the burning wall at the back, the youth managed to create an opening big enough to leap through without getting singed too badly. The moment that he was out, he continued along his path toward his family’s hut. He had been out beyond the borders of the village when the attack occurred, staring—as he often did, despite the beatings his father gave him for doing so—in the direction from which she said her people came. Only when he had heard the first scream had he rushed back, fearful for her safety alone. The rest of the village could have been slaughtered for all he cared. His only concern was his mother.

  There was the family hut. His heart leaped, for as far as he could see, the structure was still intact. He ran faster, ignored by the other riders who were in pursuit of more threatening targets.

  But as he neared the entrance, he saw that the opposite side of the hut had been crushed in. Choking, the youth shoved through the wreckage of the fur-covered entrance and peered inside.

  She lay sprawled on the ground, her torso awash in blood. He knelt down beside her, determined to carry her slight body away and give it a decent burial rather than let it rot with the others. She wasn’t heavy to lift. Had she been like his father, big and bulky, the task would have been impossible, for ogres were among the heaviest of races.

  Whereas elves such as his mother were different.

  She had silver hair that hung down to her shoulders, which had been to him, as a child, fascinating in its delicacy. It had once hung much longer, so she had said, but that had been when she still lived among her own kind.

  As he touched her, her eyes fluttered open.

  Those emerald green orbs, which he had inherited, reminded him of the rare blossoming of mountain flowers during the early spring. Her narrow face had many age lines but was still the most beautiful face in all the village. He leaned close and smelled the faint scent, almost like that of the aforementioned mountain flowers.

  “Guy… Guyvir… ”

  He hated his name, for it was a curse imposed upon him by his father. Guyvir, the unborn, he was called that by even his mother, who more than once had said she wished, for his sake, that he had not been born of his captive mother and her obsessed enslaver. Yet when she said the name, he could always sense the love that she had had for the half-breed who bore her heritage.

  And she was dyi
ng.

  “Mother,” he mouthed, despite his tusks, preferring the Common word to the ogre Lagruu ul, which did not truly mean mother but rather something akin to breeder.

  “Guyvir… Braag… your father… ”

  His father, the chieftain, was dead already. Guyvir had witnessed his slaying. He had felt only a slight pang of emotion when the three knights had cut the chieftain down, not like the sea of turmoil overwhelming him at that moment.

  She saw his expression, and he, in turn, read not only the satisfaction in hers, but also some deep-seated regret.

  The moment passed. Clearly summoning her last strength, his mother said, “To the north! Braag’s cousin… his village is safe from this incursion! Go to him… he… he is softer and has no heir… ”

  Guyvir had met his cousin twice and had respect for the one-eyed warrior. The chieftain had looked at the puny child and nodded at the slim body while making a swift arc with his hand. He knew that there was more than what met the eyes to the young one whose appearance lacked size and muscle.

  “I’ll take you with,” Guyvir replied in Common. His mother had taught him the language in secret.

  She put her trembling hand to his cheek. “I will always be with—”

  Her hand fell; her eyes grew slack. At the same time, Guyvir sensed someone enter the hut. He freed the dagger hidden by his kilt and faced a slim ogre clad in elegant, unblemished robes, an ogre whose tusks were shaved down and who had only one hand.

  It was himself.

  At that moment, Golgren awoke with a start. Cold sweat bathed him. He shivered and stared at the darkness, his gaze finally fixing on Idaria.

  With a hiss of anger, the grand lord lay back again. He had many dreams, most of them of conquest and triumph, but only one that played itself over and over, ending in damnation. There were some memories that could never be forgotten, could never be buried.

  At the same time, those memories also drove Golgren as nothing else. As he shut his eyes, the grand lord imagined a land that he had only briefly and surreptitiously explored, but that always beckoned—a land that was his waking dream to conquer.

  “I will come, Silvanost,” he murmured. “I will come … ”

  VIII

  THE PRICE OF BETRAYAL

  As he was their leader in all matters, minor or significant, the Black Talon convened at Dauroth’s pleasure. In a central chamber on the main floor of the Titans’ sweeping edifice, the robed sorcerers gathered. For each of the eleven, there awaited a massive, stone chair whose arched back rose high over its occupant. The chairs were set behind a curved, wooden platform that gave the seated giants the appearance of condemnatory judges. Once, when first that place had been built, a massive chandelier had lit the chamber, but it had been replaced with a ball of white-blue energy that hovered over the oval of chairs.

  It was there, in that central chamber, that the Black Talon discussed daily events and how the lives of ogres could be manipulated for the Titans’ ultimate goal. The Grand Lord Golgren was often a part of those discussions, and many sharp, disapproving comments were made about the half-breed, although such comments were always moderated in tone so Dauroth would not take offense and punish the speaker.

  The platform was arched like a crescent moon so all the Titans had some glimpse of the others and any who stood before them. At the center of the platform, seated slightly higher than the rest, was Dauroth. Hundjal and Safrag flanked him. The others were divided evenly on each side, with those farthest away of least importance; all had an equal vote in decisions, although even their unanimity could be overturned by their leader should Dauroth deem such a step necessary.

  “He treats us like collared mastarks!” growled Hundjal, his handsome face twisted into an ugly sneer by his fury. In his anger, he had slipped into Common, a tongue very useful and even more eloquent than the Titans’ musical language when it came to complaining about the grand lord’s dictates. “Go out and crush his enemies then return to our stalls until needed again!”

  Dauroth’s expression remained consistently neutral. Among the others, Safrag and the lesser Titans watched, most wise enough to keep their opinions to themselves for the moment.

  “His concern about the borders with Ambeon are not without merit,” the lead Titan finally answered, choosing Common because his apprentice had also spoken in that language. “And although the views of some among the Black Talon may differ on that issue, I, as its head, have decided that we will abide by his request.”

  “Request?” Hundjal nearly spit before recalling his place. “He ordered it, master! Ordered you.”

  “This particular discussion is ended.” Dauroth switched back to the more superior Titan tongue. His words were a beautiful song to the ears of the others, but in Common they would have translated as, “Let us now turn to another matter. There is one among our number who wishes to speak to the Talon.”

  The others grew animated. Few among the ranks of the Titans would care to bring unnecessary notice to themselves by requesting an audience with the inner circle. Such an act of daring could just as easily diminish their standing among their kind.

  Narrowed, golden eyes turned to the empty area before the Talon. On the stone floor was etched the symbol of the gathering, a set of avian claws, utterly dark in color and seeming poised as if to grasp whomever stood above them.

  Dauroth stretched a hand toward that spot, and as he did, sinister black flames erupted from the stones there. They burst into high flame, leaping toward the illuminating sphere.

  But no sooner had the black flames erupted than the magical fire died again, and where they had been stood a figure that caused everyone to gasp—everyone, that was, except Dauroth.

  She was as beautiful as an elf maid, though as shadowy in cast as the Titans were like the sun. Her unbound raven tresses nearly flowed down to her waist. That she was garbed much like a member of the Talon—though hers was more form fitting in preferred places—was no coincidence.

  “Asahna inaris oMorgada,” Dauroth sang. “Welcome to you, our sister Morgada.”

  Long lashes half veiled the golden eyes of the Titaness. The full, artfully black lips parted, and if Morgada’s teeth were not as large as those of the males in the room, they were, without a doubt, cleaner and sharper.

  “Great to me is the gift of this audience,” she sang back in the Titan tongue, “even if it is not I for whom I speak.”

  “You come for another?”

  Smiling, the ogress surveyed the darkened figures. She knew well the effect she had on the powerful males; they were keenly aware of her unusual beauty. The spell that had transformed her was intended to give her just that advantage.

  “I come for a brother known to you all, who, by the curse of the mongrel playing at khan, has now suffered as none of us would wish.” The Titaness shuddered sincerely, for she, especially, appreciated what such a fate would mean.

  Dauroth straightened, understanding. “Ah! It is Donnag of whom you speak.”

  “Donnag … yes, great Dauroth … poor, pitiful Donnag.” And as Morgada sang those words, she stepped to the side, revealing a misshapen thing her magical arts had hidden until that moment.

  The living thing crudely resembled an ogre if some giant hand had managed, only half successfully, to conjure one of the race from a short, muttered description. The creature had bones that did not seem to align with those with which they were joined. One thick club of an arm dragged on the stone floor, while the other seemed to have atrophied. The thing was hunched and bent to the right, and it was clear to all that when the figure moved, he did so using three of his stronger limbs.

  A worn, brown cloak covered much of the pathetic creature’s body, fortunately, as much of its visible skin was mottled and covered in boils or warts. There was not much hair on its body, which was contrary to the norm for ogres, and what little there was were wisps that had turned a sickly gray.

  A general nervousness spread throughout the Black Talon, with even Dau
roth frowning at the sight. The lead Titan’s nose twitched; a rancid smell permeated the august chamber and clearly that stink was emanating from the foul, misshapen Donnag.

  The twisted mouth with four angled tusks opened, and a voice that would have made even a toad’s sound beautiful croaked in Common, “G-great D-Dauroth … why … ” The thing paused, its watery, round eyes that were too big for its head squeezing tightly shut in an attempt to formulate its thoughts. “Why … ” the cloaked form tried again, “you forsaken D-Donnag?”

  Once, there had been a powerful chieftain called Donnag, who had, through his savage might, fought his way up to become ruler of Blöde, and he had exerted a great influence over the court of Kern as well. That Donnag had been a fierce warrior with a trail of blood honored in legend, even before his ascension to the throne. Once, ogres had believed that if the race ever were to unite, it would unite under the iron club of Donnag.

  And for a long while, there had been nothing to make anyone believe otherwise. Indeed, at one point, the ruler of Blöde had been approached by the Black Talon as a candidate deemed possibly worthy of rising to even greater glory; perhaps he might even join the Titan ranks. That Donnag had been no fool; he knew the magic of the Titans would be a valuable weapon to add to his arsenal.

  Donnag’s future had appeared glorious and inevitable until the emergence in Kern of the slight—to Donnag, almost childlike—half-breed calling himself Golgren.

  How it was that Golgren had ingratiated himself with the grand khan was not difficult to understand. Zharang had become little more than a self-indulgent wastrel. Golgren had thus easily manipulated events so the servant became the master. But Donnag was no Zharang. He had intended Golgren to serve him until the half-breed was drained of any use; then would he be executed.

  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.