The Black Talon
Page 13
Many believed he was the emperor of destiny, the one that legend said the god Sargonnas—known to older minotaurs as Sargas—had promised to deliver to his chosen people in their time of need. Certainly Faros had begun to unite the realm as it had not been since the earliest days of the reign of his late, unlamented uncle, Chot the Terrible. One policy of the past that Faros honored, pursuing it as zealously as his predecessors, was solidifying the minotaurs’ hold on the mainland.
One of the dekarians paused. His brow wrinkling, he lifted his muzzle as he sniffed the air. Minotaurs bore more than a passing resemblance to cattle—if cattle walked and spoke like men and fought with more skill than most humans—but there was nothing otherwise cowlike in their demeanors. The eyes of a minotaur sparkled with an intelligence nearly human, and those of that particular officer suddenly radiated suspicion.
He tapped the blade of his shining broadsword on the ground, the dull, low thumping quickly gaining the attention of his men. The dekarian silently gestured for three of his warriors to sidle off toward a huge rock only a few yards ahead. As the three hurried away, he indicated to three others that they should slip free the bows they carried. It took but a few seconds for the archers to ready a protective fire for their comrades.
The first of the scouts reached the huge rock formation. With the other two watching his back, he slipped around the rock, briefly vanishing from the dekarian’s sight.
Almost immediately the legionary returned to view, however. He waved his sword in the air and shook his head.
The dekarian let out a snort of annoyance. Under his breath, he muttered to his chief lieutenant, “I swear I sensed something there, and to my nostrils, it stank like an ogre.”
“Perhaps they fled rapidly, Thados,” the other replied softly. “Perhaps they were smart and ran before our swords.”
“Ogres aren’t smart enough to run away. Still … ”
With no threat apparent, the legionaries pushed on. They were already a half hour beyond the boundaries that had been agreed upon and set in place by the late Emperor Hotak and the ogres’ Grand Lord Golgren, not that either side had ever planned on accepting those borders for very long. Ogres had been moving south for the past few months, which, in the eyes of the Imperium, made it absolutely essential for the minotaurs to penetrate the north. Minotaur military logic held that the best way to reduce the odds of an enemy invading was to invade first.
As yet there were no formal invasion plans, but the empress—Hotak’s daughter Maritia and a former legion commander herself—exerted influence on her mate … not that he needed any encouragement to harry or kill his former slave masters.
Some trees still managed to thrive there despite the harsh landscape. Thados had not risen to third dekarian of his legion by ignoring such possible hiding places. Two of his men quickly climbed up the nearest tree, disappearing in the foliage.
A brief glance to his left revealed to Thados that the other squads were also making steady progress. Despite all the recent rumors, they had come across scant signs of ogres; that race did not seem ready for a full-scale raid into Ambeon. The empire would have a distinct advantage if it moved first.
Still, again the scent of ogre—or something akin to ogre—momentarily wafted past his nostrils. “There, do you smell that, Vul?” he asked his second. “You must smell that!”
The other legionary thrust his muzzle into the air. “I think perhaps … I really can’t say, Thados, maybe a trace … ”
Thados removed his helmet, which was skillfully cast to allow for not only the protrusion of his horns, but also for the extension of his long ears. He pricked his ears without success. He let some of the heat dissipate then shoved the helmet back on.
“Get those two out of the tree and let’s move on. The other squads are pulling ahead.” War was a competition among the individual minotaur squads. The quickest way to rise up in the ranks was to bloody one’s weapon before one’s comrades could.
Vul trotted over to the tree. He tapped his sword against the side several times then irritably stared up among the branches.
Growing more impatient by the minute, Thados finally joined him, staring up. “What by the Lady Nephera’s lists is going on? Get them down right—”
But as he joined Vul, the lead minotaur saw what his comrade was staring at … or rather, what his comrade was not staring at.
There was no one in the tree.
Thados circled the trunk. That enabled him to see all sides of the branches and deep into the foliage. Nothing as large as a cat could have escaped his view, much less two full-grown, armored minotaur fighters. No, the tree top was empty.
Leaving Vul still gaping up at the branches, the dekarian backed away warily, looking around. Three of his subordinates were continuing their slow but steady advance, yet he could not spot any of those who had been standing near the rocks.
“Vul! Where did—”
But when the minotaur officer turned back to his comrade, he realized Vul was also among the missing.
Thados searched around the tree then, after a hesitation, glanced up again. Once more he saw branches but no minotaurs.
The fur on the back of his neck stiffening, Thados immediately returned his attention to his remaining soldiers. A tremendous exhalation of relief escaped him when he saw the trio was still there. The dekarian gave a shout, and they came running back.
“Any of you see the others?” he demanded. When they shook their heads, he let out a furious snort. “Something’s playing nasty tricks on us. Maybe it’s magic! We must stick close together! No one loses sight of the others!”
Minotaurs were a stolid race, but anything that smelled of magic made them anxious. Magic did not—at least in general—offer a foe that one could fight with a sturdy weapon.
Thados tried to think. On the one hand, the logical thing would have been to retreat. On the other, such a retreat—with no explanation as to how he had lost Vul and the others—was sure to disgrace him in the eyes of his superiors and comrades.
Disgrace was worse than death. Third Dekarian Thados thus chose instead to push on and hope for the best. His hekturion had given each squad specific instructions as to how deep they were to penetrate the territory, and Thados’s soldiers still had some distance to cover. The dekarian was determined to take his squad at least as far as the tops of the first rocky hills.
It’s only a little farther, Thados pointed out to himself. If we stick together, whatever took the others won’t be able to touch us.
A whistling sound cut through the air, followed by a pair of harsh thunks.
Two legionaries crumpled, silver bolts through the backs of their necks where their helmets and armor left just bare openings. To pinpoint such a target required exceptional marksmanship.
Thados and his surviving soldier whirled in the direction from which the arrows had come—and a third missile suddenly blossomed in the throat of the dekarian’s companion.
Frustration mixed with rage as the last minotaur under his command fell. “Where are you, you damned elf?” He bellowed, waving his sword about wildly. “Show yourself!”
Again he smelled that slight stink, that smell that was and was not ogre. It was so near as to be almost right behind him.
Spinning around, Thados swung his blade at just the level he would guess might behead an elf. However, instead his sword struck some surface so resilient that the weapon snapped in half. The top portion of the blade went flying away.
And as that dire turn of events registered on him, so too did the fact that what stood before the minotaur was much, much taller and even more startling than any elf he could imagine.
“What are you?” Thados blurted, gazing up in awe at the blue-tinged countenance of a creature that suggested elf lineage but also more, so much more.
“The hunter,” the handsome giant responded with a display of sharp teeth. “Though I must say you Uruv Suurt have not offered much sport today. Too easy, the lot of you.”
But before he got at all close to the giant’s stomach, Thados heard a swishing sound; that was the last thing he heard. His head dropped from his neck, the cut so clean, his body continued forward two steps before it realized it was dead.
Hundjal dismissed the gleaming silver blade he had summoned, just as moments before he had banished the bow he used to slay the three other minotaurs. It had not been much of a hunt, true, but still a better passing of the time than the previous day.
Another Titan materialized next to him. Unlike Hundjal, there was no evident pleasure in the second Titan’s face. In fact, the other spellcaster wore a rare, worried expression.
“This is not as Dauroth commanded,” the other declared in the singsong language of their kind. “The Uruv Suurt, if they were to die, were supposed to do so as if by accident.”
Dauroth’s senior apprentice held out his hand, and the bolts he had used to slay the three minotaurs momentarily appeared in his palm before vanishing elsewhere. “And so they were.”
With a wave of his hand, the legionaries’ corpses also disappeared. Hundjal eyed the high rocks toward which the squad had been marching. A brief rumbling like thunder arose, and the upper third of the formation collapsed.
“They’ll find them all there underneath the rocks, that is, if they really feel like digging. A rockslide, very accidental.”
His companion was not easily convinced. “Hundjal, you may be Dauroth’s favored, but still the leader may find such recklessness—”
However, a sharp glance from Hundjal not only silenced the other Titan, but made him decide the prudent course was to himself vanish.
Dauroth’s favored—Hundjal did not see himself that way anymore. He should not have been out there in the borderlands, spending his might harassing and hunting Uruv Suurt. There was some fleeting enjoyment in that, true, but overall such a task was for the likes of lesser beings and conscripts, such as the Titans’ latest addition, Ulgrod. That was a good proving ground for young Titans, not for veterans such as Hundjal, who assumed—as did many others—he would someday inherit the mantle of leadership over the Black Talon and the Titans in general.
Yet Dauroth had insisted that Hundjal supervise the mission, as though it were of any consequence. Hundjal knew as well as his master that Golgren had only insisted on the Titans’ involvement there because he wanted to keep them occupied. The grand lord was a mongrel … but a mongrel with cunning.
Hundjal sensed more soldiers in the distance. His blood boiling from reflecting on his exile, the Titan found himself suddenly looking forward to a little more slaughter. Still, the pleasure would be as momentary as his last experience. A thousand slain Uruv Suurt could not make up for the slight to his pride.
It was a slight the Titan would never forgive his master.
Summoning power, Hundjal vanished immediately and just as rapidly reappeared within striking distance of the new soldiers. They, naturally, could not see him any better than the ones who had come before them. He detected the presence of two other Titans, who wisely acknowledged his superiority then retreated. All knew that the senior apprentice liked to hunt on his own.
He was acting recklessly; even Hundjal understood that. The deaths would look like accidents but only barely, and surely the Uruv Suurt would question how so many accidents could occur.
But Hundjal did not care. He knew only that he could not stand their treatment for much longer. Something would have to be done.
A change would have to be made … and soon.
The high walls ahead did not bode well for Stefan, who stared at them hopelessly. He was in Kernen, a place no living Solamnic—probably very few humans in general—had visited and lived to talk about. Its ancient splendor was obvious and the active rebuilding going on surprised him. It was not the dying, decaying city that the Command constantly spoke about.
A guard shoved him forward. Stefan had been so overawed by his first sight of Kernen that he had stopped walking. The knight quickly picked up his pace, straightening as he went. Even as a prisoner facing doom, a Solamnic entered the stronghold of his enemies with courage and honor.
Atolgus was not escorting him to a lesser khan after all, but intended to present the Solamnic to one of those in the august circle of the Grand Lord Golgren himself. The notion that Stefan might actually lay eyes on the grand lord stirred his blood. He had an opportunity to learn firsthand about the subject of his mission.
Atolgus grunted something to the guards at the gate, a pair of ugly beasts who eyed Stefan as if he were a rat that needed exterminating. A slight argument ensued, but before the ogres could come to blows, Atolgus slipped something into the meaty paws of one of the guards. The language of bribery was as universal as those of love and war.
They shuffled him past the sentries, who were already debating what sort of payment they could squeeze out of the next in line. Stefan glanced up at the gateway as he passed underneath the legendary portal; he knew he would never escape, but at least he would learn more than he had ever hoped about ogre civilization.
Inner Kernen was even more astounding than he imagined; beyond the walls the old city was filled with more ogres than any human could have dreamed existed in all the realm. The capital was in every way a bustling city, more vibrant than some vast human settlements to the west. There was a definite energy in the air, a sense of excitement and expectation. The ogres saw a future filled with promise. That could not be good for the rest of Ansalon.
Stefan beheld an unsettling sight as he entered the capital: ogres clad in finery. True, compared to the rulers of Solamnia, the well-dressed ogres looked rather gaudy and even ridiculous, but the very fact that such creatures existed was another sign of the ogres’ attempt to rise above their ignominious past.
They passed through the market area, crude by the standards of Solamnia but still bursting with more variety than any outsider could have anticipated. Many of the fashioned items clearly had been scavenged from other races, with most of them coming, of course, from the elves. There were many weapons stalls. In fact, there were more than seemed possible or necessary. Swords, spears, clubs, daggers … the list went on.
There were beasts aplenty too. They consisted of not only the stolid ogre steeds, but also baraki fighting lizards favored for sport; savage, red-crested raptors; and fearsome, wild goats that appeared half-wolf with their vicious, long snouts and glaring eyes. There were also several variations of an animal that Stefan heard his captors refer to as amaloks, most of them long-necked, yellow-and-gray-striped terrors kept in small groups in high-walled pens. Their bodies were sleek and obviously designed for swiftness. While they bore lupine features, they also resembled horses, albeit horses with a long, nasty pair of horns—clearly capable of being wielded as weapons—and sharp teeth.
While familiar with the traditional patron of the city, Stefan beheld another symbol vying for predominance that bespoke something more recent and ominous. The icon appeared mostly on banners flying over the roofs of many of the buildings, but several of those of high castes even wore the emblem on their person. It was a severed hand clutching a bloody dagger.
Even in Solamnia, reports had filtered in that the Grand Lord Golgren had turned his lost hand into a symbol of defiance.
A horn blared up ahead. Atolgus’s people clustered together, surrounding the human. Much shorter than they, Stefan could see nothing but the backs of heads and furry spines. Then a shifting among the bodies gave him a glimpse of armored forms that for a split second evoked the Knighthood.
Yet they were not Solamnic warriors; rather, to his astonishment, they were ogres who wore gleaming breastplates and helmets. They
vanished from his view within moments, but by then the knight had witnessed enough to know that all the rumors were true. The new ogre leader had begun to whip together a fighting force on par with other races. Those ogres had order and discipline, the foundation for any successful army.
Atolgus again started forward with his band, only to be halted by a broad, armored figure whose origins clearly did not lie in Kern. Stefan had already seen several Blödian ogres, but that was the first who flaunted any position of authority.
“Isaga i ny Shok G’Ran?”
The Solamnic tensed at the pejorative words describing his kind.
The chieftain stepped aside. “Ny Shok G’Ran. Hodig i caru i Gestan uth Knophros… Gestan uth Knophros iGolgreni!”
The armored ogre loomed over Stefan. He was rotund and ugly even when compared with his comrades, sporting a broken tusk and one eye that stayed half hidden behind its lid. The knight had grown more or less accustomed to the odors of his captors, but the Blödian stank in an especially repulsive manner. At the same time, with each exhalation of breath, a second but equally nauseating stench assailed the human.
To his surprise, the armored ogre addressed him in Common. “You are Solamnic, yes?” he rumbled.
The question did not really need answering, but Stefan nevertheless nodded. Satisfied, the officer snarled something to Atolgus that the knight could not understand. The chieftain beamed. He made a dismissive gesture to the rest of his band—even his mate—then seized the bound knight by the arm.
Other ogres gave way before the armored ogre as he led Atolgus and Stefan away from the others. A half dozen or so steps away, the three were suddenly joined by six guards who took up positions on all sides of the small party.
They left the market area. Ahead lay a carriage pulled by a team of amaloks. The carriage itself was of obvious human design but had been redecorated in a rather gaudy manner with gold leaf and precious stones inlaid around the door frame.