The Black Talon

by Richard A. Knaak

  Another gargoyle …

  Dipping his finger in the silver bowl, Dauroth bent down to draw the symbols. The dark, thick liquid with which the Titan created the spellwork flared bright red and settled into a deep black.

  The rest of the Black Talon—absent Hundjal—sang the words of power that would keep their spell going. They had no intention of faltering, for that would require another hour’s spellcasting and they might miss the propitious moment.

  “It is strengthened again,” Dauroth sang. “We may continue.”

  He repositioned himself in the circle that the giant spellcasters had formed, a circle surrounding a vast rip in the air. Within that rip, the Talon surveyed the Jaka Hwunar and its activities, each of its members experiencing the same viewpoint no matter to which side of the tear they stood.

  Unlike the crowds or even those nearest Golgren, the Titans did not miss the momentary glimpse of the winged creature.

  “That is not the same vermin seen a few days prior,” sang one of the Titans. “This is larger and more arrogant.”

  “Certainly less cunning,” replied another, “to come out in the open so conspicuously.”

  “Less cunning?” questioned Dauroth. “Nay, much, much more, I think.” The senior Titan drew a five-sided symbol in the air, and the image of the gargoyle’s departure was replayed. The Talon watched as the beast dwindled in the sky then winked out of existence. It had not simply flown so far away as to be no longer visible. It had vanished by what was surely magic. “Someone plays games with the grand lord.”

  “Then of what interest is this to us?” sang the first Titan. “Unless the vermin so disrupts the mongrel’s plans as to allow us to finally be rid of his insipid presence!”

  Dauroth stared down his nose at the speaker. “It is of interest, Kallel, because we do not know who it is the gargoyle serves. It is of interest to us because I have interest in the grand lord. It is too early for us to usurp him; we tried that once and failed. We overextended our resources. The result was that he was strengthened. Now we need him to remain in place for a time, drawing together the necessary elements for our future success.” He bared his teeth. “I trust I do not need to repeat myself over and over again in this regard!”

  Chastened, Kallel bowed to Dauroth’s wisdom.

  “Safrag, we will speak of this situation in private,” the lead Titan announced. After his second apprentice nodded, Dauroth looked to the rest of the Talon. “I will change the image. We have more important matters to review than the festival.”

  The Talon collectively shifted its singing. Dauroth used the dark liquid to draw a second vision before the rip.

  Like a blinking eye turned sideways, the gap shut and opened wide again. The scene within revealed a different land, a place of chilling, ice-topped peaks and turbulent skies. Dauroth gestured, and the scene refocused upon a small cavelike opening in one of the mountains, an opening marked by much-weathered symbols of a language recognizable to any Titan.

  “I have found one,” Dauroth stated without obvious emotion. “I have found a burial chamber of the High Ogres.”

  Among the rest of the Talon, there radiated excitement, but no one yet spoke, out of deference to their master.

  “Yes,” replied their leader to the silent question. At last a hint of similar excitement illuminated his golden eyes. “The seal has not been breached. The chamber should be intact.”

  “Intact!” breathed another Titan.

  “The sacred works said to be buried with the dead,” murmured Kallel. “The scrolls and the signets … ” He grinned almost lasciviously. “The signets … ”

  Among the Black Talon, that last remark struck home. The signets of the High Ogres were vital to the secrets of their vast power, power that even the Titans did not possess yet.

  Power, they hoped, with which they might be able to achieve, in one fell swoop, their ideals and grandiose plans.

  Twenty years Dauroth had searched for even a fragment of the legendary signets, all to no avail. He had begun to doubt, wondering why the ancestral spirit had left him knowledge of the signets if they were to be forever lost beyond his grasp. The High Ogres had appeared to have taken those particular secrets with them to the very grave.

  But he had discovered one of those graves.

  “There is hope, yes, that we have located some of the signets, and, if so, then the gods and our ancestors truly bless our great task,” the lead Titan intoned solemnly. “Our perseverance will have been rewarded a thousand times over.”

  “Far more than that!” insisted Kallel.

  “Far more than that, yes, if there are signets within.” Dauroth immediately silenced the protests rising at his caveat. “And if there are no signets, we must be grateful for an even more significant treasure that surely lies within, one that may make the holy signets pale by comparison.” He gestured at the mouth of the remote tomb. “At last, my brethren, we have the bones.”

  XII

  THE NEST

  Stefan peered out of the tiny window in his room. It was obviously too dangerous for him to climb through and down. He did not want to escape anymore anyway, at least not yet. The information he had gathered thus far was invaluable, and the grand lord’s vague suggestion of alliance had the knight intrigued.

  There was another factor explaining his reluctance to try to escape, and her name was Idaria. Stefan had never personally known an elf, and, in fact, had seen only a couple from a distance. Those had been males, seeking assistance from knightly councils—fairly unsuccessfully—for their dispossessed people. In fact, the various factions sprouting up among the long-lived race seemed to have spread throughout Ansalon, with many refugees seeking aid from nearly every bastion of power.

  Stefan stepped back from the window. He remained armored out of habit more than necessity. The knight tested one of the joints of his armor, which squeaked, then searched among the leftover food on the small table by his bed. In the absence of oil, many other things could be used to lubricate his armor.

  “Do I disturb you?”

  Stefan turned to the doorway, visibly fighting to keep from showing that she had startled him with her sudden appearance. For someone chained both hand and feet, Idaria moved like a ghost, rattling her links only when she cared to, it seemed.

  “No. What is it?”

  “The festival which honors Garantha’s patron beast ends shortly at the ancient temple. The grand lord hopes that you will wish to attend and observe the closing ceremony.”

  “I would. I am bored in my room.” The knight seized his helmet and sword, which lay on his bed, then followed her out.

  As with so much of the palace, the walls were lined with worn and obviously ancient reliefs of beings that Idaria explained to Stefan were depictions of the builders of the capital. Their quality and detail amazed him. Shown in positions of repose, of study, and of creative endeavor, the figures hinted at a society once richer in beauty and culture than he possibly could have imagined. He had to look quickly and closely, for the reliefs were shadowed by dim light cast by the insufficient windows and torches illuminating the corridors.

  “Such a tremendous contrast these ancient figures are to our present captors,” Stefan commented, his gaze shifting from one to the next. The guards they passed indeed seemed the opposite, for they were ugly monsters who eyed the Solamnic with malice. However, none dared give in to their baser instincts and harm him. Every one of the armored behemoths clearly feared and respected their master, Stefan knew, ironically, as he was slighter and surely weaker than the least of them.

  As they passed another guard, Stefan finally asked a question burning in his mind. “My Lady Idaria, how is it you can so calmly walk the halls of your enslaver? And why do you not have any attending guards when you are alone on this errand?”

  “The Grand Lord Golgren is your host, Sir Stefan,” she calmly reproached him. “Everything is according to his dictate.” Her blue, crystalline eyes remained on the hall ahead.
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br />   “My host and my jailer … and yours too.” His expression grew grim. “He is the lord of a people who’ve slaughtered hundreds of your kind and keeps hundreds more in chains.” He seized the chains between her wrists. “Although you wear yours almost as if they were bracelets of gold from your paramour—”

  He stopped dead in his tracks as Idaria whirled on him. Her eyes betrayed a deep disdain for Stefan. “Perceptions are always colored by beliefs, and there are worse evils that could and have befallen the Silvanesti than the grand lord.”

  Idaria strode on brusquely. Stefan started after her and nearly collided with her as the elf halted suddenly again.

  Her eyes widening, Idaria quickly stepped to the side. The human, taking his cue from her, just as quickly followed suit.

  At first there seemed no reason for her apprehension, but then a shadow swept across the floor ahead of them, where the corridor intersected another. The shadow grew to incredible length before at last a gigantic form hove into sight.

  It was all the Solamnic could do to restrain himself from uttering an oath of exclamation. A blue-skinned figure, who made the towering guards seem dwarves by comparison, appeared, gliding down the hall in the very direction the elf slave had been leading him. Although Stefan was a fairly tall man, the gowned behemoth stood more than twice his height. Even with the palace’s high ceilings, there was scarcely any space between it and the top of the strange being’s head. The momentary glimpse he had of the immense figure’s features left an impression of perfection marred by something dark festering inside. The giant was clad in elegant garments that made the grand lord’s appear shabby.

  The enormous figure vanished down the corridor, but Idaria remained where she was, breathing fearfully, for more than a minute after he was gone. Finally, the elf, her expression composed again, resumed walking ahead without a word to Stefan.

  “Who—what was that?” the knight felt compelled to ask.

  “It is one of the Titans,” she answered reluctantly, gaze ahead.

  “ ‘Titans’? I’ve heard the name, I think, yes, but … I’ve never seen such a creature! What’s it doing here? What is it exactly?”

  A sigh of exasperation escaped Idaria. She turned on the human, her eyes blazing again. “You recall but a moment ago, Sir Stefan Rennert, when I said that there are worse evils that could and have befallen the Silvanesti than that of your host?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pray to your patron gods, then, that this is the closest you will ever come to the company of any of the Titans, and then pray to those gods for the well-being of my lord Golgren, the only one who stands between them and rule of the ogres, the only one, I dare say, of whom the Titans themselves are afraid.”

  And with that uncharacteristically lengthy speech, the elf slave started off again. Stefan hesitated, still reeling from the vision of the giant, then hurried to catch up.

  Golgren had ordered the Titans to stay away from the Festival of the Griffon despite its significance to the populace. He had informed Dauroth of his wishes, and the lead Titan, through his lowly apprentice Safrag, had acquiesced.

  Thus, Golgren was surprised and displeased when, before the final ceremony, Safrag came bowing and scraping through the halls of the palace to relay a message from his master.

  “Great and glorious Grand Lord Golgren,” the Titan intoned in Common, bending so low that he came to eye level with the smaller ogre. Golgren was unimpressed; of all the Titans, Golgren found Safrag the least impressive. He hadn’t known him before Safrag was chosen to join the spellcasters’ ranks and could not understand what it was about the ogre that appealed to Dauroth—why he was chosen not only to be a Titan, but as Dauroth’s second apprentice. “My master begs your leave that he sends me with what he feels is news of import to you.”

  Golgren, already clad in his sandals and elegant green and brown robes, bared his sharp teeth and filed-down tusks to show he was irritated at the interruption. He waved his hand impatiently at the Titan. “Speak what it is you must say and begone!”

  Safrag somehow managed to bow even lower. “My master wishes to warn the grand lord of a winged sentinel noticed around the palace more than once. There may be a connection to this human. We are naturally seeking the answers—”

  “This one knows of the creature. The Titans, they are commended for doing their duty, but there is no need for concern. You may leave me if that is all Dauroth wishes you to say—”

  “There is more. My master would wish you to reconsider our absence at the honoring of the griffon, especially with this human attending unchained and, most worriedly, armed.”

  The grand lord shrugged off the warning. “The human is a guest and will be of no threat. This audience is done.”

  Straightening, the Titan nodded to Golgren then, without further ado, turned and started to leave the chamber.

  “No!” At Golgren’s cry, Safrag froze. “Since you are a Titan,” the smaller ogre growled, “I would prefer that you leave from here by your magic, not simply wander the halls as you did earlier, showing your presence to any and all, yes?”

  The apprentice did not protest. “As you wish.”

  Black smoke curled around Safrag’s feet, winding quickly around the Titan until he was obscured. The smoke thickened, then dissipated, leaving in its wake no trace of the azure giant.

  Snapping his fingers, Golgren beckoned his other slaves, who had been sent out of the room upon Safrag’s arrival. They went back to work finishing his appearance. As some dressed him, one brushed his thick, dark hair; the grand lord’s scowl gradually relaxed. Golgren could not fault Dauroth for wanting to warn him about the winged creature, but had it merely been an excuse for Safrag to skulk around and spy on the human?

  Khleeg and Wargroch entered, their armor resplendent. Both warriors slapped their fists on their breastplates.

  “All ready,” declared Khleeg.

  “Good.” The slaves were dismissed again. Golgren stood before his underlings. “Then it is time for the feeding.”

  The temple to honor the gods had been built, so it was said, at the zenith of the High Ogres’ civilization. However, the temple had fallen into disuse long before the race had degenerated, when the High Ogres came to worship themselves more than any one deity. Then somewhere along the way, the ancient rites honoring Garantha’s patron spirit had been revived, and the grand khans had begun acting as priests of the festival, all the better to mark themselves as favored ones of the spirit.

  Not only had time taken its toll on the temple, but much of the maintenance and rebuilding before Golgren’s time had been of a vastly inferior quality compared to the original work. There were cracks that were barely covered by weak mortar, and one column was composed of two different styles cobbled together. However, under Golgren’s not-so-delicate persuasion, his elf artisans had managed in time for that year’s ritual to restore the stylized silhouette of the winged beast set above the entrance, and they also finished two intricate statues of the creature, each standing on one of the thick rails lining the wide steps.

  Drumbeats proclaimed the grand lord’s arrival, the steady pounding setting the correct atmosphere. Temple guards—marked by the crude griffon insignias on the apple-sized disks hanging over their breastplates—raised goat horns to announce the entrance of the ogre leader. The banner of the severed hand rose in all directions, in sync with the blaring horns.

  The crowds filled every avenue, every veranda, every rooftop. Here and there, individual ogres broke out into fights as they competed for the best view. To be part of the events—and part of Golgren’s moment of glory—was their opportunity to snatch some vestige of glory for themselves.

  On horseback, Golgren—resplendent in his brown and green elven robes and with his flattened features accented by subtle makeup to evoke the High Ogres—entered the square surrounding the temple, dismounting just before reaching the ancient structure’s grounds. A large armed escort flanked him and the small party—including S
ir Stefan and Idaria—who had accompanied the grand lord. Khleeg directed the warriors along the path to the steps, where the temple guards took over. One of the latter blew a horn, and a hush fell over the sea of onlookers.

  The knight was ushered to one side, where Wargroch took over supervision of the “guest.” Golgren stretched his hand toward Idaria. The elf slave unwrapped a two-foot-long bundle of furs that she had been carrying, revealing within a steel mace whose head had been molded to resemble that of a shrieking griffon. The eyes were red rubies, while the beak of the avian creature had been shaped to effect maximum damage. Symbolic the weapon might have been, but as was the way of ogres, it also had a use.

  Gripping the mace and resting the head of it across his other arm, Golgren strode up the steps. Idaria, her head low, retreated near the human. Khleeg accompanied his lord, both as honor guard and as one honored. Only the most favored were so fortunate.

  At the top of the steps, with temple warriors standing at rigid attention, Golgren turned to face the masses. Thrusting the mace high, he shouted, “Ishari i iGarantha tu Huun!”

  Idaria leaned close to Stefan, “Listen People of the City of the Griffon … ”

  “Tulan kylochna i oGolgreni, jekar un Gaya ng!”

  “Your servant, Golgren, calls upon the great spirit … ”

  The grand lord shifted so as to let others view his rapt expression. “Vaka Huun i Baresh, Korphus, nu Iskar’ai!”

  The ogres roared wildly, forcing Idaria to nearly shout the last translation. “Bless the People with strength, cunning, and victory!”

  A grinning Khleeg signaled for the horns to sound. Golgren continued to smile and wave the mace until, at last, the horns brought the crowds under control again.

  When silence ruled once more, the grand lord turned to the temple doorway. Two guards flung open the iron doors.

  From within erupted an extraordinary sound that sent a shock wave through everyone present and made Stefan finger his sword. Idaria quickly placed her hand upon his, keeping the weapon sheathed before a wary Wargroch could take offense. The knight looked at the slave for some explanation.