The Black Talon

by Richard A. Knaak

  As Golgren strained and pulled, the griffon’s head arched upward. The griffon’s rasping grew harsher, more rapid. The beast stumbled about as though drunk. It flailed its talons in an effort to remove the obstacle around its throat but only succeeded in scarring its own feathered and furred hide.

  The knuckles of Golgren’s hand went white with strain. He felt his heart pounding, his own breathing fast and hard.

  Rising to its hind legs, the griffon clawed at the air then tumbled over on its side.

  Golgren jumped off the creature just before being partially crushed by its heavy body. He landed hard on the stone walkway.

  Immediately, Khleeg and a host of guards surged toward the scene. Khleeg signaled for several ogres with spears to dispatch the griffon, which was momentarily quiet, perhaps unconscious.

  “No!” snapped Golgren, biting back the pain coursing through his body. “No!” he repeated. “Gya ku f’han!”

  “Gya ku f’han?” Khleeg asked, grimacing in disagreement. “Great one,” the officer rumbled in Common. “Not to kill?”

  “It is helpless now,” replied the grand lord coolly. “Would Khleeg offend the spirit by killing it so?”

  From his expression, Khleeg thought slaying the vulnerable beast was the sensible thing to do, but he knew better than to argue with his master. Slapping his fist on his breastplate, the warrior shouted to his subordinates, “Baroos ni igarani ko fothos!”

  The guards quickly retrieved the net lost earlier and began draping it over the griffon’s prone body. Others rushed up with rope, securing the creature’s limbs so it would barely be able to walk. Someone wisely ordered that its beak be bound tight.

  As those things were being accomplished, Golgren, after catching his breath, said, “Khleeg! There must be a ceremony! The dead one must be honored in the name of the patron!”

  “It shall be done!”

  But before Khleeg could act, Golgren added, “Its chain. Its collar. They shall be brought to me, yes? You guard my back, Khleeg?”

  Khleeg’s weak eye seemed to sink deeper beneath its lid, for he had failed his master. “Lord? Khleeg swears Ophri N’mim!”

  No greater oath could be sworn by the officer. To fail such a vow would mean casting a perpetual curse on the ogre’s parents and all his descendants. Not to mention Khleeg himself.

  “Jakul i nur Ophri N’mim iKhleegi,” replied Golgren. “There is no need for oaths, but you have already sworn it, yes?”

  “Ke!”

  As Khleeg rushed away, Golgren, eyes narrowed, looked around, wondering, if not Khleeg, who? Someone had tried to humiliate or kill him, and something had to be done about it. He moved past Stefan, who was still catching his breath, striding up the steps of the temple with renewed vigor.

  Once at the top, Golgren seized a horn abandoned by one of the trumpeters during the chaos. Whirling, the grand lord turned back toward the crowd and blew on the horn three times.

  By the third blast, he had the attention of everyone within sight. Raising his arms to the heavens, the ogre leader proclaimed, “Bendaka uth iGaranaki! Inom uth iGaranaki!”

  He received immediate cheers from his more ardent followers among the throng. Those cheers encouraged others, more timid, until finally there were repeated roars of approval from all present.

  Nodding, the grand lord folded his arms and stood triumphant before his people. He had just told the ogres that it had been a test of the griffon spirit, and that he had passed the test; the spirit approved of his rule. The people were willing to believe that, for Golgren had given them quite a show, fighting well and turning the tide in his favor. None were willing to openly question his version of events.

  But even though he had saved face, Golgren knew that his enemies were still hiding out there, somewhere, plotting new ways to attack and undermine him. There would still be rumors that his rivals would surreptitiously spread. The question of his worth and lineage—owing to his stature, his maimed hand, and the suspicious circumstances of his birth—would not easily go away.

  Golgren glanced over at the human, still dazed by all that had transpired. A pact with the Solamnics would be very useful indeed.

  Dauroth furiously dismissed the scrying sphere, sending it back to oblivion. Safrag, sensing his anger, wisely kept to the shadows. His master would speak to him if Dauroth thought it necessary.

  But the first words sung by the lead Titan were meant for himself, not his apprentice. “His recklessness should have destroyed him by now, yet he lives and enjoys the masses’ idolization more than ever.”

  Safrag bowed low as Dauroth turned to him. Only then did the apprentice dare speak. “But surely he was ever safe,” Safrag sang. “Surely great Dauroth was ever there to see that he did not perish!”

  “Are you suggesting that I am some nursemaid for the grand lord, Safrag? The mongrel is useful, but I can hardly spare my valuable time to keep him safe all the time. He is becoming more of an annoyance than a useful tool.”

  “Nay! I said nothing about you being a nursemaid! I understand why you let the cur live, despite what the others say! Besides, surely this was a strange occurrence! Surely, great one, you believe this only an accident, nothing—absolutely nothing—more.”

  The senior Titan’s golden eyes narrowed. “Until you spoke now, I did. You have filled me with a suspicion, Safrag, and for that alone I should condemn you to existence as an Abomination!”

  “My comment was not meant to alarm you, great one!” Safrag insisted, making himself as small as a fourteen-foot giant could. “You would surely know if anything was not as it seemed, and since you do not even suspect—”

  Dauroth angrily gestured. “Be silent!”

  A gray haze formed over the apprentice’s mouth. His words were immediately cut off. Safrag stood as still as a statue as his mentor turned his own thoughts inward.

  That not one, but both, griffons had broken their chains was, in hindsight, too great a coincidence. Dauroth berated himself for being so preoccupied with his other musings that he had missed the obvious. Safrag had actually done him a favor, bringing up the possibility of some outside involvement, some conspiracy.

  There were many still who wished the mongrel dead; Dauroth counted himself among them, despite his outward show of indifference for the benefit of the other members of the Talon. There were times—especially just after he was done dealing with the half-breed—that Dauroth imagined shrinking the grand lord to the size of a piece of fruit and squeezing him to a pulp in the palm of his hand. While such a spell was beyond any Titan—at least thus far—there were other spells at his beckoning that would have served just as well.

  But he would use them only when it became clear that Golgren’s usefulness was truly at an end.

  What was crucial—and seeming more likely by the moment—was that, if Safrag’s suggestion had any merit, someone else had sought Golgren’s end, using the spectacle as a shield.

  “Safrag,” Dauroth sang the other’s name as if summoning a beloved child. “Safrag, if you were to see this as not an accident, but rather as a deliberate ruse, a foul play by someone … who would it be that you would investigate … ?”

  Despite realizing that his voice had been returned to him, the apprentice looked hesitant to revive that treacherous conversation. Yet in the end, Safrag felt obliged to reply.

  “Great master, if I had to choose one, it would be from among our own … or one who used to be.”

  “ ‘Used to be’ ” Dauroth’s brow furrowed. The apprentice was affirming his own notions. Dauroth raised his left palm up, and in its center formed the vision of a grotesque, misshapen countenance. He showed it to Safrag. “You mean Donnag.”

  “In truth, I can see no other with such daring or desperation or such understandable need for vengeance, oh master.”

  “Indeed.” They both stared at the former ruler’s repulsive face, the image formed in Dauroth’s hand. Yes, the accusation made sense to Dauroth. Donnag sought vengeance, and per
haps he was ambitious too; perhaps he thought to return to the Titans as their chief. Ambitious Donnag always had been … foolish.

  “Donnag … I believe you are correct, Safrag. I believe the chieftain has again acted injudiciously. He must not do so anymore. His actions interfere with my desires.”

  “The Black Talon must deal with him?”

  Dauroth shook his head. “No, we shall have the mongrel taken care of in a special way, like one beast set upon another. After all, we do not want to serve the grand lord’s interests, for he wishes to know who it is who has sought his assassination.”

  The apprentice bowed his head in acknowledgment of Dauroth’s wisdom. The lead Titan smiled, but the smile faded abruptly.

  “And then … and then, at least, I think that something must have to be done about the Grand Lord Golgren.” Dauroth grinned fiercely, his teeth clamped tightly together. “Yes, I think that we are nearing that time, after all.”

  Safrag bowed his head gratefully. “There may be danger, great one! The mongrel has his hidden tricks! I feel certain there is magic that serves him and not us! Recall Donnag’s utter defeat! ’Twas magic that tripped him in the end, powerful magic!”

  “Of that I am keenly aware, but fortunately, the key to understanding the situation has been near us all along. We can thank dear Hundjal for awakening me to the possibility.”

  “Hundjal? Nay, Master Dauroth! You cannot mean what I think you mean. To do such a thing, to wield such a thing!”

  The elder sorcerer shook off his apprentice’s apprehensive tone. “Don’t worry, I will use only the barest fragment, and I will not be the one to wield it, at least not physically.”

  “But there is still the tomb, not yet opened by your command! If there are signets within, as we hope—and surely there are bones of the dead—then would not those suffice—and with far less threat to yourself—to deal with this matter?”

  Yet the Black Talon had not deciphered how to undo the ancient protections of the tomb without causing them to destroy what lay within. The High Ogres had arranged everything using a delicate balance of powerful energies. Remove one in the wrong manner, and the years of Dauroth’s research would be for naught.

  Besides, Dauroth did not know if anything within the tomb would work as hoped. The fragment … the fragment was another story.

  “It will be as I say. For Hundjal, this will be a most important assignment … a most appropriate choice.”

  Safrag again bowed his head in acceptance of his master’s wisdom.

  His gaze suddenly shifting to the right, Dauroth dismissed that subject as another flitted into his mind. “Ahh … Captain Moak and his warriors are with us at last. Come, Safrag.”

  With a sweep of his hand, Dauroth sent the two of them from his chamber to the massive courtyard at the front gate of the citadel. The stone entrance area was large enough to hold a small army and, indeed, part of it did. Nearly twenty surly-looking and impatient ogre warriors waited there with their prize. Captain Moak—a beefy Blödian with one tusk that curled to the side and four ritual scars across his forehead—was their commander. He had led them on their journey—without the knowledge of Golgren’s toady, Khleeg—through the dread valley surrounding Dauroth’s domain to fulfill a pact that he had long ago made with the master Titan.

  Moak did not look pleased, not that Dauroth cared. Each time the ogre captain made the treacherous journey, he usually sacrificed two or three careless underlings to the hidden sentinels beyond the high, spiked walls and the massive, iron-grate gateway. The trip had been ordered; it was no whim.

  “Great one,” snarled the heavy but muscular officer in Common, for he had learned long ago that, like Golgren, Dauroth preferred not to hear the bastardized tongue spoken widely in the ogre realms. Moak performed a cursory slap on his breastplate that almost made Safrag snort in disdain. “Brought as many as could be taken! Good stock! See here?”

  His warriors parted to reveal eleven haggard elves. They stared at the Titans with eyes almost dead, for they knew the legends concerning the giant sorcerers. None brought to the secret sanctum ever returned, it was said.

  “This paltry few?” muttered Safrag. “Great Dauroth expected several times that amount!”

  The lead Titan raised a gently admonishing hand. “Hush, Safrag. I am certain Moak has an explanation for using the valuable spellstone to bring fewer than the warriors who guard them.”

  Moak glanced back at the vine-covered walls and the thick treetops just visible above. The only successful path to and from the citadel was the one that Dauroth’s spellstone illuminated for the captain. The ogre clearly did not savor the thought of being punished for his failure, and he knew there were few safe ways to return home.

  “Golgren is fault,” Moak finally grunted. “Golgren! That ji-baraki—Khleeg!—he sends order to Blöde! Says, all elves be gathered, taken to Garantha! Already they begin!”

  Dauroth looked to Safrag, who shared his master’s frown. “All elves, you say?”

  “All! Moak work hard to gather these! Strong! See?” The captain gestured, and a warrior shoved a male elf forward. The slave, wearing soiled rags that barely covered him, stumbled to one knee. Moak moved in and slapped the elf, forcing him to stand. “Strong! Only these, but all strong! Good blood!”

  The other elves huddled together. Moak’s followers bobbed their heads up and down in eager agreement with their commander.

  Dauroth came to a decision. “And when can you next procure more?” Moak’s method of procurement was, of course, by kidnapping any slave he came across or by bribing guards of other elf captives willing to betray their masters. “By the next full white moon?”

  Moak made a face at that. “Might be longer, might be! Maybe need more to pay. Must go farther … must take more chances.”

  “No. Too much notice. This will be the last from you. There will come other methods … if they are needed even.” As he spoke, Dauroth concentrated. He felt the Black Talon heed his silent command. Those in the sanctum prepared. “But your usefulness to me will not end; have no fear of that, Captain Moak.”

  Moak, who had started to look uneasy, brightened. Greed shone in his eyes. “Will serve you well, great one! Serve you well!”

  “Yes, you shall. Safrag?”

  Bowing his head, the apprentice thrust out a single finger toward the elves. Above them, a gray haze suddenly formed. The slaves suddenly showed signs of life, some of them struggling to flee despite the heavy chains their captors had clamped on them.

  But the moment that the haze drifted down onto their heads, the elves froze. Their arms dropped to their sides. Eyes dulled, unblinking, they slowly staggered away from Moak’s warriors, heading toward a doorway Safrag pointed out to them.

  Watching the slaves leave in that docile fashion, Moak grew anxious again. “We serve you well again, great one! Give orders and we leave now!”

  “The orders are simple, and it is this: only into the woods should you go.”

  Moak started to ask a question, but his mouth hung open without a sound as six Titans materialized around the band of slave traders.

  As one, Dauroth and his followers raised their left hands and gestured toward Moak’s warriors. Some of the ogres tried to react, even to attack the Titans, but their limbs would not work. Moak let out a furious growl, but that was all he could do.

  Dauroth sang the words then drew a six-sided symbol in the air. The red rune flared bright, then shot toward Moak.

  It struck the captain in the skull then split in two. Moak let out a groan as the rune burned into his flesh while the split ones flew toward the next closest warriors. Those ogres were also struck in their skulls, and again, each of their runes split into two more that coursed toward the next victims.

  Within a single blink, all the slave traders had been so targeted. Their groans filled the air. The Black Talon sang, stirring up the fearsome energies Dauroth required for his task. He had always intended that to be the outcome when Moak pr
oved no longer useful, for the ogre knew too much. Moak had always said he was willing to serve Dauroth for the rest of his life.

  However, Dauroth demanded that the captain and his warriors serve the Titans longer than that.

  “Asyriana Idariosia u alleas!” Dauroth sang.

  Moak screamed. His scream was joined by all his followers’. The savage ogre fighters howled as their runes burned deeper.

  And as the runes burned, the ogres’ flesh and sinew began to melt away like butter in the Kernian sun. It dribbled off Moak, spilling onto the stone walkway and dripping into the cracks. A hand that the captain had raised toward Dauroth just before the spell was stripped clean within moments. The ogre’s face was no longer recognizable.

  But the Titans were not done. Each raised his left hand high above his head. Dauroth drew another rune, a three-sided one that, had Moak been able to read, he might have recognized as the Voice of Sirrion.

  The other sorcerers repeated the same symbol. Dauroth dropped his hand, and the rest followed suit.

  The runes that they had drawn shot toward one another, colliding just over the heads of the victims.

  A gush of white fire enveloped Moak’s entire band, utterly engulfing the warriors and obscuring them from sight.

  When Dauroth deemed the deed done, he sang, “Ysirria assyros ios!”

  The fire dwindled.

  Some twenty armed figures stood before him, twenty ogres stripped to their skeletons. The hollow-eyed monstrosities stood as still as statues.

  Dauroth was pleased. Generally, the spell was done with more precaution and using other tools in the very same chamber where new Titans were born.

  He pointed at the gate, which opened. The skeletons suddenly moved, turning as one toward the entrance to the woods. Without a word, they silently marched out of the citadel yard, heading off to join the rest of Dauroth’s magical servants.

  As the gate lowered again, the other Titans left him to his seclusion. Such tremendous use of power would, in the end, demand that even he would have to rejuvenate himself. And until things changed, that still meant a substantial need for elf blood.