The Black Talon

by Richard A. Knaak

  What a joyous event it shall be! Dauroth thought merrily. I shall make the grand lord’s demise a day of celebration!

  First he had to finish the task. Like most true vermin, the mongrel was proving adept at hanging on to life. The Black Talon would have to increase its magical efforts. If one or more of the inner circle should suffer fatal consequences from his action, so be it. Dauroth had always preached that to reach the golden age would require sacrifices from many.

  With but a single sung word, Dauroth drew more magic from his cohorts. The others let out gasps as they felt the power draining away from them, but there was not even a feeble protest, not that any protest would have changed his decision.

  You will be squashed, Grand Lord, the Titan promised. You will be squashed even if I have to rip apart all of Kern and Blöde to do it.

  It should have been Idaria’s chance to flee the ogre realm, but still she stayed loyal to Golgren, trying to find and help him, searching through the chaos. Although her thick iron chains yet bound her, she still moved with the grace and perfection for which her race was famous. Where ogres and fleshless undead toppled into chasms and were lost, the elf nimbly shifted from one momentarily stable place to the next.

  It was because of the Titans that she was so determined to save Golgren. Only Golgren stood against them. Only Golgren would see that her enslaved people were not herded like cattle to the slaughter, providing more and more blood for the foul elixir of the vampiric spellcasters. She had believed him when he had said that he would release the slaves shortly after his coronation. If Golgren made such a promise, he would fulfill it. Her sacrifice of honor and freedom—of her own body—her spying for the Nerakans would finally be vindicated.

  It had been simple to elude her guard, who had been more interested in saving his own hide than in chasing after some mad elf. From there, though, Idaria’s mission had proved far more difficult. Her mount she had abandoned far back because the animal was at far greater risk than she under such conditions. Idaria carried only a dagger; any other weapon would have been too unwieldy. The dagger was more for comfort, for it was useless against the undead. Fortunately, she eluded them; the quake was keeping them busy.

  How long Dauroth and his followers would—or even could—keep up their monumental spell was the question. Even among the most advanced elf mages, such an effort would be highly taxing.

  In the distance, she caught a glimpse of Khleeg. The ogre was no longer mounted either. Around him had gathered perhaps half a dozen other warriors. The ogres battled desperately against undead attackers. Yet there was no sign of Golgren, and Idaria moved on. She didn’t care about Khleeg’s fate.

  She alighted on a rock, and that rock sank into the rupturing land with a suddenness for which even the elf could not adjust fast enough. Falling, Idaria got tangled in her chains. Her dagger went bouncing away, disappearing in a new chasm.

  As she struggled to free herself, one of the f’hanos appeared. Twice it staggered and nearly fell over, thanks to the continuing tremors, but still it lumbered on toward the elf. The hollow areas where its eyes were missing somehow radiated malevolence and, although unarmed, the creature had nails and teeth more than capable of rending her soft flesh to bloody gobbets.

  Unable to free herself, Idaria blindly groped for some weapon. Her fingers slipped over something metal and rounded on one side. Without hesitation, she threw it at the undead.

  The piece of metal bounced off the skeleton without having any effect on it, and Idaria saw that it was part of a breastplate. The ornate design identified it as having belonged to the highest rank among the ogre army: none but Golgren himself. Despite the menace bearing down on her, her eyes followed the clattering armor, which looked banged and battered as though it had been ripped off the grand lord’s body by some terrible force.

  Then she heard a labored grunt from the direction of the ghoul. She turned to see a figure in ravaged silver armor barreling into the creature from behind, smashing the f’hanos into a wall of rock.

  Stefan, his helmet lost and his face scratched and bleeding, seized the half-shattered undead and flung it into the nearest widening hole. He bent down to help Idaria.

  “My lady!” he gasped. “I saw the merest glimpse of silver hair, but I couldn’t believe that it was you in all this danger! You should be in the city … or in flight to some land beyond this one!”

  “There is nothing in the capital for me if Golgren dies,” the slave retorted, “and there would be even less for my people, whom he has promised to free!” As the Solamnic helped her to her feet, she added, “If there is any chance he lives at all, I must find him. I found a fragment of his armor—”

  “Stripped from him by some base mage—Tyrus—Tyron—the name—”

  “Tyranos?” Idaria frowned. “What is that one doing here, and why would he choose to slay Golgren?”

  “No more talk!” He pushed her against the most stable rock around them then raised his sword. Driven by fury, the blade smashed through the chains binding her wrists. Taking a deep breath, the knight repeated his maneuver on the shackles keeping the movement of her legs limited.

  “Only Kiri-Jolith knows how you ever got this far so bound! My sword may never again be as sharp as before, but it was worth it to finally cut those dreadful chains! I’m only sorry I can do nothing to remove the pieces from your wrists and ankles, my lady!”

  “It is all right.” She gasped. Then, suddenly, she looked beyond him, a strange light in her eyes. “Then Golgren is still alive?”

  “When last I saw him, yes! For an ogre, he has a quick wit, but I can’t say how long that’ll help him!”

  He started to pull her in the direction of the city, but Idaria resisted, pointing at the line of the quake quickly running toward them along the already heaving and buckling ground.

  “Not that way!” Idaria warned, tugging at Stefan.

  He tried heading in the opposite direction. No sooner had he turned than another roar like thunder erupted and the land in that direction also exploded into boils and rupturing cracks.

  “There’s nowhere to go!” the Solamnic yelled.

  Again, the elf pointed. “To your left! No! Here! Follow me!”

  “But, my lady—” But the sure-footed elf had started off in a zigzagging path, and he allowed her to pull him along.

  “Wait! Why do we not go there?” Stefan abruptly demanded, tugging at her to stop and pointing ahead. “Look! It could take us to Garantha! To continue in your direction leads us away—”

  “I must find Golgren!” the slave insisted, tugging at him.

  “There is nothing you can do for him, my lady! There is nothing even I can do! You think I’d abandon a comrade of any sort? I—”

  His words cut off with a gasp that startled Idaria. She looked where the Solamnic was gaping and shaking his head.

  She followed his gaze to see a pair of f’hanos converging on them. They even had bits of loose armor dangling from their bony bodies, but other than that, Idaria could not see that they were any different from the other undead that surrounded them.

  Yet the knight muttered the same thing over and over as he stood, slack jawed, his sword hanging limply in his hand. Idaria finally made out his words, which only puzzled her more.

  “Forgive me,” the Solamnic repeated. “Forgive me … I couldn’t do anything … forgive me … ”

  The two horrors were nearly upon the bedraggled duo. Idaria did not want to abandon the human, but he stood there as if frozen in place. “Sir Stefan! Come! Sir Stefan! Why do you—?”

  Then she realized that there was indeed something different about that pair of f’hanos. Not only were they shorter of stature than any of the others, but their skulls were differently shaped and lacked any hint of the tusks of ogres. The skulls of those two were much closer to those of elves.

  Except they were human.

  “Willum … Hector … please forgive me,” the Solamnic pleaded.

  The slaughtered
humans had once been Stefan’s comrades.

  XXII

  TERROR OF THE BLACK TALON

  It was not how it should have gone. Tyranos had put together scenario after scenario, but none of them had accounted for that … nothing, unless …

  He shook his head. All that mattered was salvaging the situation as best he could and preserving his relationship with the Grand Lord Golgren if that was still possible.

  “Chasm!” he shouted, calling the broad-shouldered gargoyle’s name. “Find the ogre!”

  Chasm did not have to ask which ogre his master meant. There was only one that concerned them both. The huge gargoyle banked, swooping down closer to the devastation. High above it, the winged creature was not overly concerned about the tremendous quake, save that it stank of foul magic. Gargoyles could smell the magic to a degree, but even if he didn’t have the nose for it, Chasm would have recognized spell work in the madness below.

  Still gripped tightly by his servant, Tyranos, whose hood was off and whose hair was whipping about, pointed the tip of his staff toward the ground. Whether or not he could successfully locate Golgren was another question. The remarkable energies organized by the Titans made it difficult to ferret out anything amid the chaos and destruction, but the wizard thought he might have a chance. Golgren was unique; even he did not understand just how unique he was. That very uniqueness was in part why Tyranos had chosen him in the first place.

  As they descended, a dust storm assailed the pair. Tyranos covered his face as best he could and prayed that his masking spell would hold. Of all of his spells, it was the most vital.

  The staff detected something. “Bring me down over there! Quickly!”

  Chasm did so, his massive, leathery wings beating hard against the air. The gargoyle could cover a mile in less than a minute, but still Tyranos felt he was moving too slowly. Whatever it was the staff had sensed, it was already fading away.

  That might very well mean that Golgren had just died.

  But suddenly the staff detected something else, and instantly the wizard discarded any concern for his “ally.”

  “Up! Up! Hurry!”

  Gritting his sharp teeth, the gargoyle strained as he abruptly shifted direction and flew up. His breath came in heaving gasps, and for the first time, he faltered slightly.

  Tyranos eyed the turbulent scene below him, cursing the arrogance of all spellcasters, himself included.

  “Those damned fools! Those damned Titans!”

  The Black Talon sustained the spell, but the great effort was beginning to tell on many of them. Sweat covered most, causing the fine silken garments they wore to cling to their bodies unceremoniously. One Titan already was breathing raggedly and weaving back and forth, the pain distorting his usually handsome features. Others were holding on by sheer grit.

  But Dauroth paid no mind to the strain on his followers. His glowing eyes still gazed triumphantly into the ether, and his mouth wore its widest, most predatory smile.

  He imagined the wonderful era that would follow once the Black Talon reestablished the true course of ogre destiny. Dauroth relived the dream of the golden city. The lead Titan saw himself finally gaining entrance into the vision and viewing the wonders aplenty within those walls, wonders that he would make real and for which he would be immortalized.

  But again Golgren refused to die. Somehow, the half-breed managed to scamper over the rising and falling earth, avoiding the huge ravines that opened up to swallow both living and dead by the scores. Dauroth’s optimism turned to frustration, and he ripped more power from the others for his awe-inspiring spell.

  “G-great one!” sputtered Kallel, betraying his fear. “Surely this is enough! S-surely the f’hanos have been returned to their graves and the grand lord shamed beyond redemption!”

  “He is not dead,” Dauroth responded tonelessly. “He is not dead.”

  No other protests were uttered, only sighs of exhaustion and resignation. The inner circle of the Titans steeled themselves for whatever their leader demanded of them next. They had no other choice. They would obey unto death.

  “If it is not enough,” Dauroth said aloud to himself. “Then there will be more. Let us see how long you can dance, Guyvir.”

  The other Titans trembled as he extended the spell. Spittle stained the mouths and chins of several of the spellcasters. Kallel looked ready to say something else, but Safrag quickly shook his head. Mouth set, the apprentice studied his master closely then declared, “Take from deeper within me, great one! Bind my full power to yours! If you guide me so, I can help amplify your strength yet more!”

  Dauroth eyed the younger Titan approvingly. “Good, loyal Safrag, you shall be rewarded.”

  A tendril of black energy darted out from Dauroth’s chest and struck Safrag. The apprentice let out a brief moan then steadied himself. His eyes flared bright with loyalty.

  The elder spellcaster nodded. “Now. You and I shall see that no crumb of dirt remains untouched.”

  With the other Titans to fuel them, the two combined their wills, multiplying Dauroth’s earlier efforts several times over.

  “Garantha may feel some of this,” he admitted to the others. “But in the end, they will rejoice because of it.”

  And in the capital of Kern, where hundreds lined the sturdy walls and towering gates and where many stared in awe and shock at the most violent quake ever witnessed in their lives, the ground shifted for the first time. Suddenly, the awe gave way to panic, for no club, no axe or sword was powerful enough to stop a tremor. Against such, ogres could only pray and die.

  That the landscape beyond shook even harder than around Garantha itself did not in any manner assuage the populace. What rattled the city seemed powerful enough to level it.

  Fragments of the outer wall broke off and fell into Garantha and outside its perimeter. Two guards lost their balance and plunged below. The towers swayed, and in one, cracks began to appear. A massive crack opened up near the gates and began racing with dreadful swiftness through the capital, regardless of what streets or buildings stood in its path.

  And with each passing second, the tremors grew worse.

  They would destroy everything. They would bring down all of Garantha and sacrifice all its people just to kill him, Golgren realized.

  No, the grand lord corrected himself. Not they, but rather he! It was Dauroth’s doing only. He was who demanded of the Titans such monstrous use of their power, even though surely it would risk the lives of more than one of his brethren.

  Golgren cursed both the master Titan and the useless vial sealed to his chest. Twice he had pounded on the latter without any success. And even if the vial could be shattered, Dauroth had stated quite bluntly how useless it would be.

  The ogre leader had managed to find a massive rock formation to cling to, a wide, flat formation that thus far had not fallen away. But it was surely only a matter of time before he was lost. Golgren eyed the heavens; the overcast sky was filled with red-tinged clouds. Not only did the quake continue, a fierce wind also began to assail him.

  In the face of all that, Golgren suddenly laughed his defiance. He raised the stump that had been his hand and shook it at the sky.

  “Come, Sargas! Come, all you gods! If you would have Golgren, you must teach Dauroth to strike harder!”

  And as if the gods had heard him, the land shook more terribly than before. As the stone suddenly twisted, spinning him around, Golgren saw one of Garantha’s mighty towers fall. A mushroom cloud of dust blossomed above the city walls moments later.

  Then his view cartwheeled as the rock he clung to began to sink into a freshly deepening ravine. Golgren looked up and, bracing himself, he searched for somewhere—anywhere—to jump.

  There was only one choice, no other. Bracing as best he could, Golgren hurled himself forward just as the vast stone tipped and dropped into the gap, completely disappearing.

  The grand lord landed safely. Without warning, a skeletal warrior came from behind, seizi
ng him. Surprised that any of the undead foes were still on their feet, Golgren was nearly throttled to death by the bony fingers before he reacted. Then he struck the f’hanos hard in the jaw, which only battered his own hand. The undead creature’s ragged nails tore at his throat. Golgren reached for his waist, seeking the dagger secured in his kilt—the dagger he had slain the ji-baraki with so long ago—and instead grasped the belt pouch. Feeling a weight within, Golgren tore the pouch free and swung it at the side of the f’hanos’s skull.

  A crackle of fiery energy engulfed his fleshless adversary the moment the small bag touched bone. The f’hanos released Golgren. Flailing wildly, the skeleton began to fall apart, the pieces flying in every direction.

  Heart pounding, Golgren grabbed for the pouch. His searching fingers plucked out that which he had earlier sought—the mysterious ring Idaria had thrust upon him. He still had no idea as to its origins or what it actually was supposed to do.

  But surely there was enough power to help him. Golgren was no spellcaster, tutored for years by some bearded master. He could not explain his odd certainty that Tyranos’s staff would save him against the ghoulish mastark, and yet it had. Nor could he explain why he had such faith in Idaria’s ring.

  Then the grand lord lost his footing again. Golgren banged his shoulder as he collided with the shifting ground. He nearly lost his hold on the ring but kept it between two fingers.

  Golgren did the best he could to slide the piece of jewelry onto his fourth finger. For the first time, he got a good look at the signet, with its double-bladed sword turned downward. What that symbol or the others represented meant nothing to him, but Golgren was filled with a renewed determination. Surely, somehow the signet would aid him against Dauroth’s spell.

  And even as he thought that, the signet flared a searing orange color. He was suddenly ringed by a brief, intense fire that shot several hundred feet up from the ground.