The Black Talon

I

Kern was a harsh, unforgiving place, especially in the drier, dustier regions to the southwest. The overcast sky this day did nothing to negate the heat and, in fact, seemed to amplify it. The parched ground and jagged hills of brown rock that made up the landscape looked almost as if they thirsted, so marked was the absence of any trace, any hint, of moisture.

That would soon change … but it would not be water that drenched the land. It would be blood.

The two armies were maneuvering into final position, their contrasts as striking as their similarities. Pride, as well as the harshness of the land, demanded that they move around in the open. Other races thought them nothing but beasts and butchers, but among ogres there was a brutal code of honor, a sense of what was correct and proper … and what was not.

And because of that, the battle had grown inevitable.

The higher ground belonged to what the Knights of Solamnia or any of the other human factions would have readily recognized as a horde typical of ogrekind. Hundreds of fearsome, tusked giants were brandishing their clubs, axes, and other weapons; at the same time they roared their impatience with those keeping them from charging forward. Squat, flat faces-like some parody of humanity-contorted horribly as their bloodlust rose. Under heavy, bushy brows and framed by mops of lice-ridden hair, jaundiced eyes glared at those on the opposing side.

Most of the horde’s warriors were clad in simple, soiled cloth kilts. A few evinced metal-tipped kilts of the sort that had once belonged to Uruv Suurt-minotaurs-while others wore ill-fitting breastplates not only from the horned ones’ empire, but from human sources. This armor reflected both the silver of the Solamnics and the black of the Nerakans.

Despite their inhospitable environment, nearly all of the warriors were barefoot. Having grown up in that dread realm, ogres who survived to adulthood had feet with soles like tough, tanned leather. Their toenails, like those of their hands, were long, curled, and yellow.

The heavy, repetitive beat of drums stirred the blood of the motley ogre horde, yet the three chieftains who had gathered the army together were not ready to let them loose. Their hesitation derived as much from mutual distrust as from caution against their despised foe. The three chieftains had no love for one another; their simple, agreed-upon goal was to destroy the leader who commanded the enemy, for he threatened not only their power, but all that was their way of life.

The three banners hung at a distinct distance from one another, each chieftain surrounded by his close followers. Crudely drawn images of dripping axes, savage reptilian heads, or birds of prey marked where one war leader’s band ended and another’s began. That was the limit to their organization, though. It was how their kind had fought for generations, in short-lived, makeshift alliances, and in their primitive minds, the chieftains saw no reason for change.

The roar of a giant beast momentarily drowned out all other noise emanating from the horde. The huge, furred mastarks-their prehensile noses swinging around like long, hungry snakes-had been kept in place as long as the massed warriors, and they were equally eager to get moving. More than two dozen of the huge beasts, each with a rider and guard atop, towered over the nine-foot-tall ogres. Their curled tusks were as long as their noses and often crisscrossed one another like two battling swords. It was all that the handlers could do to keep the bulls among the mastarks from jostling and trampling those in their path.

And just as eager for battle were the meredrakes. The size of a horse, the brown-and-green reptiles sensed the coming carnage and anticipated good feeding. Long tongues continuously licked the air as if prowling for blood. Handlers used whips to control the slavering beasts, but already two warriors had perished for the mere mistake of standing too close.

Whips and clubs also had to be wielded on many among the horde’s ranks. Individual warriors were wary of each other, as well as of the rival bands who were temporary allies. Ogre alliances sometimes fell apart before-or during-chaotic battles.

In stark contrast, the troops lined up against the horde suggested a unity and discipline that was remarkable, if not unique, for ogres. Even Solamnic Knights would have been impressed.

They wore uniform breastplates that fit them snugly, and sandals on their feet. Their kilts were fresh and tipped with metal points. Many wore tight helmets that gleamed. Their weapons were the same as their foes’ but newer and sharper. More important, these ogres were divided into specialty units. Those with spears led the ranks, followed by swords, then axes and clubs, then bows. The well-armored ogres were better groomed than their foes, although their trek had taken its toll.

The more organized force-which had marched from the northeast-also boasted mastarks and meredrakes, and those were as restless for battle as their counterparts. Yet their handlers kept better rein, aware of the punishment for failing to do so.

And where three banners fluttered over the opposing horde, only one showed here. On a field of brown, a severed hand clutched a crimson-soaked dagger. The banner was crisp and sewn with a skill that the tri-alliance couldn’t imagine. It flew high over the one whom it represented, a slimmer figure nearly two feet shorter than those obedient to him. He was like no other ogre on either side of the coming battle, and there was in his features that which questioned the purity of his blood, for certain aspects of his appearance looked elf in nature. From the narrower structure of his face to a mouth that-other than the filed nubs that had once been tusks-was smaller and straighter than usual, much hinted at a lineage that might be entwined with that long-lived race.

Almond-shaped eyes of glittering emerald green surveyed the opposing horde with a calculating intelligence beyond the means of most ogres. The dry wind brushed back a dark, thick mane kept combed and clean. The unique ogre, commander of a disciplined army, wore a shining breastplate and kilt. His helmet included a high crest molded to resemble a griffon. At his shoulders was attached a long, sleek cloak of green and brown.

The drumbeats echoing from the other side grew louder, more incessant, he noted. Some of the ogre officers glanced up at their leader, who was mounted on one of the great muscled horses so valued by the higher castes of their race. But the smaller figure did not give any signal yet. His eyes continued to survey the enemy, as if studying each individual warrior.

Even the well-armored ogres grew restive. Despite their shifting and muttering, their leader acted as though he had all the time in the world. He took the reins from his left hand and wrapped them around his right arm. It was impossible to put the reins in his other hand, for that had been chopped off in battle long ago. In its place was, at least for the time being, sharp metal hooks resembling a bird’s talons.

From a pouch at his waist, he removed a tiny vial. Practice enabled him to remove the cork with two fingers while retaining hold of the container. From the vial arose a sweet, flowery scent. The perfume did not remove the stench of so many hot bodies, but it did at least make the ogre leader smile slightly.

He snapped the container shut and replaced it in the pouch. His lone hand slipped to the long sword at his side. Attached to the saddle was a powerful hand axe.

“Hasala” the ogre leader quietly declared.

Around him, a score of closely favored underlings broke out into savage, toothy grins. They had heard. They turned their own fierce beasts away and began to spread through the ranks, shouting commands in the guttural tongue of their race.

All through his army, trumpeters raised great curled goat horns, blaring out harsh notes. From the opposing side came similar calls. Drummers in both forces began beating louder, faster, stirring up the warriors. Mastarks took up the calls, their own roars echoing like thunder. Meredrakes struggled to plunge forward.

Then the Grand Lord Golgren raised his lone hand, bringing it down in a swift chopping motion.

With a unified roar, the armored ogres stepped forward-

And almost immediately ground to a halt.

It was clearly an incredible effort to restrain themselves like that, but they knew full well the punishment for failure. Meredrakes had to be quelled, and at least one mastark broke through the front, running several yards before its handler could calm it.

But the horde facing them from across a small distance did not notice those small disorders … for the moment that the grand lord had given his signal, even before his army had begun to advance, they, in turn, charged forward at their enemies.

Horns belatedly cheered their charge, with the three chieftains no longer able to hold their warriors back. With animal howls, the ogres from the southwest tore across the landscape. Behind them rushed bellowing mastarks and meredrakes eager for the kill. The sound of the horde’s approach filled the ears of their waiting adversaries.

Golgren-sitting astride his horse, watching patiently, almost peacefully-gestured … and the sky filled with thunder and black lightning. His own followers gave a start at his sudden demonstration of magic, his command of the elements, even though they had been reassured that it would not be directed against them. The wicked, unnatural streaks shot down among the onrushing warriors, churning up ground and slaughtering scores. Some of those just beyond the reach of the terrible lightning strikes faltered, but the rest continued on, for it had to be a momentary quirk of nature. Their enemy’s master surely could not call down the sky upon them …

The hint of a smile momentarily crossed the grand lord’s face. He made another cutting gesture.

The lightning storm paused; then the very land beneath the horde’s feet ripped open.

An entire advancing row of the ogre horde tumbled into a rapidly widening crevasse stretching across the plain. Behind it, the ground ruptured in a hundred places. Warriors sank out of sight. Others were tossed high into the air.

Several mastarks, frightened by the unnatural events, balked at the orders of their riders. Some tried to turn around. They wheeled and stumbled among those they served, trampling many ogres who could not get out of their way in time. One beast lowered his tusks as he sought escape from the terror, using them to barrel through the small figures in front of him.

And as the huge beasts ran amok in the horde, many of the handlers lost their grips on the meredrakes’ leashes. Already driven mad by the destruction and scent of blood, the reptiles eagerly snapped at anything and anyone in reach. Two of the larger creatures brought down one screaming ogre, ripping apart his chest. Another swiped a warrior across the back, tearing away flesh and part of his spine. One meredrake, its senses overwhelmed, bit into the heavy, cylindrical leg of a mastark. The tusked mammal reared up-shaking its foolhardy attacker off-then stomped the lizard to a pulp.

“Hasala … ” Golgren repeated. “Now it is time … ” he added to himself in the Common tongue.

Three more bolts battered the quaking ground not far in front of his warriors, yet neither the lightning nor the tremors touched the grand lord and his followers. Golgren nodded with satisfaction. The sorcerers had obeyed the letter of his commands … so far.

He looked to the nearest trumpeter, who immediately blew another harsh note.

No more lightning fell. The monstrous quake stilled instantly.

Golgren pointed at the enemy, milling about in utter disarray, its beasts stampeding, some of the soldiers attacking each other.

His followers threw themselves forward. Even as the first ranks moved in formation, a row of archers in the rear opened fire. Ogres were not known for their proficiency with the bow, but they sent a hail of arrows that flew above their comrades and landed expertly among their targets. Screams rose anew and many of the enemy-some struck several times-dropped dead.

The archers repeated their effort, adding to the grisly pile of corpses already littering the ruined landscape. They began aiming at specific targets, such as the mastark riders and their guards. The archers were more cautious now; the Grand Lord Golgren wanted none of his own warriors to be slain from behind.

At last, the armored ogres reached the motley enemy horde, tearing into them with fierce, monstrous howls. Heavy clubs shattered skulls with single blows. Keen-edged swords cut through thick, furred hides. Spears lifted impaled bodies into the air.

Ogre fought against ogre, and no ogre fought with as much fury and pleasure as the Grand Lord Golgren. Despite his slighter stature, despite lacking one hand, he had ridden at the head of his army, and although the first kill was not his, he was not far behind. With the reins still bound to his maimed limb, Golgren urged his horse deeper into the melee. His sword flashed left and right, cutting through the throat of one foe and leaving a ribbon of blood across the chest of another.

His face was frightening to behold; all vestiges of his possible elfblood gave way to something that, in its uniqueness, was even more terrible than the sight of an ogre. His emerald eyes gleamed brighter with each death. Golgren, baring his teeth, was a predator stirred by blood.

Senior warriors in the rear of the horde tried to beat those ahead of them into some semblance of order. The chieftains pushed their three bands into the fray. Although many of the mastarks had fled, a few still remained under control, and they were hurried to the center of the struggle, where the grand lord’s adversaries would make their stand.

But Golgren’s own great beasts, numbering twice that of the other side by that time, maneuvered toward the remaining creatures controlled by the enemy. Trumpeting roars accompanied the booming crash of giant bodies. Whipped on by their handlers, the mastarks grappled with one another using their tusks.

The grand lord, intent upon a shaggy warrior coming up on his right, suddenly found his horse twisting violently. With a helpless shriek, the animal fell, his rider barely managing to throw himself to the side before the bulky equine crashed to the ground.

Scrambling for his sword, Golgren saw out of the corner of his eye that two meredrakes had swarmed his mount. The animal was still struggling, but one of the huge lizards already had a mouthful of flesh and intestines, while the second struggled to remove a back leg.

The warrior attacking the Grand Lord from the right swung at him with a large club. Golgren stumbled back. The club raised a cloud of dirt as it struck the parched soil.

Before his foe could raise his weapon again, Golgren put a foot on the head of the club and used it to propel himself upward. As the other ogre gaped, the grand lord leaped up and slashed with his metallic talons at the enemy’s flat face.

Blood splattered Golgren’s immaculate breastplate. His adversary screamed. Dropping his club, the larger ogre clutched at his ruined face, which included one eye completely torn out.

Seizing his sword, Golgren ran the warrior through.

One of the meredrakes sensed the fresh bloodletting. It shoved past the still-shaking corpse of the horse to investigate. Unfortunately, that put Golgren in its path.

Brandishing his weapon, the ogre hissed at the huge lizard. Massive tail sweeping back and forth, the meredrake hissed in return. Blade before him, the grand lord took a confident step toward the beast, hissing again. At the same time, he weaved first left, then right, then left again.

The meredrake repeated its tail-sweeping motion with a more hesitant hissing. Still, it did not move toward the ogre. The reptilian eyes stared, its thick tongue darting out.

Golgren continued to hiss challengingly. He took another step forward, repeating his previous weaving pattern.

With a raspy call, the meredrake suddenly turned about, heading back to the easier fare offered by the horse.

The grand lord knew how to out-bluff those deadly lizards. But on foot, he was at a distinct disadvantage with so many on the field of battle bigger than he. Still, knowledge of that disadvantage had forced him, throughout his life, to excel at quick, clever warfare. Thus it was that the next warrior to come at him perished without much bother, his crude swordsmanship no match for the honed skills of the smaller ogre. The grand lord moved on even before the body finished tumbling.

An ear-splitting bellow presaged a giant shadow sweeping over not only Golgren but also several warriors from both sides. More nimble than his hulking brethren, the grand lord slipped between combatants just as two mastarks, their tusks tangled together, stumbled among the grappling ogres on both sides. Personal battles were forgotten as the smaller figures desperately sought escape. Many did not get away, the crushing of their bones drowned out by the mastarks’ continued roars.

As he eluded the beasts, Golgren felt a fierce wind spring up. He nodded grimly, having already wondered when they would finally get around to that spell. They were tardy.

The wind grew to staggering proportions, but oddly, it seemed most focused on the grand lord’s enemies. A dust storm quickly arose that threatened to blind those in the motley horde.

Alerted prior to the battle that such a thing would happen, the armored ogres kept their gazes fixed directly ahead of them. Their desperate adversaries swung wildly. Golgren’s minions calmly picked their targets out and marked them for death. The battle grew more brutal, the outcome more and more apparent.

But that did not yet satisfy Golgren, who searched the collapsing horde for one particular individual … until he finally found him.

Slashing through the stomach of another opponent, the grand lord fought his way toward a gargantuan figure, who was busy chopping down one of the armored ogres under Golgren’s command. Blood caked the giant’s torso, and despite the fact his horde was in danger of being routed, his expression was one of murderous glee.

The gargantuan ogre wore a battered helm with a much-abused crest signifying that it had once belonged to an officer of the minotaur legions. Jagged scars covered his face, some of them aligned so perfectly they could only be ritually self-carved.

Golgren knew him as the most important, the most powerful of the three chieftains.

“Jari i oGolgreni, iTrangi!” the grand lord shouted to get the gargantuan chieftain’s attention. “Come to me, Trang!” Golgren repeated in Common for his own amusement. No other ogre could speak Common so well, and the grand lord loved to flaunt his superiority even in the midst of such a pitched struggle.

The other ogre paused in the midst of throttling another victim. Like Golgren, he was on foot, but standing erect, his broad shoulders rose well above his rival’s head.

Trang grinned like a hungry meredrake. He indifferently tossed aside his unfortunate foe and turned toward Golgren. “if’hani… ” the vicious chieftain rumbled. “if’hani iGolgreni.”

Trang barreled through two other fighters, knocking them aside. Golgren waited calmly, assessing each twist and turn of the other’s charge. Trang had a reputation among all ogres; he had been, in fact, the one who had instigated the uprising, the battle, the insult against Golgren’s primacy among the race.

Trang’s dripping axe came down on the smaller warrior. The grand lord parried the attack with his sword. Their weapons clanged together, Golgren’s entire body vibrating from the collision. Trang’s incredible strength was no mere legend.

With a barking laugh, the giant brought up his axe for another powerful strike. Golgren immediately lunged in under his guard with his right. He intended to rip out the chieftain’s throat with his metal claws, but Trang was more agile than most ogres and twisted away. Instead of the throat, Golgren’s talons drew several crimson lines across the left shoulder.

The wounds were shallow, however, and did not elicit more than a grunt of annoyance from Golgren’s adversary. The chieftain continued his assault, battering away with his huge axe. It was all Golgren could do to keep from being forced to his knees, so heavy and relentless was the rain of blows.

Trang’s grin widened in anticipation of his enemy’s demise. However, that grin and the smugness it represented were what the smaller ogre had been waiting for. Suddenly, Golgren dodged to the side of Trang’s axe. He came up on the chieftain from the right, slashing quickly under the other’s upraised arm.

That time, his blade sank deep.

Still, instead of slowing Trang, the wound seemed only to outrage the massive chieftain. He countered with a swift sweep downward of his axe, shattering Golgren’s blade. The grand lord raised his talons to deflect the axe from his chest, but the blade’s momentum-coupled with Trang’s strength-enabled the weapon to rip off his well-secured false hand.

Golgren let out a cry as the tight straps and fastenings tore free from his maimed limb. He stumbled back just in time to avoid another swing. Trang chuckled darkly, his eyes red with bloodlust.

But his target still proved to be nimble. Three times Trang’s axe shot toward the grand lord, and three times it found only empty air. Golgren fared no better; he had only a dagger, not yet drawn, available to him, so he was forced to duck and weave.

Around them, the rest of the combatants unconsciously gave space. No one sought to stumble into the path of two warriors of such reputation.

There was still only so much area in which to maneuver, and Trang was seeing to it that Golgren had less and less.

Yet again Trang brought his axe down hard, barely missing severing his smaller opponent in half. Frustrated at his near miss, the chieftain started to pull his weapon back up … when, with his lone hand, Golgren snagged Trang’s wrist. Startled, the chieftain did not immediately react.

The grand lord swung himself up and over. Trang made a grab for him, but it was too late.

Golgren’s legs had wrapped around the chieftain’s thick neck. Despite the fact that he was bigger and heavier, Trang could not keep his balance and teetered backward.

The chieftain fell with a loud thud, but Golgren found one of his legs caught underneath his foe and his good arm slammed against the hard ground. Both ogres momentarily lay there, stunned.

It was Trang who stirred first. Growling, he pushed himself up on his elbows, and instantly Golgren slipped his leg out, struggling to find his footing. Fumbling with his hand, the grand lord drew his dagger.

Trang already had his axe gripped tight. Still rising, he spun around. His axe was aimed directly for Golgren’s midsection.

The chieftain’s target flattened himself on the ground. The axe swooped past just inches above his torso.

Golgren half crawled, half lunged.

His dagger lodged deep in the base of Trang’s throat. Trang coughed and let out a long, choking sound. Despite his terrible wound, the chieftain tried to stand and renew his attack.

But his axe rose, then tumbled out of his shaking hand. Golgren shoved the dagger in deeper. Trang clutched madly at him, heavy paws groping for the grand lord’s throat.

Fighting for breath, Golgren forced the dagger sideways, tearing open a huge hole in the throat.

The gargantuan ogre chieftain shivered and fell back, dead.

Golgren leaped atop the corpse. Continuing to work with his dagger, the grand lord cut through the rest of the neck until the ogre’s head finally came off. Blood and other fluids dripped over his garments as he raised the grisly evidence of his victory high over his head, letting out a bestial howl of triumph.

Those nearest turned at the sound, noting the smaller ogre commander’s victory over his mountainous opponent. The sight further disheartened and panicked the warriors of the horde.

An armored ogre on horseback fought his way to the grand lord. The moment he reached Golgren, the warrior leaped down and handed the reins to his leader. Golgren thrust Trang’s head into the warrior’s waiting hands then mounted.

“Do not lose my prize,” he warned in Common. All those who would serve close to the grand lord had to learn the tongue, for Golgren felt it a part of “the fruits of civilization” he was bringing to his people.

“Will not!” grunted the warrior loudly, his round eyes showing his fear of his commander.

As his minion retreated to the back lines, Golgren procured a new sword from another underling. Armed once again and with the reins secured to his maimed limb, he let out a louder, more bloodcurdling cry and eagerly urged his steed into the struggle.

The slaughter continued.