The Black Talon

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The meredrake hissed, the first hint that something was happening. The guards, stationed at evenly spaced intervals around the ancient chamber, were already standing at attention; they attempted to look even more wary. Golgren, seated upon the stone throne used by countless grand khans of the past, stirred from his dark reveries. Images of a burning village and a dead elf woman retreated but did not entirely vanish.

Nostrils flaring, the meredrake tried to move in the direction of the fresh scent, but the chain attached to its leather collar yanked the beast back toward the wall on Golgren’s right. Frustrated, the giant lizard continued to hiss until the grand lord signaled one of the guards to throw it a piece of fly-covered mastark meat from a clay pot near the great reptile. With savage gusto, the meredrake happily tore into the rank tidbit, the approaching intruder momentarily forgotten.

The doors swung open and four figures entered the audience of the grand lord. Two immediately went down on one knee, while the third-Idaria-silently strode over to her master, taking her place on his left. Behind her, the fourth visitor stood defiant.

Golgren hid his bemusement. Having met that kind of human before, he had expected nothing less from him. Solamnic Knights were nothing if not stubborn and proud. It was a trait-or fault-of theirs that he had exploited more than once in the past.

Khleeg had just noticed the human’s disrespect for the grand lord. With a growl, the other ogre rose. The meredrake, sensing a clash, grew alert and hopeful. It dropped the piece of mastark, for something fresher and bloodier might be imminent.

Though unarmed, the Solamnic stepped back into a fighting stance. Khleeg swiftly drew his sword.

Golgren deigned to interfere. “Such a fight this would be,” he said with a loud sigh, “but the human is guest, Khleeg.”

“Shows no respect!” Yet the armored ogre, obeying his lord, backed away, sheathing his sword as he glared at the knight.

That settled, Golgren gestured not to the knight, but rather at the chieftain who had brought him this prize. “Tahun ur?”

The young ogre slapped a meaty fist to his broad chest. “iAtolgusi! Ur nahm i fallo hucht!”

“Gefyn ol oKomeni?”

Atolgus beamed. “Yes, talk good Common!” He pointed at the knight. “Talk him!”

“So good.” Golgren leaned inquisitively toward the human. “I am the Grand Lord Golgren,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone that belied his vaunted prestige. “What name have you?”

Abandoning his fighting stance-although as a Solamnic Knight, he intended to stay vigilant-the bearded figure responded stoutly, “I am Sir Stefan Rennert, Knight of the Sword!”

Then the human clamped his mouth tight. There were a thousand ways by which Golgren could have wrenched more information out of him, but that was not what the ogre desired-at least not at the moment. His gaze shifted back to the chieftain. “His armor and weapon? They are not here?”

Atolgus, likely fearing some extravagant punishment for his unforeseeable mistake, looked suddenly worried at the drift in the conversation. “We have! We have! Can get!”

“Do so.”

With a frantic bow, the younger ogre fled the chamber. Golgren dismissed any further thought of him. If Atolgus brought all of the Solamnic’s items back quickly and in good order, he would receive ample reward for the knight’s presence. If not, then there were also a thousand ways by which Golgren could punish the fool. The Solamnic’s trust would be hard to gain, but gain it the grand lord was determined to do at all cost.

Golgren studied the knight. “My Idaria. Our guest has come a long way. He needs food and wine.”

Without a word, the elf scurried to find sustenance for the human. Despite his deliberately impassive expression, the very mention of food and wine must have momentarily made the knight’s spirits soar. Though he was a prisoner of the “savage” ogres, at least they were not going to starve him. And he was, Golgren was sure, famished.

The meredrake grew restive. Possibly disappointed in the lack of violence and blood, the beast again began tugging at his chain.

Stefan, alarmed by the creature, reached instinctively for the sword that no longer hung at his side. Golgren extended his arms in an apologetic gesture, which in part served, as he planned, to bring his missing hand to the attention of the human.

“You see this? The emperor of the Uruv Suurt-the minotaurs-he once took offense at it,” the grand lord quipped, his mouth twisted to approximate, as best he could, a human grin. “As he takes offense at humans who tread upon his Ambeon.”

The knight, thinking he was being provoked, made no comment, but at that moment, after so much deprivation, his strength began to give out and his body swayed noticeably.

Golgren frowned. “Khleeg! My guest will sit!”

To his credit, the massive ogre moved quickly enough to catch the wobbling Stefan before he could collapse on the ground. Almost as if guiding a child, Khleeg led the man toward his master while another ogre rushed forward with a small wooden bench.

The Solamnic accepted the seat with a grateful nod. “I thank the Grand Lord for his courtesy, but if he wishes any facts from me, he will not get them either by pleasantries or torture.”

The latter was debatable, Golgren thought, but “facts” were not exactly what the grand lord desired, not entirely. And the knight’s defiance amused him. Before Golgren had a chance to say another word, however, Idaria returned with the food and drink.

“So!” Golgren merrily exclaimed. “No talk of torture! No talk at all! First, Sir Stefan Rennert, Knight of the Sword, you will dine! The food will be excellent”-he gave Idaria a warning glance-“for it is cooked by fine elves!”

After an appraising look at the meal, which consisted of seasoned goat meat, black mushrooms from small caverns located underneath the capital, and some rare, pale-yellow tzena melons-one of the few fruits hardy enough to exist in the northern climes of Kern-Golgren allowed Idaria to serve the knight.

The Solamnic immediately dug into the appetizing meal. Perhaps because he had expected poison and, thus, fully intended to die earlier or maybe because he wondered if the food would be taken away at any moment, Stefan ate with a frantic speed that caused even Golgren to stare incredulously at the knight.

“Please! Better to slow down!” said the grand lord.

Idaria served the knight just as she always did her lord, but her unusual attentiveness caught Golgren’s gaze and caused him to frown, despite his desire to keep an air of amiability about him. As she leaned close to pour the human more wine, the grand lord irritably snapped his fingers, recalling the elf slave to his side. Once she joined him, he reached with his hand to take one of hers. Her beautiful countenance gave no hint that he deliberately squeezed much harder than he knew was comfortable.

“You serve me well,” he murmured, finally loosening his grip on the elf. “You serve me always.”

He released her. Idaria retreated behind him.

The knight ate more slowly then, with his eyes darting around the chamber. Golgren noted that those eyes lingered on each of his guards for more than several seconds. Even in the very heart of the ogre realm, the human was on alert, constantly analyzing his surroundings. He was clearly more than a mere scout.

“You did not come to our realm alone,” Golgren interjected with another smile. The grand lord tried not to sound accusing, even though there was no good reason for any Solamnic to cross the border into lands inhabited principally by minotaurs and ogres.

Stefan finished a swallow of goat meat and said, “No, I didn’t. Giant … giant baraki caught us by surprise.”

“Ah, the ji-baraki, they are treacherous.” Atolgus would have to be questioned later about the veracity of his information, but it was clear to Golgren that the knights had been probing deep inside his lands; Khleeg had informed him the Solamnics were caught near the site of his victory over the rebellious chieftains. “Your comrades, they are mourned.”

Under the circumstances, the human had to acknowledge the grand lord’s apparent sympathy. Stefan nodded, still chewing.

The rest of the story Golgren could figure out. So Atolgus had come upon the knight and captured him, understanding his value to a higher lord. Still, it was a credit to the human to have made the rough trek all the way to the capital. Stefan Rennert was a fighter strong of will and body, just the type of person who might prove to be some real use to Golgren.

“The home of the Solamnics, it is very beautiful, it is said,” the ogre suddenly commented, shifting topics.

Stefan swallowed another bite of goat. His expression was one of undisguised pride. “The finest of all lands.”

“And protected by good warriors like yourself. Much I hear of Solamnia. Tell me, Sir Stefan Rennert, what do you think of my warriors?”

The knight’s expression grew wary as he more openly regarded the guards in the room. “They seem strong and brave.”

“And better armored, more disciplined than expected perhaps?”

Stefan hesitated. It was as though Golgren had read his thoughts. Finally, the human nodded. “Certainly not what I expected.”

Khleeg, who was close by standing watch, grunted in amusement. To his lord, he muttered, “Junach i falgos tuum.”

The human eyed the armored ogre distrustfully. He thought he heard some insults aimed at him. Golgren, shaking a finger at his subordinate as if the latter were a small child, moved quickly to defuse the situation. “Ah, good Khleeg! For our guest, only Common must be spoken … and with politeness, yes?”

As Stefan waited, Khleeg, eyes narrowed in concentration, said to the knight, “Warriors must … always … expect … all.”

It was not what Khleeg actually had said, but the Solamnic appeared to accept that as the translation. Had the ogre’s statement been accurately translated-Khleeg had commented on how naive and stupid warriors die the quickest-the Solamnic would have had to take umbrage. Golgren didn’t want that to happen, and neither, for the moment, did Stefan.

The grand lord did not wish to take any more chances at provoking a confrontation. “Khleeg, you may go now.”

The officer slapped his fist against his breastplate and marched out.

Stefan finished his food. Sliding the remnants to the side, he stood before Golgren, his jaw set. “If I am a guest, then am I permitted to leave Kernen now?”

“Soon … and sooner than you might think, Sir Stefan Rennert.” Golgren also rose. He rubbed his chin. “But we must speak first, yes? Of a-a partnership-between our peoples.”

As he had expected, the knight looked utterly amazed. There had not been any contact between the ogre and human races for many years, not since Solamnia had stopped sending men to train ogres to fight against the Nerakans. Even that had been done “unofficially” on both sides, and the grand khan knew little about it.

“A partnership?” Stefan blurted, brow furrowing.

The grand lord shook his head, pretending he was rummaging for the proper word. “Nay!” His face lit up and he grinned. Extending his good hand toward the human, Golgren declared, “Not partnership, but alliance, an alliance between the humans and ogres.”

It was fortunate that Golgren stood with his back to Idaria and that the Solamnic’s attention was focused on the ogre. Neither of them noticed the fleeting expression of dismay and disbelief that crossed the elf slave’s usually placid features.

Stefan also looked incredulous, and at first he couldn’t imagine that ogres and knights shared any common interests … that was, until he thought about Neraka and Silvanost.

It was true they might find common ground on those two subjects.

“An alliance?” the human repeated, involuntarily shaking his head, as though to clear it of musty ideas of the past.

“Yes.” Golgren stepped down to approach the knight, trying to put them on even ground, eye-to-eye level, as much as possible. Idaria had watched the grand lord brilliantly manipulate many who had come before him with their hopes and entreaties, including many who thought they were manipulating the grand lord. But if Golgren desired some sort of pact with Solamnia, he had his work cut out for him, she thought.

That was not the urgent thought in her mind, however. She had to warn her own partners, her confederates. But that would require some maneuvering of her own; another message dispatched so soon after the last one was risky; Idaria feared discovery.

Yet she would risk all for the freeing of her homeland from the minotaurs; she would do anything to save her people from not only the pitiable slavery to which they were subjected, but from the foul arts of the Titans. Compared to the Titans, Golgren was almost a benevolent despot. Certainly because of him, scores of elves had been saved from the terrible fate that had been prepared for them in the hidden sanctum of Dauroth.

Of course, Golgren had kept the slaves from the Titans’ grasp largely to satisfy his own ambitions; Idaria’s influence on him was subtle, and what little she had accomplished had cost her heavily. There was a part of her that buried the painful experience of the months of her captivity, and what she herself had elected to do: become a slave-then the concubine-of the ogre half-breed. She had strived hard to sneak to his notice, and she had succeeded. Idaria had willingly done what few other elf women could imagine.

She, who had been safely ferried out of the ancient home of her people at the expense of her parents’ lives, had returned with the aid of her friends and comrades in order to contrive her capture by the personal guard of the grand lord himself. If Idaria somehow helped her people regain their freedom, the cost of all that would be worth her life … and her tainted honor.

“The two races have many concerns in common,” Golgren was saying smoothly to the human. “The black-shelled ones are a bane on both Solamnics and ogres. They have long been so. Yet they are not what troubles us most now, yes? There is also Ambeon, from where the minotaurs eye more lands west and north.”

Stefan nodded agreement, even as he reflected that it had been Golgren and his followers who had aided the horned warriors in gaining a foothold on the continent in the first instance.

“But come!” continued Golgren companionably, all but throwing his arm around the human’s shoulder. “You have eaten; you are tired now. Of course, tired. All talk of grand things we do will come after Sir Stefan Rennert has slept, yes?”

The Solamnic indeed felt near to exhaustion, but it was not entirely natural. At Golgren’s earlier bidding, Idaria had put a sleeping herb in the human’s food. Stefan would slumber peacefully for hours, giving the grand lord ample time to set in motion his scheme to win over the man.

Golgren himself helped the Solamnic in walking, but when Idaria also came to assist-as was her duty-the ogre bared his teeth. Startled, the slave retreated. The grand lord led the sleepy human out of the chamber and toward the large rooms once inhabited by Zharang’s favored concubines.

Idaria followed at a safe distance, her eyes on her master’s back. Had he trusted her less, Golgren would have been granting the elf slave an easy target. He knew that she would not strike him down for any reason, though. She dared not, and not merely for her own sake. If Golgren perished, whoever succeeded him would revenge his death on her enslaved brethren.

“Idaria,” Golgren abruptly hissed.

The elf scurried forward. Her chains, as much a part of her now as a second skin, made as little noise as she did.

She shoved the ancient wooden door open for her “master” and his burden, revealing a room filled with red, yellow, and green tapestries and a massive pile of colorful pillows. Although once they had been breathtaking, the dark, dull crimson stains spotting many of the tapestries and pillows remained as sober reminders as to their recent history. Idaria passed tapestries with symbols marking elf families that she had formerly known, some of them related to her by blood. Once, the mere sight of those precious relics of the glorious elf past would have nearly caused her to break down in tears but no more.

“I’m very … grateful … my lord,” Stefan mumbled as he lurched along. “The journey … was a long one.”

“Yes, very long, I have made it on foot also,” the grand lord replied evenly as he lowered the human onto pillows.

Idaria waited patiently as the ogre assisted Stefan. Golgren did everything himself with the same care that any of the knight’s comrades would have taken with him. Only when her master called for water did she hasten to oblige, bringing a goblet and a dented metal decanter to the nearly unconscious human.

The human stared up at her, his round eyes so young and innocent compared to her own. Both ogres and humans lived scant moments in time compared to the long-lived elves, but whenever Idaria looked into Golgren’s eyes, by comparison, she saw an old, wily intelligence beyond the ogre’s actual age. In Stefan’s case, the vibrancy of youth was still fresh and appealing.

The slave poured him a drink. He fumbled with the cup, so much so that, despite Golgren’s evident displeasure, the elf held Stefan’s hand as she guided the goblet to his lips.

After he had taken a sip, the knight managed a courteous nod. “My lady.” Almost as an afterthought, he looked again at his host. “My lord.” Then he drifted off.

Immediately, Golgren straightened. Idaria, all too familiar with the ogre’s body language, quickly but smoothly retreated to the ledge from which she had taken the cup and decanter.

The grand lord peered at her for a moment then asked, “You will tend to him, yes?”

Surprised, Idaria managed a nod.

Golgren scowled at the sleeping figure. “Be there when he wakes. Let his eyes first cast upon you.”

“Yes, my master.”

The ogre leader surveyed the chamber. Walls built from stone blocks larger than his own body hid behind the tapestries. Should the knight think to seek escape, he would discover that his room also passed as an excellent cell. The only ways out were through the door-which would be guarded for the human’s safety-and the small, arched window at the opposite end.

Even unarmored, the human could just barely fit through that window, and his descent would be ill advised. Below the window was a drop of several stories and, assuming he survived that long fall, Sir Stefan would land in a pen where the palace’s meredrakes were let loose for exercise.

Golgren did not want his “guest” departing before the grand lord had the opportunity to cement his proposed alliance.

“You will wait by his side, my Idaria,” Golgren murmured as he started to the doorway. As he passed her, however, the ogre paused to meet her gaze with his own. “As you ever wait by mine.”

He looked ready to say more but then stalked out. Idaria froze briefly, wondering if she should follow him for some reason. Then Stefan mumbled in his sleep, and the elf recalled her orders.

However, it was not to the knight’s side that she went immediately, but rather to the window. Peering out as best she could, she saw that there were no guards to be seen on the grounds below. The elf leaned forward and, pursing her lips, whistled quietly.

What emerged from her lips was no sound that humans, dwarves, or-certainly-ogres could re-create. It was as if an actual bird had vocalized. Only an elf was capable of such sounds that could fool even the wisest avian creature into coming to her.

But the bird she sought knew her and would come because she had called it. It was one of the many messengers she utilized to contact the others, and of all times, Idaria needed to contact her comrades quickly after learning what she had. They would not like talk of alliances, however far-fetched it might seem to them. They would need to know about the events, and they would advise her what to do.

As she waited for the bird to come, the elf slave looked over her shoulder at the Solamnic. He had witnessed terrible things, including the savage deaths of those close to him, something with which she could identify. He was a captive of Golgren, and it remained to be seen for him how much suffering was in store. She, too, had witnessed the deaths of friends and family; she, too, suffered as a captive slave.

Yes, Idaria Oakborn could well sympathize with the Knight of Solamnia, but that did not mean she would not kill him without regret if it proved necessary for the sake of her own goals.

Golgren knew exactly who Stefan Rennert was, and he richly savored the irony of that particular knight’s having been handed over to the grand lord. Indeed, Golgren mused that many things in his life seemed predestined, and perhaps the Solamnic had been sent there deliberately as some kind of spy.

But Solamnics did not sacrifice their fellows in such a clever manner, so Golgren felt fairly certain that things had merely gone awry for the human. Fate, it appeared, was simply on the grand lord’s side again, silently aiding his plans.

Reaching the throne room, Golgren summoned Khleeg. The ever-resourceful Blodian returned scant minutes later, by which time Golgren had thought it over and knew better what he wanted of him.

When he gave his orders to the other ogre, Khleeg looked at him in dismay. “Grand Lord, not a wise thing!”

“But you will obey!”

The officer banged his fist on his breastplate. “Aye.”

“Then see it is done.”

Looking not at all pleased, the Blodian rushed off again.

Golgren nodded to himself then departed for his private quarters. The guards saluted him then shut the doors behind him after he passed through, relaxing slightly out of his view.

Alone, the grand lord surveyed the lush chamber, elven in its design, ogrish in its decadence. He strode to a side wall and shoved aside one of the elegant but weathered tapestries with his maimed limb. Then, with his hand, he pressed the blank wall at a point that was generally level with his broad chest.

An area roughly a foot square shimmered red and slid forward.

Golgren had divined the secret of the hidden drawer from his studies of the High Ogres. It had taken him very little time to discover the one in the grand khan’s very chamber. Certainly, neither Zharang nor his immediate predecessors had ever suspected the existence of the magical drawer, for inside the compartment Golgren had found a crumbling parchment in the written language of his ancestors. Regrettably, the parchment had turned to dust when he touched it, but the drawer had remained useful for storing a few other precious items.

From within, Golgren removed a single object: a small, almost delicate, dagger. Its intricate craftsmanship hinted of ancient derivation, and he had found it far from that place as an exhausted, bleeding youth, still carrying his mother’s drying corpse over his shoulder. Golgren had been on his last legs then, desperately trying to throw off two ji-baraki that were following his scent. Yet that had not worried him so much as what they would do to the body of his beloved mother, which he had struggled so hard to save and carry away.

The crevasse through which he had slipped into the hill cave had truly been little more than a slight tear barely wide enough to allow him inside and, he hoped, would keep the huge lizards outside. Inside it was blissfully cool. He had set down his mother’s body then paused to take stock of his surroundings.

That was when the gleam had caught his eye, the gleam of orange-red stone. Instantly mesmerized, Golgren-he was still Guyvir then-had been drawn closer to that gleam.

There he had happened upon the crumbling temple. The stone had been part of a shattered relief, the eye of one of two fighting mastarks. The rest of the imagery was no longer visible, erosion having done its job in ruining the art.

Even the most backwater village knew the tales of the great High Ogres, although most of those tales grew distorted with time. Thinking of those tales of the High Ogres’ supposed miracles, Golgren had scavenged through the cracked stone walls and small alcoves, hoping to find something precious, something magical with which to restore his mother to him.

But there had been nothing. There were ruins only. Defeated, the youth had slumped back against one cracked wall and nearly died when he broke through its weakened structure, falling. Golgren had dropped down several feet and landed upon what could best be described as junk and refuse.

However, he also found trickling water. From a crack in the rock, a few drops at a time were slipping down to the ground, where the water seeped into the soil. There was evidence that the forgotten priests of yore had crafted some fine watering system, but to the young ogre’s mind, all that mattered was he could drink his fill. That in itself was a miracle.

Climbing out was another, more troublesome matter, and at first he wondered if he would die there, where he had fallen, sated with water. Indeed, on his first attempt to climb back up, Golgren had made it only halfway before falling back onto the stone and garbage. At that point, his hand had closed around that very dagger; why it had been discarded, he couldn’t fathom.

Oddly, once armed, his confidence rose enough that on his next try, Golgren made it back up and into the cave. Feeling proud, he returned to where he had left his mother’s body …

Only to discover a male ji-baraki was busy ripping apart the still-tender torso.

Golgren screamed, a sound that echoed in the small, natural chamber, making it seem as though a hundred warriors had surrounded the reptile. Mouth stained, the ji-baraki spun around, confused and alarmed.

Not caring what happened to himself, Golgren had leaped upon the beast. He felt its talons slash at his arms, but all he cared about was avenging his mother’s ravaging. He had intended to punish her true killers, but the ji-baraki became their surrogate. Golgren slashed again and again and again, not even stopping when he and the beast lay on the ground, the latter dead.

Scarred, bleeding freshly, the young half-breed finally halted. He stood and kicked aside the reptile and went over to the elf remains. Even his mother’s face had not been left unmarred, but Golgren nonetheless clutched the ruined body tight.

Then, growing cold of mind, he carried her to what had once been a platform below the fighting mastarks. Golgren arranged her corpse then returned to the dead beast. With deliberate ferocity, he cut deep into the ji-baraki and removed a hunk of its flesh. Then, seating himself, the ogre devoured his fill. As she had always done, his mother had provided him with a meal.

He covered her with stones from around the temple’s centerpiece, guaranteeing that no scavenger would have an easy time with what remained. Golgren had removed what other meat he could from the ji-baraki before he dropped it down to where the ancient refuse lay in a scattered pile. Finally, clutching his dagger, the youth leaned against the inner wall and dared to sleep.

Four days later, he reached the village of his father’s cousin.

As the memories faded, Golgren turned the dagger over and inspected it in his room. It had become stained with the blood of many enemies over the years, but since he had taken his present name, it had waited for only one more use. With the Solamnic’s arrival, that use seemed almost imminent.

“Do not sleep deep, my little one,” the grand lord murmured. “Your time is coming.”

He touched the drawer, which slid away, vanishing into the wall again. Then, with a humorless grin, he secreted the dagger within his garments where the lone hand could easily reach it.

His thoughts drifted back to that crevasse long ago. Golgren’s eyes narrowed. “No, do not sleep deep.”

Ji-baraki were determined feeders, seeking morsels long past when other predators or scavengers gave up. They had an acute sense of smell that few beasts in all of Krynn could match.

Some of those that had attacked the knights still foraged among the vast array of bones at the battle site, on occasion finding something worth squabbling over. A few tiny lizards and insects that had made temporary homes among the carnage fled as the larger, more predatory ji-baraki neared their locations.

Then something in the moonless night sky caused the ferocious reptiles to look up. Several of the ji-baraki hissed. One of the smaller ones suddenly turned and fled from the scene. That caused a mass exodus by the rest. The ji-baraki kicked up bones and dust as they rushed away, and one even accidentally uncovered a choice bit of bone and gristle, but the morsel was ignored, so frantic were the reptiles to abandon the scene.

And as the last of the ji-baraki vanished from the battle site, countless winged forms descended among the dead. Landing, they took up positions all around the area, waiting.

A flicker of silver light materialized in their center …