The Black Talon

XI

Safrag smelled Morgada’s presence long before the Titaness materialized. Dauroth’s apprentice tightly rolled together the scroll through which he had been searching. Morgada had a scent that both enticed and disturbed, for it always carried blood, fresh blood. None of the males bore such a scent.

“Dear Safrag,” she sang. “Is there something that you do not wish me to see?”

“The secrets of the master are not for you, Morgada,” he returned coolly.

“Perhaps not now … ” the raven-haired temptress cooed.

Her words were fair warning. She should have never existed, but Dauroth had not only forgiven that error, but showed some fascination in the possibilities presented by her existence. Whether or not those possibilities held any interest to Morgada was another question, but she used the potential of them to keep herself in the master’s excellent favor.

Safrag sat in one of Dauroth’s private libraries, a round chamber whose walls were lined with silver bookshelves set into the stone. There was no artistic reason for the ornate shelves; the fact that they were silver had more to do with their ability to keep the inherent magic within many of the scrolls and tomes sealed inside. Magic, no matter what its origins, had a tendency to leak out and cause havoc. As it was, the library was already saturated with ancient power, and thus, even admittance to the library was reserved for those who had proven their ability to walk carefully without disturbing the shelves.

Morgada had never been seen at the library as far as Safrag knew.

“You have permission to be here?” he asked, rising from the wide, rectangular table-also silver, due to the same concerns. Silver, in fact, lined the walls themselves.

Silver was also the color of the light currently illuminating the chamber too, although that was by Safrag’s choice. The glowing sphere always hung two feet above his head and thus, as he stood, it rose higher to keep the same distance.

“Do I need permission? I am so sorry, Safrag. I wasn’t aware that I did.”

A lie but one it would do no good for the apprentice to report. Dauroth was curious about the level of the Titaness’s magical skills and would probably encourage her presence there if the matter were brought to him; that was not what Safrag desired.

He replaced the scroll on the shelf then turned back to Morgada. “I am leaving. You will, therefore, leave too … unless there is something else you wish here?”

Her eyes studied the contents of the shelves with clear interest-no, Safrag thought, avarice. “There is so much here I wish, dear Safrag, so very much.” She strode closer. “Is there anything you might suggest of special interest to me?”

His eyes met hers. “One thing, perhaps,” he murmured, suddenly guiding her along with him. “You have only heard of it, but I think Dauroth would want you to know more about it now.”

Her voice grew throaty with excitement. “What is it? What?”

The apprentice led her to one particular shelf. Safrag passed one hand over a single red stone inlaid in the center of the middle shelf.

The gem flared and the entire shelf rippled as if suddenly turned to water.

“Falstoch,” whispered Safrag. “Come out, Falstoch. In Dauroth’s name, I so command you.”

And from within the liquefying shelf there arose a deep, monstrous moan, as if something in the throes of horrible agony had just been stirred to life. For once, Morgada balked, losing some of her confidence, noticeable to Safrag by the way she pressed back against his arm, an arm supposedly protective but also keeping the Titaness from retreating any farther.

“Coooommmmmmeeee … ” a voice managed to croak, sounding as though it came from someone drowning in mud. The sound was made worse by the fact that the word was spoken in the Titan tongue, albeit in such a crude manner that both spellcasters flinched. A stench like that of rotting flesh permeated the chamber. Morgada covered her nose, but Safrag merely steeled himself.

A sloshing sound touched their ears. It grew louder, closer, seeming to presage something huge and terrible.

“Safrag … this is Falstoch approaching?” asked Morgada. “From where?”

“From a place created by the master, to house each of the Abominations.” Safrag said no more, waiting for the one he had invited to show himself, to make himself known.

Through the rippling, a murky outline began to emerge. At times, the shape appeared to have some form akin to an ogre or Titan, but it constantly seemed to melt and reconfigure differently.

Then … then through the bookcase thrust a hand or rather, a mockery of one. Five fingers-more than could be counted on either one of Donnag’s hands-grasped for anything within reach. They were thick, and the skin bubbled. The flesh dripped on the floor, where it sizzled. Two of the fingers shrank into the hand, just as two others sprouted elsewhere.

Safrag was reminded of a thing made out of hot wax. It was the best description he could come up with in his own mind. Yet he knew it was too simple a comparison and much too kind a one.

“Ssssaaafffrrraaaggg … Daaauurrrroth ffffff-forgivessss?”

“You should know better than that, Falstoch.”

The thing let loose with another baleful moan. Morgada gasped as the hulking shadow-still going through a constant and unsettling metamorphosis-prepared to emerge into the light. The prospect proved to be too much for the apprentice’s companion.

“Send it back, Safrag! Send it back! I don’t wish to see the rest!”

Stretching his hand forth, Safrag sang the words of dismissal. Immediately, the bookcase began to solidify again. The dripping, gray-white appendage pulled back at the last moment, just before the shelves completely solidified.

Morgada couldn’t stop shivering. Releasing her from his grasp, Safrag stepped closer to the shelves and adjusted a pair of tomes that had tipped over during the transformation.

“Is there anything else you wish to see?” he asked placidly. When there came no reply, Safrag turned. He expected to find the Titaness gone, but Morgada still stood there. Her skin, however, had turned a paler shade of blue.

“It is worse than Donnag,” she breathed. “Though I saw but little, it is far more terrible! How did it happen? What went awry?”

“What went awry?” The apprentice was honestly puzzled for a moment by her question; then understanding dawned. “Ah! Nothing went awry, Morgada, as you should have been informed! These creatures are just as Dauroth condemned them! This is his punishment for those Titans who seek to betray his dreams … and him.”

The other Titan shook her head in horror and disbelief, perhaps reflecting on some of her own past actions, not to mention future plans. She stepped farther away from the shelves, and her retreat continued until she stood safely at the entrance.

Then, still speechless, Morgada fled down the halls.

Safrag narrowly eyed the doorway then glanced back at the wall area from where he had summoned Falstoch. The apprentice rubbed his chin thoughtfully and quickly departed.

Although Golgren was master of his people, he still had not been technically designated as their grand khan. He could have simply declared that he had taken the title, but he was well aware that his enemies would whisper against him; the deficiencies of his appearance, the suggestion of half-breeding, would always haunt him. Thus Golgren looked to ogre rituals and tradition to strengthen the bond between himself and his people.

Already he was planning a coronation ritual to coincide with the changing of the season from summer to fall. Ogres traditionally gave thanks for fall, when the heat abated-somewhat, anyway-and life became a little more tolerable.

But the changing of the season was still a month away, and Golgren had to cement his authority in the meantime. Fortunately, another important tradition that presaged the changing of summer to fall was the annual Festival of the Griffon.

Ogres believed in the power of their totems, and for Garantha there was no more powerful spirit than their patron animal. The Festival of the Griffon ran for three days, during which time warriors vied for honors representing the griffon spirit’s attributes: ferocity, might, and endurance. Victors were acclaimed, and the toll of blood was often higher during the festival than any other time. Such was the proper manner by which to celebrate the great griffon; for many centuries, before the downfall of Silvanost, the pampered elf royalty had also honored the griffon, but with a festival of flowers and offerings of fruit. Ogres sneered at such genteel foolishness.

The ruling khan traditionally presided over the Festival of the Griffon, and all would see Golgren in that role.

The conclusion to the festival was the offering of sacrifice at the Garan i Seraith-the Nest of the Griffon. The temple, an oval structure with a barred roof in its center, sat near the palace, so the spirit’s favor would not be far from the grand khan. That the spirit’s favor had not saved his predecessor was a moot point; even Golgren respected the code of the spirit, and, more important, his subjects’ faith in it.

The upcoming festival would serve another useful purpose: to further impress Sir Stefan Rennert with the power wielded by Golgren and the many changes his rule was destined to bring to a people other races considered uncivilized beasts.

For the competitions, which took place in the Jaka Hwunar, the Solamnic was given a seat of honor next to the grand lord, a vantage from which he could view every aspect of the games. Khleeg, Wargroch, and other trusted warriors were keeping guard around the immediate area, as much to protect the human from any overzealous ogres as to keep him from trying to slip away. To lessen any sense of confinement that Stefan must be feeling, Idaria stood attentively near his side while another slave, a dour male elf, temporarily served the grand lord.

The banner of the severed hand fluttered everywhere, but for the occasion was accompanied by a white banner with the black silhouette of the patron beast. It was the last of the three-day event, so all competitions involved the champions of previous days. Golgren was watching the Solamnic’s reactions as much as he watched the games, surreptitiously noting what Stefan did or did not approve of.

“You have such public festivals in Solamnia?” Golgren asked, gesturing for Idaria to fill the human’s goblet.

“We have events honoring various patrons and our special gods, yes.”

“Perhaps, I someday see them.”

Stefan cautiously nodded. Save for his helmet, which rested in his lap, he was clad in his armor. Even his sword hung at his side, a suggestion made by Golgren that had surprised not only the human, but Khleeg and the others.

“A guest trusts his host and is trusted by his host,” the grand lord had stated.

The Solamnic remained unconvinced of the merits of any kind of alliance with Golgren and the ogre race, but at the very least the ogre’s flattery and courting had him off guard. Indeed, Stefan did not know exactly what to think about Golgren, which was just as the grand lord preferred from all under his sway.

An appreciative grunt escaped another ogre seated just one level down from Stefan. Atolgus, rewarded with a special place at the events for his part in bringing the knight to Garantha, was smiling up at them, almost like a child. His genuinely optimistic loyalty to Golgren had already caused the grand lord to consider what future use the young chieftain might serve.

In the arena, two unarmed ogres were facing off against each other. The left hand of one was bound to the left of the other, so their arms crossed. With their free hands, the combatants sought to bring down each other. Their struggles were brutal and, despite lacking weapons, both were bloodied.

A grim cast spread over Stefan’s face, and Golgren noticed his discomfiture. The more bloody the fighting, the more unsettled the knight became. Golgren brooded on that curious fact, recalling those Solamnics he had encountered in the past. They had something of the elf race in them-their politeness and stuffy manners. He did not want the festival to offend the knight.

Matters were not improved when, at the end of the match, the victor-a hirsute giant with tusks nearly reaching his eyes-smashed his adversary’s face into the ground with such force that the spray of blood flew all over the field, flecking the spectators too, then repeated the process twice more before a horn sounded, ordering him to cease and accept his prize.

Before Golgren could comment on the unseemly outcome, another spoke up, diplomatically explaining things to the knight.

“The grand lord struggles against centuries,” Idaria murmured to Stefan, handing him a full cup of the finest elven wine in Golgren’s possession. “Before his coming, the festival was awash in blood such as makes this pale. He is bringing civilization back to his people, but it cannot change at once. Change is sometimes fast, but great change can be slow.”

The Solamnic glanced from the elf slave to Golgren. “Yes, I’ve noticed your chains, always inhibiting your movements. They must be part of the slow changes you mention.”

Golgren grinned, the nubs of his tusks in evidence. “To have a knight walk around free is one thing; to have an elf do so is another. I am no god, Sir Stefan Rennert. All things must come slow, but Idaria understands this, of course.”

“My chains are exceedingly light,” added the elf, turning away without meeting the knight’s eyes. She busied herself with replacing the wine flask, returning it to a silver tray near the human.

The Solamnic eyed her thoughtfully then returned his attention to the arena, where the winner had departed in triumph and the loser had been dragged off unceremoniously and left for dead. Once the area was cleared, the two huge wooden doorways at the opposing ends of the Jaka Hwunar swung open. Barking echoed through the arena, but it did not originate from raucous members of the audience. A long-necked beast peered out from one side of the double doorway.

For the first time in more than an hour, the human seemed pleased, his eyes alight with curiosity. Stefan leaned forward to see the beasts better. “I’ve seen those. What are they?”

“Amaloks,” the grand lord offered, fully aware that the knight had not forgotten the name. Stefan Rennert played his own game. Golgren hid his pleasure at sensing the knight’s tactics. “Amaloks.”

But the four creatures being herded with strenuous effort by half a dozen handlers toward the center of the arena were not typical of the variety seen in most pens around the capital. These amaloks-all males-were giants of their species, their lupine and equine heads looming a foot taller than their handlers. Their lofty horns added to their height. The specimens were also more thickly muscled, with shoulders powerful and broad. They had been bred for that very moment.

The ogres managed to prod and herd three into the center, but the fourth-a male with an eye socket gouged out from some long-ago mishap-was proving a rebellious demon. The amalok snarled and snapped at its handlers, catching one with a bite on the arm. Despite any outward resemblance to a horse, the amalok had sharp, wide teeth that curved inward slightly; the result was that the handler suffered a deep gash.

The fresh scent of blood stirred the other beasts. Surrendering to the fact that the largest male would not cooperate, the handlers released it, and also the others. The hardy ogres raced from the vicinity as quickly as they could.

And not a moment too soon, for the male amaloks-already aroused by the presence of each other and the thousands of ogres pressed together-began to paw at the ground with their sharp hooves while whirling about viciously. Two dropped their heads and briefly sparred with their spearlike horns.

The clatter of that first clash among the beasts echoed throughout the Jaka Hwunar, and the gathered throng was sent into a barking frenzy. Stefan surveyed the onlookers and asked, “Are they imitating the amaloks? They sound similar.”

“We honor them, yes, because of their prowess. The amaloks are swifter than the ji-baraki, who respect their horns that are so sharp and deadly. The amaloks, too, they thrive where no other beast can, in places with no water and little shrub.”

“How’s that possible?”

Golgren shrugged, the answer obvious to all ogres. “They are amaloks.” He grinned teasingly. “Not nice animals.”

One of the smaller males dared lower its head toward the largest, barking at the other. The second amalok pawed the ground, scraping a small ditch, and answered with a savage bark.

Both males dived into each other, dueling almost like skilled swordsmen with their horns. Their crash caused several ogres to leap to their feet and brought Stefan to his as well. He’d hesitate to admit it, but the beasts’ fight was thrilling.

One of the two remaining males joined the fray, siding with the smaller animal by lunging at the larger amalok from off to the side. However, its would-be target managed to dodge away out of reach just in time before turning and slashing at both foes.

As the three mixed it up, the fourth seemed content to watch from the sidelines. The knight, already on the edge of his seat, asked, “Do they fight in a natural-born fashion, or are these trained?”

“The males, they are solitary. They fight when together … for food and mates. Like all males, yes?”

The human’s eyes darted toward Idaria, who was deliberately busying herself with some minor task, avoiding his glance. Then his attention returned to the fighting beasts. Golgren saw all.

“Those horns! They look as strong as steel!”

Golgren nodded, but his interest in the struggle had momentarily faded. He studied the elf; then his gaze shifted to the human. Something bothered him. His hand went to his chest, cupping the hidden objects hanging from his neck.

“Look there!” cried the Solamnic, leaping up. At the same time, the throng roared, many in the crowd also jumped up, barking louder than ever. The largest male was out-dueling both smaller ones. Its head twisted right, then left, then right again as it countered their horns. It even slipped under the defense of one, jabbing the amalok harshly in the shoulder.

The injured animal rose onto its hind legs and kicked out powerfully. The sharp edges of its hooves tore pieces of fur from the huge male’s chest. The second attacker thrust.

The larger beast could not defend itself. One horn slashed across its chest. The huge amalok barked defiantly but backed off.

Suddenly, at that point, the fourth creature, previously uninvolved, leaped forward, charging the biggest amalok’s open flank. Its horns pierced deeply before its target could react.

Once again, the knight could not but enjoy the fight and maneuvering. He glanced over at Golgren, astonishment filling his expression. “They’ve joined forces! They’re using strategy!”

Indeed, the fourth amalok’s effort put the dominant animal on the desperate defensive. Blood dribbled on the ground as the beast warily adjusted its stance to face three instead of two enemies. The last wound was a telling one. The lone amalok’s short, whiplike tail swung back and forth as if on fire.

The middle of its three adversaries refused to allow a lull in the struggle. The eager male bore down on the injured one.

But the large male caught the other’s horns on its own, forcing the attacker’s head nearly to the ground. A heavy hoof came down. The ends of the tough horns cracked like dried twigs.

The smaller amalok barked furiously. The large beast dipped its head and ran its horns through the other’s long neck, so far that they briefly jutted out of the other side.

Yet as the one creature fell limp, its two companions renewed their attack from both sides, charging the big amalok. One set of horns was deflected, but the other bore deep in the dominant male’s rib cage.

A pained moan escaped the animal. He teetered to one side. The amalok who had struck true pulled free, its horns coming out with a horrific, moist sound that echoed around the arena.

Sensing another imminent death, the ogres battered their clubs against the stones of the arena. They barked loudly, sounding at that moment almost like legions of furious amaloks.

The badly wounded male made two sharp, defensive swings at its adversaries, but the pair easily kept out of reach. The large amalok staggered, its forelegs finally folding at the knees.

The two smaller beasts moved in for the kill. The one that had inflicted the mortal blow feinted, drawing the larger male’s attention.

The other, its head low, impaled their stubborn foe in the chest. Blood poured over the besieged amalok’s long horns.

It was over quickly after that. The impaled amalok slumped to one side, panting. The remaining beasts lunged to bite at its body, in the process colliding with and snapping at one another.

Finally, the large amalok stilled. The pair sniffed the corpse then, with a snort, one took up a defensive posture. The other reacted by turning away. A moment later, the second one trotted to a spot some distance from the place of the struggle.

The lone amalok still near the corpses let loose with a series of harsh barks. It pawed the ground and twisted its head almost completely around to survey its audience.

Stefan sat back in his chair, exhaling. “Is he the winner?”

“Yes, the other has chosen to delay their fight, but fight they will another day.”

“But for a while they worked together as allies … ”

The grand lord beamed as though a lesson had been learned. “With amaloks and many creatures, the ally of before can be the enemy of later, and the enemy of before might, therefore, become an ally, yes?”

“It … has happened … ” Stefan admitted. He leaned forward again to better survey the scene. The ogre handlers were just then daring to approach the restless surviving creatures. “I’ve never seen such an animal fight! Do you ride them also?”

“Those who try are likely to die.”

The Solamnic’s expression did not change, but Golgren knew that the human had briefly considered that his escape might be aided by an amalok. What the ogre said was true; an amalok would have a tendency to either bite, kill, or spear anyone thinking to turn it into a horse, but it had been done once. That risky accomplishment had been the only thing that had kept Golgren alive once, long ago, when the black knights had turned his trap into one of their own. They had slain half his warriors that day, the worst defeat that he had suffered after taking the place of his father’s cousin as chieftain of the village.

And shortly after that, he had met the wizard, Tyranos.

Thinking of the mage, Golgren looked around the arena, but there was no evidence of the attendance of the mysterious wizard. Yet the grand lord’s hand suddenly gripped his armrest tautly.

No, Tyranos was nowhere to be seen, which did not necessarily preclude his presence, but something else caught his attention, something that stared back almost mockingly at Golgren from the very top wall of the Jaka Hwunar. It met his gaze for a moment before fluttering off without anyone else seeming to notice it.

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.”