The Black Talon

XII

Stefan peered out of the tiny window in his room. It was obviously too dangerous for him to climb through and down. He did not want to escape anymore anyway, at least not yet. The information he had gathered thus far was invaluable, and the grand lord’s vague suggestion of alliance had the knight intrigued.

There was another factor explaining his reluctance to try to escape, and her name was Idaria. Stefan had never personally known an elf, and, in fact, had seen only a couple from a distance. Those had been males, seeking assistance from knightly councils-fairly unsuccessfully-for their dispossessed people. In fact, the various factions sprouting up among the long-lived race seemed to have spread throughout Ansalon, with many refugees seeking aid from nearly every bastion of power.

Stefan stepped back from the window. He remained armored out of habit more than necessity. The knight tested one of the joints of his armor, which squeaked, then searched among the leftover food on the small table by his bed. In the absence of oil, many other things could be used to lubricate his armor.

“Do I disturb you?”

Stefan turned to the doorway, visibly fighting to keep from showing that she had startled him with her sudden appearance. For someone chained both hand and feet, Idaria moved like a ghost, rattling her links only when she cared to, it seemed.

“No. What is it?”

“The festival which honors Garantha’s patron beast ends shortly at the ancient temple. The grand lord hopes that you will wish to attend and observe the closing ceremony.”

“I would. I am bored in my room.” The knight seized his helmet and sword, which lay on his bed, then followed her out.

As with so much of the palace, the walls were lined with worn and obviously ancient reliefs of beings that Idaria explained to Stefan were depictions of the builders of the capital. Their quality and detail amazed him. Shown in positions of repose, of study, and of creative endeavor, the figures hinted at a society once richer in beauty and culture than he possibly could have imagined. He had to look quickly and closely, for the reliefs were shadowed by dim light cast by the insufficient windows and torches illuminating the corridors.

“Such a tremendous contrast these ancient figures are to our present captors,” Stefan commented, his gaze shifting from one to the next. The guards they passed indeed seemed the opposite, for they were ugly monsters who eyed the Solamnic with malice. However, none dared give in to their baser instincts and harm him. Every one of the armored behemoths clearly feared and respected their master, Stefan knew, ironically, as he was slighter and surely weaker than the least of them.

As they passed another guard, Stefan finally asked a question burning in his mind. “My Lady Idaria, how is it you can so calmly walk the halls of your enslaver? And why do you not have any attending guards when you are alone on this errand?”

“The Grand Lord Golgren is your host, Sir Stefan,” she calmly reproached him. “Everything is according to his dictate.” Her blue, crystalline eyes remained on the hall ahead.

“My host and my jailer … and yours too.” His expression grew grim. “He is the lord of a people who’ve slaughtered hundreds of your kind and keeps hundreds more in chains.” He seized the chains between her wrists. “Although you wear yours almost as if they were bracelets of gold from your paramour-”

He stopped dead in his tracks as Idaria whirled on him. Her eyes betrayed a deep disdain for Stefan. “Perceptions are always colored by beliefs, and there are worse evils that could and have befallen the Silvanesti than the grand lord.”

Idaria strode on brusquely. Stefan started after her and nearly collided with her as the elf halted suddenly again.

Her eyes widening, Idaria quickly stepped to the side. The human, taking his cue from her, just as quickly followed suit.

At first there seemed no reason for her apprehension, but then a shadow swept across the floor ahead of them, where the corridor intersected another. The shadow grew to incredible length before at last a gigantic form hove into sight.

It was all the Solamnic could do to restrain himself from uttering an oath of exclamation. A blue-skinned figure, who made the towering guards seem dwarves by comparison, appeared, gliding down the hall in the very direction the elf slave had been leading him. Although Stefan was a fairly tall man, the gowned behemoth stood more than twice his height. Even with the palace’s high ceilings, there was scarcely any space between it and the top of the strange being’s head. The momentary glimpse he had of the immense figure’s features left an impression of perfection marred by something dark festering inside. The giant was clad in elegant garments that made the grand lord’s appear shabby.

The enormous figure vanished down the corridor, but Idaria remained where she was, breathing fearfully, for more than a minute after he was gone. Finally, the elf, her expression composed again, resumed walking ahead without a word to Stefan.

“Who-what was that?” the knight felt compelled to ask.

“It is one of the Titans,” she answered reluctantly, gaze ahead.

“ ‘Titans’? I’ve heard the name, I think, yes, but … I’ve never seen such a creature! What’s it doing here? What is it exactly?”

A sigh of exasperation escaped Idaria. She turned on the human, her eyes blazing again. “You recall but a moment ago, Sir Stefan Rennert, when I said that there are worse evils that could and have befallen the Silvanesti than that of your host?”

“Yes.”

“Pray to your patron gods, then, that this is the closest you will ever come to the company of any of the Titans, and then pray to those gods for the well-being of my lord Golgren, the only one who stands between them and rule of the ogres, the only one, I dare say, of whom the Titans themselves are afraid.”

And with that uncharacteristically lengthy speech, the elf slave started off again. Stefan hesitated, still reeling from the vision of the giant, then hurried to catch up.

Golgren had ordered the Titans to stay away from the Festival of the Griffon despite its significance to the populace. He had informed Dauroth of his wishes, and the lead Titan, through his lowly apprentice Safrag, had acquiesced.

Thus, Golgren was surprised and displeased when, before the final ceremony, Safrag came bowing and scraping through the halls of the palace to relay a message from his master.

“Great and glorious Grand Lord Golgren,” the Titan intoned in Common, bending so low that he came to eye level with the smaller ogre. Golgren was unimpressed; of all the Titans, Golgren found Safrag the least impressive. He hadn’t known him before Safrag was chosen to join the spellcasters’ ranks and could not understand what it was about the ogre that appealed to Dauroth-why he was chosen not only to be a Titan, but as Dauroth’s second apprentice. “My master begs your leave that he sends me with what he feels is news of import to you.”

Golgren, already clad in his sandals and elegant green and brown robes, bared his sharp teeth and filed-down tusks to show he was irritated at the interruption. He waved his hand impatiently at the Titan. “Speak what it is you must say and begone!”

Safrag somehow managed to bow even lower. “My master wishes to warn the grand lord of a winged sentinel noticed around the palace more than once. There may be a connection to this human. We are naturally seeking the answers-”

“This one knows of the creature. The Titans, they are commended for doing their duty, but there is no need for concern. You may leave me if that is all Dauroth wishes you to say-”

“There is more. My master would wish you to reconsider our absence at the honoring of the griffon, especially with this human attending unchained and, most worriedly, armed.”

The grand lord shrugged off the warning. “The human is a guest and will be of no threat. This audience is done.”

Straightening, the Titan nodded to Golgren then, without further ado, turned and started to leave the chamber.

“No!” At Golgren’s cry, Safrag froze. “Since you are a Titan,” the smaller ogre growled, “I would prefer that you leave from here by your magic, not simply wander the halls as you did earlier, showing your presence to any and all, yes?”

The apprentice did not protest. “As you wish.”

Black smoke curled around Safrag’s feet, winding quickly around the Titan until he was obscured. The smoke thickened, then dissipated, leaving in its wake no trace of the azure giant.

Snapping his fingers, Golgren beckoned his other slaves, who had been sent out of the room upon Safrag’s arrival. They went back to work finishing his appearance. As some dressed him, one brushed his thick, dark hair; the grand lord’s scowl gradually relaxed. Golgren could not fault Dauroth for wanting to warn him about the winged creature, but had it merely been an excuse for Safrag to skulk around and spy on the human?

Khleeg and Wargroch entered, their armor resplendent. Both warriors slapped their fists on their breastplates.

“All ready,” declared Khleeg.

“Good.” The slaves were dismissed again. Golgren stood before his underlings. “Then it is time for the feeding.”

The temple to honor the gods had been built, so it was said, at the zenith of the High Ogres’ civilization. However, the temple had fallen into disuse long before the race had degenerated, when the High Ogres came to worship themselves more than any one deity. Then somewhere along the way, the ancient rites honoring Garantha’s patron spirit had been revived, and the grand khans had begun acting as priests of the festival, all the better to mark themselves as favored ones of the spirit.

Not only had time taken its toll on the temple, but much of the maintenance and rebuilding before Golgren’s time had been of a vastly inferior quality compared to the original work. There were cracks that were barely covered by weak mortar, and one column was composed of two different styles cobbled together. However, under Golgren’s not-so-delicate persuasion, his elf artisans had managed in time for that year’s ritual to restore the stylized silhouette of the winged beast set above the entrance, and they also finished two intricate statues of the creature, each standing on one of the thick rails lining the wide steps.

Drumbeats proclaimed the grand lord’s arrival, the steady pounding setting the correct atmosphere. Temple guards-marked by the crude griffon insignias on the apple-sized disks hanging over their breastplates-raised goat horns to announce the entrance of the ogre leader. The banner of the severed hand rose in all directions, in sync with the blaring horns.

The crowds filled every avenue, every veranda, every rooftop. Here and there, individual ogres broke out into fights as they competed for the best view. To be part of the events-and part of Golgren’s moment of glory-was their opportunity to snatch some vestige of glory for themselves.

On horseback, Golgren-resplendent in his brown and green elven robes and with his flattened features accented by subtle makeup to evoke the High Ogres-entered the square surrounding the temple, dismounting just before reaching the ancient structure’s grounds. A large armed escort flanked him and the small party-including Sir Stefan and Idaria-who had accompanied the grand lord. Khleeg directed the warriors along the path to the steps, where the temple guards took over. One of the latter blew a horn, and a hush fell over the sea of onlookers.

The knight was ushered to one side, where Wargroch took over supervision of the “guest.” Golgren stretched his hand toward Idaria. The elf slave unwrapped a two-foot-long bundle of furs that she had been carrying, revealing within a steel mace whose head had been molded to resemble that of a shrieking griffon. The eyes were red rubies, while the beak of the avian creature had been shaped to effect maximum damage. Symbolic the weapon might have been, but as was the way of ogres, it also had a use.

Gripping the mace and resting the head of it across his other arm, Golgren strode up the steps. Idaria, her head low, retreated near the human. Khleeg accompanied his lord, both as honor guard and as one honored. Only the most favored were so fortunate.

At the top of the steps, with temple warriors standing at rigid attention, Golgren turned to face the masses. Thrusting the mace high, he shouted, “Ishari i iGarantha tu Huun!”

Idaria leaned close to Stefan, “Listen People of the City of the Griffon … ”

“Tulan kylochna i oGolgreni, jekar un Gaya ng!”

“Your servant, Golgren, calls upon the great spirit … ”

The grand lord shifted so as to let others view his rapt expression. “Vaka Huun i Baresh, Korphus, nu Iskar’ai!”

The ogres roared wildly, forcing Idaria to nearly shout the last translation. “Bless the People with strength, cunning, and victory!”

A grinning Khleeg signaled for the horns to sound. Golgren continued to smile and wave the mace until, at last, the horns brought the crowds under control again.

When silence ruled once more, the grand lord turned to the temple doorway. Two guards flung open the iron doors.

From within erupted an extraordinary sound that sent a shock wave through everyone present and made Stefan finger his sword. Idaria quickly placed her hand upon his, keeping the weapon sheathed before a wary Wargroch could take offense. The knight looked at the slave for some explanation.

“This is Garan i Seraith, the Nest of the Griffon,” she explained.

A second call arose from within, and although it was slightly higher in tone and pitch, it surely came from the same source. Each of the two cries had sounded as if both a hawk and a lion had sought to speak at the same time from the same mouth.

The stench that emerged from the temple interior caused even some of the ogres to briefly turn their heads aside. Even Golgren couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose, while Stefan and Idaria had to cover theirs to keep from gagging.

Golgren turned to his followers once more, calling out commands in the degenerate tongue. When Idaria did not bother to translate, the Solamnic asked, “Why does he speak in this language when I’ve come to believe he prefers Common?”

“For the Festival of the Griffon, there are far too many who do not know even a word of Common. He speaks now the praises of the people, which are long and full of winding phrases which even I cannot follow well enough to translate, Sir Stefan.”

Golgren finally finished speaking. He then turned toward the elf and human. With a smile, the ogre leader gestured for them to come forward.

“Go,” Khleeg breathed in Stefan’s ear.

Stefan looked to Idaria, whose face was almost expressionless. The elf slave went up the steps, walking as though she were a high priestess. Her chains made no sound.

When Stefan and Khleeg had joined Golgren, the grand lord, holding the mace ahead of him, led the procession inside.

And with a rattle of heavy chains, two huge forms leaped forward.

“Kiri-Jolith’s beard!” Stefan exclaimed, again reaching for his sword. Khleeg, too, reacted but to block the human.

“Hold!” snapped Golgren, eyes never parting from the massive shapes before them. The shadowy, four-legged forms suddenly jerked to a halt a few yards ahead of the newcomers.

Two temple warriors set torches in the walls. The torches and a series of narrow window vents along the edge of the ceiling revealed two winged behemoths as tall as horses.

They were griffons, of course. They had been fed well throughout their lives, enabling them to reach proportions rare in the wilderness. Their bodies were those of muscular cats; but their paws ended in fearsome talons. Their heads were avian and much like a raptor’s. One griffon clacked its beak hard as it stretched to bite at the puny figures. Its beak was capable of cutting through flesh and bone; the proof of that was the ruined remains of amaloks scattered around the chamber.

The second griffon attempted another leap at them, its wingspread almost as wide as the chamber. Even had there been no iron collar and chain to restrain the beast, the griffon could not have flown far; its wings had been clipped.

Brown eyes with a definite feline cast darted from ogre to human to elf. Both creatures squawked loudly, the noise so piercing that all within the temple but Golgren flinched.

From behind the party came handlers leading a blindfolded young amalok whose horns had been severed and whose neck had three ritual cuts that were bleeding freshly. Nostrils flaring, the bleeding creature barked madly, which only served to stir the griffons more.

The ogres brought the amalok before Golgren, who raised the mace and uttered, “Garan i fatuuth un if’hani amolaki.”

With that, he swung hard. The mace struck the beast on the side of the skull. The amalok let loose with an abbreviated bark, then dropped to its knees. Despite the force with which the grand lord had struck it, the amalok was only stunned.

But that was enough for the handlers to hoist and shove the dazed animal toward the griffons-

With tremendous eagerness, the winged beasts went to work tearing the frantic amalok to bloody shreds. Their talons they used like lions on the hunt, holding the prey down, and with their beaks, they stabbed and ripped at the amalok’s long throat.

As the griffons fought over the grisly scraps, a temple warrior stepped outside. A moment later a horn sounded and the roar of the crowd briefly drowned out the griffons’ squabbling.

Golgren signaled for the next amalok. As it was brought forward, the winged predators lost interest in what remained of their first victim. They strained at their chains, eager for fresher blood.

There was suddenly a screech of distressed metal, and in the next breath, the griffon in front of them managed to break its chain. Fortunately, it was so startled by its own success that it hesitated, disbelieving that it might be free. That enabled Golgren, directly in its path, to leap out of the way.

Another warrior jumped in to help Golgren. He pulled the grand lord up and away, but just as Golgren regained his footing, his would-be rescuer vanished in a flurry of monstrous talons. Blood and gobbets of flesh rained down on the ogre leader.

Seizing up the mace, Golgren staunchly swatted at the winged beast. The head of his weapon struck the side of the griffon’s skull but had less effect than it had on the amalok. Screeching, the griffon pressed its attack, slashing at Golgren, forcing the half-breed to retreat.

But as Golgren backed away, he heard a rattling sound coming from deeper inside, followed by the clatter of heavy chains. The other griffon had also somehow broken free, multiplying his danger and persuading the grand lord that it was no mere accident. The chains were constantly tested, especially before something so momentous as that ceremony.

Someone had taken the opportunity to prepare the trap, intending that the powerful predators-driven to a frenzy by so much nearby fresh meat and blood-would run riot. That both griffons had done so at the same time was a stroke of luck for the evildoer and a stroke of misfortune for Golgren.

The griffon dived for him again, snapping at him with a beak huge enough to rip the ogre’s head off. Golgren deflected one such lunge, but the beast’s talons came close enough to tear his robe and leave a line of gashes across his stomach. The grand lord gave thanks to his patron spirit, aware of the irony that said patron was a griffon, as he twisted and dodged to keep alive.

Then to each side of him appeared a temple guard. With their long spears, they were better able to parry the griffon as another figure-Khleeg-forcibly drew his lord toward the entrance.

But Golgren was caught between survival and reputation. His retreat couldn’t be perceived as cowardly. The grand lord could not be seen as being rescued by helpmates, as an infant or a female.

So he broke free of Khleeg, startling the ogre. Before the officer could protest, Golgren seized a sword left by the slaughtered guard. “All out!” he commanded. The grand lord pointed at Stefan Rennert, who was frozen in place, but also had his weapon out and ready. “Khleeg! Remove the knight!”

Knowing better than to argue, Khleeg slapped his breastplate and followed orders. With a meaty hand, he dragged the knight away. The guards shifted toward the entrance.

Then, from behind the griffons, a figure appeared that turned Golgren’s plan upside down. Idaria pressed against the far wall, her face calm despite being painfully aware of the terrible risk surrounding her. The griffons, intent on the busy prey in front of them, had somehow failed to notice the easier target.

There was no reason for Golgren to do anything but leave the female slave to her fate. One elf more or less meant nothing to the ogre realms or the continent of Ansalon itself.

But then …

Golgren charged toward where Idaria stood. Both his followers and the beasts were caught by surprise by his audacious action. Khleeg let out a grunt of dismay. The nearest griffon took a swat at Golgren, but the grand lord evaded the blow. Dropping from a run, he slid under the second monster just shy of its beak. As he passed, he let the keen edge of his blade cut a gash across the griffon’s underside.

As the winged predator shrieked and bucked from the pain, Golgren rolled to a halt and stood before the elf.

“Come!” he barked, stretching out his maimed limb. Her expression still steady, Idaria grabbed hold. The grand lord guided them both to where Khleeg and several warriors desperately maneuvered to keep open a narrow escape route for the two.

One griffon, though, suddenly recalled its wings, and even though those wings were clipped, they were strong enough to assist the freed beast in leaping through the air. The creature soared over the heads of the guards, escaping to the outside.

With a curse at having lost the one griffon, Golgren battled against the other. The escaping griffon would no doubt wreak catastrophe outside. Eventually it would be brought down, but any deaths or destruction it caused would undermine his power. Many would read in that episode not only a distinct lack of favor from the patron spirit, but worse omens ahead.

Grand khans had been deposed for far less.

The griffon’s beak came at Golgren again, snapping within inches of his face. He swung his sword, which clattered against the griffon’s maw, only serving to annoy the beast.

Suddenly, the lone monster was surrounded by Khleeg and the guards. Golgren almost swore at the officer for failing to heed his order to retreat-especially with the second griffon on the loose-but he knew that Khleeg was single-mindedly devoted to his lord’s welfare. The escaped beast was a secondary concern, no matter how much carnage it might unleash.

Golgren swept past his warriors, not even sparing a glance at Khleeg. Idaria held tight to his arm as they left the temple. Outside, however, they were still not safe.

There, the grand lord beheld Sir Stefan Rennert and a pair of guards attempting to keep the second beast at bay. The human’s countenance was twisted into so fierce an expression that he almost resembled an ogre. Along the creature’s path, three guards lay mauled and a fourth hung back, his arm in tatters.

The throng had edged away to a safe perimeter. Golgren’s impressionable and superstitious people were not quite certain how to read the chaos. The grand lord would have preferred that they had all simply fled in case he further disgraced himself.

Golgren glanced at Idaria, commanding, “To the palace! Return to the palace!”

Confident in her obedience, the ogre leader paid her no further mind; he rushed to aid the knight, who might still be of value should they actually live to discuss Golgren’s proposed “alliance.” But as he neared man and beast, a shadow loomed over him. Golgren heard the familiar cry and knew that the other griffon had slipped past Khleeg and the others.

The ogre barely had time to whirl about and defend himself. He struggled to bring his sword up to meet his foe.

Razor-sharp talons and a monstrous beak bore down on Golgren …