The Black Talon

XV

The prisoner screamed. Golgren made a tsk sound. No one outside of that place could hear the screams, so he was not concerned about alerting Sir Stefan Rennert, but thus far the screams were all his torturers had gotten out of the temple guard.

The imprisoned ogre was stretched tight across a huge oak table worn from decades of torture work. Much of the wood was no longer brown but had turned a dull red. Red-green ropes made from the dread mavau plant had been bound around the captive’s wrists and ankles. The curled thorns dug into his flesh, sending blood dripping to the floor. Struggling only made the bleeding worse and had little effect on the bonds; hardened mavau vines were nearly as strong as steel.

The Solamnic would never have believed it, but the grand lord did not act unreasonably or viciously by the standards of his people. He had not selected the guard at random, as Zharang might have done, torturing him until agony made his victim confess to anything, however implausible. Golgren had first conducted an investigation to determine that that sentry was the one most likely responsible, at least in part, for the disastrous ceremony. Only then did he have the unfortunate dragged to the chamber deep beneath the palace.

The hexagonal room, with its thick, mossy stone walls and wide slate floor, was perfect for such torture and had been so utilized for centuries. However, Golgren knew that once it had been a different place where magic spells had been tested and cast. Tyranos had informed him of that history once, when the mage was visiting. In fact, Tyranos had seemed unusually uncomfortable in the chamber, evidently having to do with the residual magic still permeating the walls. At least, that was the impression the wizard had given Golgren.

What mattered at that moment, though, was determining just who claimed the guard’s loyalty, so much so that he would suffer on their behalf. Golgren had his suspicions but needed to know with certainty. His hand moved to the hidden dagger as the grand lord reflected on how a careless move could hurt him; he could lose all.

Other races did not think ogres capable of subtlety, but they were wrong. The device keeping the prisoner’s eyes open was a fine example of subtle craftsmanship. The needles that prevented the lids from shutting even a little had come from the tuscru j’in, a thick, barrel-shaped plant that thrived in the hottest and driest parts of Kern and was believed to be part of an amalok’s diet. Thousands of needles covered the tuscru j’in, but only those of a certain length and diameter, which did not break or pierce the eye, were used in the tool. It took a skilled hunter to pick those out and, with even more skill, to fashion from other needles the frame that held the first in place.

The eyes needed to be open, for the torturer worked in their reflection. There were a variety of methods that ogres used for torture, but the eyes were a favorite part of the body for the best results. Ogres might boast tough hides and stubborn wills, but their eyes were soft and sensitive.

The torturer silently reached into a clay jar and removed, with the aid of brass tongs, a scorpionlike arachnid with a heavily bloated thorax and only a vestigial tail. The creature, perhaps the length of Golgren’s tiniest finger, hardly looked sinister enough to affect a muscular ogre, but the sight of it caused the captive to renew his struggles, albeit in vain.

With another set of tongs, the torturer took hold of the thorax. There were scars all over the arms and hands of the ogre entrusted to handle the grand lord’s work, far more than even the most veteran warrior would have garnered. None of them were ceremonial, either, but rather the results of occupational hazards, such as the tiny vermin with which he now dealt.

The torturer turned an equally scarred visage toward Golgren. The grand lord nodded approvingly.

“Kifu i harag ne! Kifu i harag ne!” shouted the intended torture victim, but his claims of ignorance about any plot fell, as they had for the past half day, on stone-deaf ears.

With deft precision, Golgren’s servant positioned the arachnid over the suspected traitor’s left eye. The bloated thorax hung less than two inches above the pupil.

The tongs holding the thorax squeezed ever so slightly. A single yellow drop of liquid slipped from the tip of the tiny tail. It landed without a sound on the eye.

The ogre strapped to the table shrieked. He tore at his bonds with such vehemence that the thorns in the rope tore bits of flesh away. A guard stationed at the doorway moved to reinforce the prisoner’s bonds, but Golgren waved him back.

“Venemok,” the grand lord murmured just loud enough for his captive to hear. “Venemok.”

The eye was blood red and badly damaged. Even had the tortured ogre been allowed to shut it, he would have found the simple act impossible. The eye was swollen and growing more so.

“Kifu i harag ne!” the prisoner blurted. “Kifu i harag ne!”

The torturer, bald from age, had only one tusk, one that was almost completely broken off. He grunted at the defiance and looked to Golgren for his orders once more.

Baring his filed-down tusks, Golgren indicated the torturer should get on with his work.

A second delicate squeeze of the thorax sent another miniscule drop squirting onto the ogre’s eye, landing almost exactly where the other had fallen.

And just as happened with the first drop, that one sent the traitorous guard into shrieks and spasms of agony.

“If you would have commanded it,” said a voice in Common. “I could have given you his answers long ago, oh Grand Lord.”

The guard on duty flinched, belatedly readying his heavy sword for action. The torturer, who had seen so much in his job, only gave Golgren’s visitor a surreptitious glance before resuming his study of the effects of the arachnid’s poison.

“Dauroth.” Golgren’s tone indicated he had expected the Titan, even though there had been no request by the ogre leader for the spellcaster’s presence. “Your studies have gone well?”

“Well enough,” the Titan replied vaguely.

Golgren returned his attention to the prisoner. At his nod, the torturer prepared the arachnid for another application.

“The ghlideesh is an effective torture for most prisoners, but this guard appears especially resistant, oh Grand Lord.” The Titan glided forward. Out of deference, the torturer quickly pulled back. “Please to allow me.”

Golgren said nothing. The giant spellcaster leaned over the prisoner, who reacted to him the same way he had reacted to the ghlideesh, writhing and shrieking.

“Hush,” whispered Dauroth, slowly moving his palm above the captive’s face. “Calm.”

“Kifu i harag ne,” murmured the bound figure. “Kifu i harag-”

“Hush … silence.”

The prisoner suddenly became motionless. Dauroth brought his other palm over the victim’s face. A faint, purple glow emanated between the spellcaster’s two hands.

The torturer watched closely because he was always interested in variations of his craft, even magical ones.

“Zin isala, zin isol… ” The Titan repeated the words several times. Although they sounded like words in the ogre tongue, for Golgren and the rest they had no obvious meaning.

But the captive guard reacted to them as though he understood. His body jerked, his eyes focusing on the purple glow.

“Venemok… venemok,” Dauroth said slowly.

The figure on the table gasped. His eyes-even the reddened one-glazed over.

“Venemok,” continued Dauroth. “The name … ”

But the first sounds out of the prisoner’s mouth were far from a name. “D-d-d-”

The Titan’s hands drew nearer to the face, the tips of the ebony talons actually digging into the flesh. The captive did not even flinch, so utterly did Dauroth control his will.

“Venemok … ”

“D-d-Donnnnaggg … Donnag. Donnag. Donnag. Donnag.”

It seemed likely the temple guard would have gone on repeating the disgraced chieftain’s name forever if Dauroth had not jerked away from him as if he’d been slapped in the face. The lead Titan spun toward Golgren.

“Grand Lord! We have nothing to do with this treachery! Donnag is not even one of us anymore! You cannot believe-”

“Donnag is guilty, yes, this and only this I believe,” Golgren, his face set grimly, replied.

“Naturally, it is we who should deal with this monstrous traitor.”

“No. Donnag shall present his head to me. As you said, the chieftain is not a Titan any longer. They and you should not be concerned, yes?”

Dauroth bowed his head in agreement.

Emerald eyes narrowed, Golgren strode past the spellcaster to inspect the abject prisoner. The former guard was only just coming out of the trance that had been cast over him by Dauroth. His frantic eyes met the grand lord’s.

“F’han,” the ogre leader whispered to him.

Golgren’s lone hand shot out, striking the prisoner directly across the throat with incredible force. The prisoner gagged for a moment; then his head slumped to the side, the needle framework keeping the dead orbs staring sightlessly.

The grand lord turned to give his attention to the giant spellcaster, but Dauroth was already gone.

A grin that held no mirth spread across Golgren’s half-elf face.

The riders and messenger birds departed within the hour to alert all khans and chieftains in both ogre lands that Donnag was guilty of high treason against the grand lord and that any, even clan, who offered the former ruler sanctuary would share his fate. The word of the Grand Lord Golgren was absolute.

But even Golgren knew that there would be those who would aid Donnag despite the danger to themselves.

Donnag’s transformation continued unabated. Even his most loyal kin and guards-many of whom had served him since before the days when he, not the mongrel, had seemed destined to unite the ogre race-sought to avoid contact with him as much as possible. He would have turned for aid to his son, who was a mage, but Maldred was as despised by Donnag as he was by Golgren, and besides, Maldred had mysteriously vanished some months back. The once-great chieftain had fallen so low he would have been willing to scrape before his dubious offspring.

Donnag was well aware of the Abominations, Dauroth’s punishment for those he felt had betrayed him. At least his fate was better than theirs … for the time being. Though, as his degeneration continued, Donnag wondered if a point would come when there would be little difference between him and the accursed ones.

A terrible thirst overcame him. He was always thirsty. No matter how much water, wine, or other liquid he swallowed, the once-mighty chieftain always felt parched. Thick stubs that were all that remained of the fingers on his one hand clumsily fought to grip the handle of a curved, clay jug. After a struggle, Donnag managed to maneuver the vessel close to the lips of his misshapen mouth and pour most of the contents-yellow-tinted tuscru j’in ale-down his gullet. As usual, the rest of the quickly-souring drink spilled over his chin and down his robe, which was already badly stained and soiled.

In a sudden burst of frustration at his inability to perform even that simple task, the mockery that had once been a powerful warlord hurled the jug to the side. It bounced harmlessly against the interior of the goatskin tent then struck the rocky ground hard enough to break, cracking open. The tuscru j’in ale spilled over the ground inside the tent.

Donnag rose to his feet, although he was far from the height he had once commanded. When younger, he had stood nearly ten feet tall; as a Titan, he had actually been taller than the others by a hand. That time seemed a long-ago dream, not any past reality; a period so short he could barely recall it.

A young female entered through the goatskin flaps of the tent to check on the disturbance she had heard. Her curved hips and smaller tusks enticed Donnag, but he made no move to grab lustily at her as he once would have done. The obvious revulsion and fear in her eyes were only part of the reason; Donnag was beyond the pleasures of the flesh, and his own shame at what he had become made him simply wish for her to leave.

That the female did the moment she had retrieved the pieces of the shattered pot. With one last, fleeting glance at the former ruler-likely from fear that he would after all try to clutch her-the other ogre vanished through the tent flaps.

Donnag let out a growl, which out of his twisted throat emerged more like a rasping cough. Spittle dripped over the thick growth that passed for his lower lip. With tremendous effort, he shoved himself up off the soiled animal skin upon which he had been resting and tried to straighten up. Unfortunately, his back was more malformed than ever, so he stood bent and looked as though he were contemplating his feet.

His first step nearly sent him tripping over the hem of the ragged brown robe he wore. The robe made him feel like an elderly female. He, who used to go into battle with his chest unprotected, covered himself from head to toe. His most ardent supporters could not bear to see his disgusting flesh, and even he was revolted by the sight of so many thick boils, the rampant scaly patches of skin, and worse sores.

How much longer any of his followers, even his kin, would continue to give him any support was a question he pondered every day. They knew of his connections to the Titans and, because of those connections, believed his assurances that one day he would be restored to beauty and power. They did not yet suspect the truth, that Morgada’s failure to convince the spellcasters to give him another chance spelled his certain doom … unless something no one expected befell the half-breed.

Yes, for Donnag to live, Golgren had to die.

“My poor, poor Donnag,” came the voice that he secretly hated as much as the grand lord’s. “I did all that I could for you, and this is the gratitude with which you remember me.”

“D-Dauroth!” The lead Titan loomed before him so suddenly and so tall that Donnag gave a start. He could not even see his face until the blue-skinned giant had backed up a few paces.

“You may save your breath, my old friend. I know how troublesome it is for you to speak.”

With a guttural roar, Donnag flung himself at the Titan only to be sent hurtling back in the opposite direction.

“That would have once been beneath you,” Dauroth reproached him calmly. “As is so much you have done of late. Did I not promise you once that there would come a day when you would be brought back into the fold if only you could be patient?”

“H-have! Patient, have been!” Donnag gazed past the other, wondering why no one had come running at his shouts. Once, a mere whisper by the chieftain would have brought a dozen able guards to his side. Apparently, they had turned deaf to his plight.

The Titan sighed. “Oh, I have blocked all sound from those without. That is why no one is coming to your aid. Really, Donnag! Have you forgotten so much?”

The grotesque figure spit. The ugly missile did not come even close to Dauroth, but the spellcaster nevertheless shook his head disapprovingly.

“You were and are ungrateful. Despite that, I have done what I could for you even in the face of Golgren’s wrath. He has condemned you now for attempting to slay him and all in the two lands are now to hunt you and bring you to his feet.”

“But I … d-did … nothing!” Donnag managed.

“I dare not rescind his command,” Dauroth replied, seeming not to hear or care about the other’s protest of innocence. “But out of a last gesture for our former friendship, I have done you a blessing.” The spellcaster held out his hand, and a well-worn, twin-edged battle axe that sat to the side of Donnag flew up into the Titan’s hand. Dauroth easily wielded it, testing its weight. “You will have need of this.”

The axe flew at Donnag, who, despite his twisted form, managed to catch it.

“Through other channels, I have let your kin know the news of your condemnation.” Ignoring Donnag’s grunt of outrage, the Titan added, “They know what aiding you would mean for them now.”

“But … I … did not-”

“What you did or did not do does not matter anymore.” Dauroth cocked an ear toward the tent flap. “Ready yourself, my old friend. I think they come even now.”

Reacting instinctively, the fallen chieftain swung at the giant.

His axe met only air. Dauroth was gone.

But another figure materialized through the entrance barely a breath afterward. Donnag recognized him as one of his cousins, a young and capable warrior whom he had once intended to command his personal guard.

The one who had been intended to protect Donnag’s life sought to take it instead. Wielding an axe nearly as great as that gripped by his adversary, the cousin-a lean, eager fighter in his prime-leaped at Donnag.

Yet although the latter was not the warrior he had once been, there remained residual skills and training that even the monstrous transformation could not yet eradicate. Donnag blocked one blow then a second then, using his shorter stature to his advantage, jammed the pointed axe head into his kinsman’s stomach.

The younger warrior let out a gasp. Eyes bulging, he dropped his weapon.

Donnag finished him off with a swift slash across the chest. It was the first pleasure that he had felt in a long time.

But as the one intruder fell, two more charged into the tent. One was distant kin, the other a warrior sworn to the clan.

“Du daka f’han iDonnagi!” shouted his blood relation.

“Jaro Gyun!” the elder ogre managed to rasp back, adding his spit to the insult. They dared demand that he had to die for their sake, he who had given them so much?

It was odd that, even as his fate was sealed, Donnag found his thoughts clear. He had been thinking clearly for the past hour or so. Perhaps the gods had played a final trick on him, letting him understand and be aware of his downfall. Indeed, that sounded like Sirrion; for was that god not the bane of all ogres, setting the sun so hot over the land?

His accursed blood and the other warrior came at him from opposite sides. The guard wielded a sword, which, thanks to the good deeds of the Grand Lord Golgren, was sharply honed and polished. Donnag had little hope of quickly smashing the blade apart, as used to happen often when he fought in the old days.

He met the blade dead on then blocked the other axe. Twice more, Donnag managed to deflect the pair’s blows. He began to feel like a real fighter again, aware that only his monstrous body kept him from easily dispatching the pair.

Indeed, Donnag succeeded in slicing his relation across the forearm, which caused the latter to momentarily retreat. Unfortunately, another pair of foes rushed into the tent, including one close cousin whose father had been Donnag’s father’s brother. Among ogres, such a male-linked relationship was akin to a brotherly bond.

“iKarnagi.” The former chieftain swung back and forth, clearing the path to his greatest of betrayers. If he could at least take his cousin to the grave with him …

The guard with the sword thrust. Unable to move as nimbly as in the past, Donnag could not entirely evade the attack. The blade sank into his side. Blood and pus spilled forth. The bleeding was heavy; his reflexes would be further slowed.

His cousin Karnag stood before him, an axe in one hand, a sword in the other. Donnag had taught his cousin many of his tricks, and even then Karnag executed a move that the older warrior well recognized. Donnag countered it with one he had not shown his cousin and then, while Karnag was caught off guard, followed through with a lunge of his own.

But the warped body he was trapped inside began to betray Donnag. His swing went awry, and he stumbled to his knees. His usable fingers lost their grip on the axe.

Then Karnag’s axe swung true, burying itself in his shoulder. Ironically, Donnag’s transformation kept the weapon from sinking as deeply as it should have, for the blade found instead of soft flesh a hardened mass almost like stone.

But more was coming. First a sword pierced his other shoulder, then another axe all but severed his right arm. Crying out, his blood gushing, Donnag sprawled onto the ground.

“F’han, iDonnagi… dukara f’han,” his cousin pronounced.

Donnag forced his face up, meeting, as best he could, the eyes of his executioner.

Karnag’s axe cut through his neck. Donnag’s head fell past the cousin, almost but not quite rolling out of the tent.

Idaria waited for more than an hour after Golgren had drifted off before daring to sneak away and write her latest missive. There was far more to tell than the tiny parchment allowed, so she kept to the key details. The grand lord had nearly been slain, and his authority had been undermined. A culprit had been named, and his arrest and execution would have repercussions. Whether or not that would play well into the hands of those for whom she spied, only they could answer.

The moment she was finished writing, Idaria rushed to the window. By then, there were birds who expected her summons, be it day or night, and one came quickly in response to her quiet call.

“Thank you, little one,” the slave murmured as she kissed the bird lightly on the beak. “You are so brave.”

She attached the message by a string. That one especially could be trusted to carry her messages far and beyond the ogre lands, if need be. The bird loved her that much.

“Fly safely now,” she ordered.

The bird fluttered from her hand and out through the window. Idaria watched as it vanished into the night then turned back toward the bed of her master, who lay sleeping.

She was startled by a tall shape that materialized between the bed and her, nearly causing the elf to gasp. Only a long-honed sense of survival kept the gasp smothered in her throat.

Within the shadows of his hood, Tyranos smiled. In an overly innocent tone, he whispered, “I see you admire the night fliers too.”

The dagger appeared in her hand as if by magic. She lunged for the wizard’s chest, but he moved quicker than any human should have been able, even a spell-caster. Tyranos evaded her attack and seized her wrist, twisting it upward. The dagger fell free, but before it could clatter on the floor, the wizard grabbed it in his other hand, which for once did not hold his precious staff.

“Careful,” he murmured. “Mustn’t wake the master.”

Her eyes darted to Golgren, who remained still. “You do not plan to alert-to tell him?”

“Are you certain he doesn’t already know?” Tyranos pulled her nearer. “You’re a puzzle, Lady Idaria. On the one hand, you volunteer for slavery after escaping Silvanost in order to spy for those whom you should loathe nearly as much as the ogres. On the other, you had the perfect opportunity to let events take their course and see the grand lord die, yet you went out of the way to divert the griffon so Golgren could survive.”

She lowered her eyes. “I did it to save myself. Without him, I would be taken away by the Titans. You know the fate awaiting me-awaiting all elves-in their lair.”

“Huh. You know very well you could escape at almost any time.”

He released her hand, then, unexpectedly, returned her dagger to her. The wizard turned his gaze back to the slumbering form.

“Fascinating,” Tyranos rumbled, eyes flickering back to the elf. “Very fascinating.” He reached out to hand something else to Idaria. “When he wakes, give this to him. He should know what it means, but tell him that he ought to show it to the leader of the Titans-show it but not surrender it.”

The slave eyed the dark object in her palm: a ring, a very old ring.

Idaria, from a race nearly as ancient as the High Ogres, had little trouble recognizing its origins or its potential. Her eyes widened. She looked to the human for explanation.

But Tyranos was already vanishing. The mage said but one last thing as he turned into shadow then empty air. “Oh. I meant to tell you also; I don’t think your message is going to make it through this time. There are more gargoyles about, you see.”

And with that, he left Idaria holding the signet and staring narrow-eyed at the still sleeping form in the bed.