The Black Talon

XVII

Golgren’s promise had thrown Stefan off guard. Up to that point, Stefan’s true interest had been in analyzing the ogre’s character and his stronghold, then, if at all possible, escaping to report everything he had learned to his superiors.

Yet the half-breed had again proven himself a surprising leader, much different from what the Solamnic had assumed. His vow to release the elf slaves was significant, and it was true that the Knighthood was very anxious about the minotaurs’ spread west.

Although he dined with Golgren that same evening, the grand lord said nothing more about the elves. His conversation concerned only the knight’s impressions of the capital, which were as favorable as the ogre had hoped. All the while stern guards kept watch over the dinner. Idaria joined them while two other elves took care of serving the meal, the centerpiece of which was a wonderfully seasoned, roasted side of amalok. For such an ill-tempered beast, the amalok proved quite tender and savory on the palate, one of the finest meats upon which the Solamnic had ever dined. Turmeric and rosemary added to the unique flavor.

“This is superb, Grand Lord,” Stefan remarked as he swallowed another bite. “I think that any of the great houses of Solamnia would serve it with pride to their most illustrious guests. Perhaps you might offer a small herd as a token during negotiations-”

“The amalok is good eating, yes,” interjected Golgren casually. “I have raised them myself in the past.” The ogre then went into some detail concerning the care of the creatures, including how sometimes they had to be tethered during feeding time so the handlers would not be injured by a frenzied bite or kick.

The slaves tending to the meal acted like ghosts, silent and almost invisible with their tasks. With ample opportunity for the slaves-or the cooks, for that matter, for they also were elves-to poison the fare, Golgren had insisted that all the food be tasted before he and the human ate. The casual manner in which Idaria had tasted not only her master’s meal, but the knight’s as well, left Sir Stefan frowning.

“They will not poison her, who they so love,” the grand lord remarked upon noticing the knight’s tense expression. “And thus, she and we are all in no danger, but it is better to always make certain they know she will do some tasting first.”

Near the end of their repast, Khleeg marched into the chamber. Slapping his breastplate, he muttered in the grand lord’s ear. Golgren’s face revealed nothing of his reaction, but he did rise immediately from the table.

“Please to forgive my need for departure, Sir Stefan Rennert! My Idaria will certainly be much better company, yes?”

Stefan, who had risen politely at the same time as his host, bowed deeply. “I hope to speak with you tomorrow.”

“We shall, we shall … ”

As the ogre leader-Khleeg at his side and several guards surrounding both of them-stalked out, Idaria’s hand reached to gently touch the Solamnic’s arm. Again, she had walked up so silently behind the veteran warrior that he hadn’t noticed. “Your meal is unfinished, Sir Stefan. Please, be seated.”

He obeyed her request, but he was frowning again, that time at her. “I don’t understand you. I don’t understand this entire affair.” He surveyed the chamber. Every guard had left with the grand lord. They were alone. “You seem like more than a slave, Lady Idaria. You seem almost … at home.”

“Your food is getting cold, Sir Stefan. Amalok is delicious when freshly cooked, but its taste will sour if left untouched too long.”

He shoved the plate forward. “Well, I’m full.”

The elf gave a slight nod. Another hand suddenly materialized next to the Solamnic, one of the other slaves sneaking up on him to remove his plate. Again the knight started, not having noticed when the other had entered.

“There is more wine, if you like,” Idaria said when they were alone again. She poured him another glass.

He swirled the aromatic, rose-colored liquid in his goblet. “The wine is excellent, better than I’ve ever tasted. Elven, too, like the meal, am I right?”

“The grand lord procured a heavy stock of wine and other items during the invasion.” She made the statement blandly, as if speaking of the weather.

He leaped to his feet suddenly, his eyes challenging her. “Lady Idaria! You knew nothing about the ogre’s offer of freeing your people before I did, isn’t that true?”

Something flickered in her eyes. “I knew nothing of it.”

“Yet you’re hardly filled with relief, exuberance, gratefulness, as far as I can tell!” He pounded his fist on the table, an artfully crafted mahogany piece of elven craftsmanship. Oddly, it was blood-red in color. The table shook furiously, and the goblet-which he had just drained-fell over and clattered across its etched surface. “Is there no emotion left inside of you? Has he beaten it all out?” Stefan angrily rubbed his bearded chin. “Or do you suspect that he makes a hollow promise simply to get me to act as his messenger?”

“The grand lord promised you he would free all elves. He will stand by that promise, Sir Stefan.”

The certainty in her tone soothed his anger. “Will he?”

Her eyes bored deep into his own. “He will. It means that much to him.” Idaria came around the table again, standing close to the knight. “Since you are done, Sir Stefan, might I suggest that, as it is growing dark, we walk to your quarters?”

“Yes, that would probably be best.” The Solamnic instinctively sought to take her arm, as any noble would have done to escort a lady departing from a dining hall, but Idaria somehow avoided his reach without seeming to even notice it.

After they stepped out into the dark, silent corridor, he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Do you look forward to becoming free?”

After a moment’s silence, she answered, “Everyone yearns to be free.”

“Is it because of you that this daring notion has occurred to Golgren? Is he doing this for you then, my lady?”

“I don’t know what you are insinuating, but such thoughts are unworthy of a Knight of Solamnia,” the elf reproached him, her tone frosty. “And such a topic is unworthy of conversation.”

His face flushed. As they turned down another shadowy hallway, he stammered, “My lady, I never meant to insult you in any-”

A guard’s abrupt appearance ahead of them saved him from saying anything to worsen the situation. The gargantuan ogre stood almost like a statue, so still that even Idaria did not at first see him. He held a long sword at his shoulder, and only the faint glint of torchlight gave any indication that his eyes watched them. Two more guards stood farther down the hall. As with all of Golgren’s palace guards, they wore new breastplates and even helmets that fit snugly over their shaggy heads.

“The guards are back,” the knight murmured to his companion. “I guess Golgren only trusts me up to a point.”

“If there are guards posted along the way to your rooms, it is because he is concerned for your well-being,” Idaria returned. Yet Stefan could tell that the sudden presence of the guards made even her uncomfortable. “There was-” But she stopped, bit her lip, then resumed her pose of indifference.

Stefan gripped the hilt of his sword. He peered closer at the nearby guard. “There is something unusual in his-”

The guard shifted, his blade suddenly moving.

“Watch out!” Stefan roared, shoving the elf to the side. Even as he did that, he drew his weapon with his other hand.

The ogre’s blade threw up sparks when its edge scraped the floor, briefly illuminating the guard’s monstrous face. Only Stefan’s training had saved him from being cut wide open; his armor would not have saved him from such a close blow.

“Beware!” warned Idaria from the side, where the knight had shoved her. “The others come!”

The knight swapped blows with the first guard, discovering quickly that his adversary was better versed in fighting maneuvers than he would have expected. He retreated from a hard swing then saw an opening and cut the ogre across his sword arm. The guard dropped his blade, clutching his wound as he retreated.

No sooner had Stefan fended off the first ogre than the two reinforcements were upon him. He faced a sword and axe, the two ogres swinging their weapons at him nearly simultaneously.

Despite his predicament, the knight worried about Idaria. He shouted, “Run, my lady! Run!”

There was no response from the elf woman, nor was there even the sound of any movement from her direction. Stefan swore an oath then fought to press the two ogres near each other, the better to hamper their movements. If they moved apart and came after him from opposite sides, he would stand less of a chance.

Each time his weapon deflected that of one of his foes, Stefan’s entire body shook. Solamnic weapons were well forged, but the guards’ brutish strength was astounding. Worse, the ogre guards, like the first one, were better trained than the average ogre.

From behind him, he heard the sound of metal scraping against stone. The first ogre had recovered his sword and was rejoining the attack on the knight. In desperation, Stefan lunged at the close ogre fighting with a sword, catching the giant as the latter drew his arm back for a swing.

The Solamnic impaled his foe between the ribs. The guard let out a growl and stumbled into his nearby comrade.

As the two collided, Stefan spun around to face the first ogre again. That guard, still bleeding from his wound, had his massive sword gripped clumsily in both hands. He slashed wildly at the knight, forcing the human back toward the other ogres.

Out of the corner of his eye, Stefan saw the guard with the axe shove his limp comrade aside. The ogre the knight had stabbed tumbled to the floor and lay there motionless, like a sack of grain. That was one less foe. However, Stefan was caught between the remaining two, who were on either side of him.

He managed to avoid a swing by the axe wielder, but then a jab by the swordfighter pierced his side. Only the armor kept it from doing much harm. Even still, the blow knocked Stefan off balance.

The ogres were oddly silent throughout the struggle, making only small grunts of effort or gasps when wounded. They fought with a strange fanaticism in their eyes, as though they were doomed no matter what the outcome of the fight.

Stefan scored the axe wielder’s hand, but the wound was shallow and, for an ogre, of no consequence. Slowly but surely, they were pushing him into a small corner against the wall. Once trapped there, the knight would be vulnerable.

Then shouts arose from down the corridor. The ogre waving a sword glanced warily over his shoulder.

Seizing the opening, the knight buried his own weapon deep in the giant’s stomach.

Unfortunately, although the treacherous guard perished instantly, his heavy body crashed toward the human. His hand still clutching his sword, Stefan was buried under the corpse.

As he struggled, his view was blocked by the dead ogre’s head. He was doomed. Yet the last assassin did not materialize. Instead, Stefan heard an odd but not unfamiliar sound.

The beating of wings.

That was followed by a violent growl from the last assassin. A hiss arose from elsewhere; then a heavy thud resounded nearby.

A momentary silence reigned; then several ogre voices and a very welcome elf one filled the human’s ears.

The dead body shifted and was dragged off. The Solamnic was hauled to his feet, gulping air.

Wargroch steadied him. The ogre wore a puzzled look as his eyes shifted from the knight to the bodies and back again.

“Huh! Well fought, Shok G’Ran,” Wargroch rumbled, clearly caught between admiration for any fighter’s skill and the fact that a puny human had done so well against his own kind.

Only then did Stefan notice the third ogre’s dead body, compliments of a slit throat. The knight started to ask what had happened when Idaria interrupted.

“These warriors … they are not familiar to me, Wargroch.”

The ogre grunted. “I am new. Khleeg, he knows maybe.”

“Then they should be brought to him for identifying. See that it is done promptly.”

Wargroch reacted to her words as though she were Golgren himself. He told some of the guards with him to take the bodies away. As the guards obeyed, Wargroch again eyed the Solamnic.

“Well fought,” he repeated then followed the other guards hefting their grisly burdens.

Two ogre guards remained behind; they were clearly known and trusted by Idaria. They took up discreet positions flanking the pair.

Meanwhile, the elf inspected Stefan. “These bruises and this cut must be treated.” Idaria probed one of his wounds, which caused the knight to flinch. “Once you are safe in your chambers, I will have some herbs and cloths brought to aid your healing.”

“You don’t have to go to any trouble for me. These wounds are slight.”

One brow arched. “It would seem trouble follows you. I feared that even though I was bringing help, I would arrive much too late, and instead here you are, the victor against tremendous odds! Probably your worst wound comes from one of their corpses falling on you. It seems you had little to fear from three formidable attackers. Are all Solamnics so skilled?”

“I didn’t kill the third one,” Stefan admitted. “While I was trapped under-”

Her eyes cut him off. With a glance toward their escort, Idaria replied, “The blow to your head still bothers you, I see. I will brew a tea that will ease your pain and restore your thoughts. If you can walk, we should go now, Sir Stefan.”

“I … I can walk.”

She pointed in the direction of his rooms and as the party started off, surprised him by taking his arm, and, once again, he thought, it seemed the chains were no impediment to her.

Only minutes later, Golgren burst into Stefan’s rooms without preamble. He took in the scene: a concerned Idaria was bending close to the human’s face. However, she leaped to her feet as her master entered with Wargroch and four guards at his heels. Golgren hesitated, something about the sight displeasing him. Over the centuries, humans and elves had often intermingled. The scene before him meant nothing, and yet it bothered him. It was more of a struggle than usual to keep his emotions under control, to keep his expression less … ogre.

“His head struck hard when one of the assassins fell upon him,” the elf slave dutifully informed the grand lord as she stood up and went to rinse out the cloth she had been using. “I have treated the area. His other wounds are superficial.”

Still, Golgren said nothing. He told the guards to step outside but kept Wargroch with him. Then, adopting a friendly grin, the ogre leader went up to the knight and exclaimed, “So terrible what has happened, yes? But so glad I am to hear that Sir Stefan Rennert has triumphed and is well! And once again, the tales of the mighty Solamnics prove no legend! Three taken down, even while you were trapped! Ha! You see, Wargroch, how worthwhile a pact between these knights and ogres is?”

“The grand lord is wise.”

The knight looked uncomfortable, but Golgren did not press him as to the reason. “I swear to you, this will not go unpunished, Sir Stefan Rennert. Khleeg is like the hound on the hunt; he will seek out our enemies and find the culprits.”

“If I can be of any service-”

The grand lord grinned even wider. “I would hear the story. It may be that something occurs to my mind.”

“Gladly.” The knight gave a short but succinct detailing of the incident. Golgren listened. On the surface, there was nothing he could question, but the ogre did have his suspicions, especially since he had viewed the bodies with Khleeg and Wargroch.

No blade had so savagely torn out the throat of the one guard.

Throughout the telling, Golgren watched Idaria. Her beautiful face was devoid of expression, but that was expected. Golgren had other ways of reading her, and what he saw further fueled his thoughts about the full truth of the attack.

But, of course, the grand lord gave no hint of his suspicions. After all, he had utter trust in only one person-himself. The only other person in whom he had ever confided had been slaughtered by the black-shelled warriors. Slaughtered, in fact, by humans not that dissimilar from Stefan Rennert.

“Such a tale, such a fight,” Golgren said admiringly when the knight had finished. “Sir Stefan Rennert, you are a G’RathItar, a warrior favored by the spirits!”

“Fortune smiled upon me,” the human remarked, wincing from one of his small wounds.

“Yes. Oh, but you must rest still! My Idaria, she will see to your needs. Come, Wargroch!”

The grand lord marched out without sparing another glance at the elf. He was determined to investigate the incident further. In the meantime, Idaria knew what he expected of her, no more, no less.

“Donnag has clan,” suggested Wargroch as he left with Golgren. “There is the son, a magic one, Maldred.”

“Yes, but they are not so foolish, I think. Maldred also has no more love for his father or clan.” Golgren’s hands stroked his chest where the larger of the two objects hanging around his neck dangled. “Perhaps, though … ”

They were met in the hallway by Khleeg. Saluting his lord, he grunted in Common, “These assassins, all guards I know. All loyal.”

“Huh! Hated humans?” Wargroch asked. “Maybe that?”

Golgren bared his teeth. “How can they be loyal? They would not thus risk my wrath. There is more, Khleeg. You. Wargroch. Find the truth. Maldred, perhaps. Others … find them.”

They slammed their fists on their chests and hurried off. Golgren sent his remaining guards with them. He did not need bodyguards in his own palace.

In the years prior to his slaying of Zharang, he would have gone in search of the truth himself rather than leave it in the hands of minions. But since his old master was dead-and Donnag too-Golgren was forced to delegate many tasks.

Still, there were avenues of investigation that only he could follow, for none of those even among his inner circle knew of Tyranos’s monstrous catch. Golgren suspected that the one assassin’s demise was caused by some predator. Yet no meredrake or ji-baraki wandered the halls unfettered. Besides, they would have been just as likely to feast on the human afterward.

The slaying had also been done with too much purpose for a simple beast, and that brought Golgren’s thinking around to only one possibility: a gargoyle.

But what did the gargoyle want with Golgren? Why would a gargoyle help Golgren? Why save the human when his death would have upset the grand lord’s plans tremendously?

Something suddenly dropped near his feet. Golgren recoiled, but when the object did not move, he cautiously bent to retrieve it.

He pulled back his hand almost immediately, his fingers wet with a familiar crimson moistness. The object lay mangled, but he recognized what covered most of it:

Flesh, gobbets of the flesh of an ogre.

Quickly recovering from his astonishment, Golgren inspected the object. Seizing it up, the grand lord wiped it clean on his own garment in order to see it better. It was a talisman of some sort, shaped into a small golden starburst. From what the ogre could see, it had once been fastened into the very skin in which it lay.

Was it skin from the throat of the third assassin?

Golgren turned it toward the light of the nearest torch, trying to better make out a symbol in the very center of the talisman.

That symbol flared to life, a brief puff of flame rising up from it, a momentary, living representation of the symbol.

Startled again, Golgren dropped the talisman. As it clattered to the floor, all hint of fire vanished.

Cursing himself for his carelessness, the ogre leader bent to find the piece and clutch it in his hand. Already suspicions formed in his mind as to its significance and why it had been worn on the throat of the assassin, a guard considered loyal by Khleeg.

Something swooped down from the dark corners above. It landed on two heavy feet, its wings nearly spreading from one wall to the other. It stood almost as tall as the ogre and certainly as wide as any of his guards, none of whom were around, thanks to Golgren having dismissed them.

It was a gargoyle.

The male gargoyle appeared to dwarf the one Tyranos had captured. It had eyes more aware than the other one too, eyes that stared intently, as if reading far more about the grand lord’s true self than the half-breed desired anyone to know.

Golgren poised to defend himself, reaching for the dagger hidden in his garments, always available as a quick and devious weapon.

But the gargoyle did a strange thing. It laughed-a coarse, mocking sound-then uttered in crude Common, “Fool of a ruler.”

And with that, it took to the air, flying directly at Golgren. The grand lord grabbed for the dagger, but at the last moment, the gargoyle veered above him. The winged creature soared past the ogre then vanished through a window.

The last thing Golgren heard was another short, mocking laugh.

All the Titans required the elixir to regularly rejuvenate themselves, otherwise they would enjoy the fate of Donnag. That eve of elixir-taking was a particularly momentous one, for it was none other than Dauroth himself who would imbibe.

All the Titans were assembled for the occasion, though if it had been other than Dauroth, a mere handful would have sufficed. Their leader stood in the center of the chamber, a small, square, stone pedestal with a flat face before him. Safrag stood behind him, empty hands cupped together. The rest of the Titans stood like pillars, their hands similarly cupped.

At the hour of midnight-as intuited by Dauroth-the Titans abruptly raised their cupped hands to the ceiling.

“The dream is the destiny,” Dauroth sang. “The destiny is the dream.”

His followers repeated the holy singing words, their chorus both wondrous and frightening to hear. They spread their arms wide as their leader intoned the second line.

“We are the dream; we are the destiny; the race will rise again, and the world will rejoice.”

“The world will rejoice,” they repeated, their expressions like innocent children. The white-blue globe above them added to the surreal nature of the ceremony.

Dauroth looked to the darkness on his left. “Let the gifts of the ancestors be brought forth.”

From the shadows emerged Hundjal. Even in so serious a ceremony, his pleasure at returning to his place as his master’s favored was apparent. He cradled the two small objects in his palms as if he himself were the one giving them as gifts.

In his left hand there was nestled a tiny ivory box that faintly glowed. Various runes had been etched upon its rounded lid. Anyone standing too close would have felt a heat radiating from it-not a terrible heat, but a noticeable one.

And in Hundjal’s right hand he carried a small onyx flask shaped like a crouching dragon. The curling, snapping head was the stopper. The detail was lifelike, right down to its dragon scales.

Stepping to the master’s side, Hundjal presented Dauroth with the flask. Dauroth accepted it, then placed the onyx container on the pedestal.

“Blood is life; blood is rebirth,” he called out in song.

“Blood is life; blood is rebirth,” the rest repeated.

Dauroth passed a hand over the flask. A faint crimson aura descended from his downturned palm toward the bottle.

The dragon’s head let out a hiss, then stilled again.

Ever so gently, Dauroth removed the stopper. He placed the dragon’s head to the side, but instead of taking up the flask, he stretched his hand to Hundjal.

The senior apprentice handed him the small ivory box. Dauroth let it sit in one palm while he passed the other over it.

The lid swung open. Dauroth removed the contents for all to see, at the same time returning the box to Hundjal.

The heart still beat. Slim it was, slimmer than the heavy organ inside an ogre or even the smaller but sturdy one within a human. It beat very slowly but not because of the magic that kept it animated. Had it remained within the body from which it had been torn by Dauroth and his apprentices barely an hour before, it would have beaten no faster. Elf hearts worked at a rate more sedate than most races’ did, perhaps because they measured years in decades and their lives in centuries.

“From the usurpers, we take back that which was ours.” He held the heart over the open flask and squeezed his hand tight. Rather than merely being crushed to a pulp, the heart became glittering red dust that trickled unerringly into the flask’s mouth. Dauroth held his hand over the mouth until all the dust had fallen inside. “From them is the heart of all Krynn ours again.”

He took up the flask, raising it above his head. The other Titans cupped their hands together once more, hands that began to glow red.

Dauroth downed the flask’s contents. He drank and swallowed until it was all gone.

A startling blue aura blossomed around him. He thrust the empty flask at Hundjal as the aura intensified. A smile spread across his face, a smile of ultimate bliss.

With a gasp, Dauroth slumped back into Safrag’s waiting arms. Those who could see best closely watched as the lead Titan’s face softened. There was a hint of youth in his visage that had been lacking before. When, with Safrag’s aid, the leader stood again, all there could have sworn that Dauroth stood an inch or two taller and was more muscular than before.

Returning to the pedestal, Dauroth sang in a voice stronger and louder. “The dream is the destiny; the destiny is the dream; the dream … the dream is the future.”

“The dream is the future,” the others repeated, their expressions still marveling. Although they had witnessed others among them-and they themselves had drunk the restorative elixir-its magic powers never ceased to astound them.

Standing proud and confident, Dauroth bowed his head to his followers. “I thank you for sharing with me as I share with you. The Titans go on. The Titans will go on.”

The back ranks began to filter out into the darkness until soon there remained only Dauroth and his two apprentices.

“How much remains?” he asked Safrag.

“Not enough for all among us to rejuvenate ourselves another time.”

Dauroth nodded then glanced at Hundjal. “It will be enough for now. Hundjal, we will talk.”

The senior apprentice bowed. “I am yours, my master.”

They strode off into the darkness, leaving Safrag to remove the few objects left. Last he took the ivory box, which Hundjal had casually set on the pedestal before departing with Dauroth.

Safrag eyed the box, studying its interior. Traces of blood still marked the spot. The heart had not been essential to the ceremony; Dauroth had merely used it for drama. But the drama was important, even Safrag understood.

Safrag imagined Golgren’s heart likewise stored for use. On the night the Titans crushed Golgren’s heart into the elixir, the ceremony would surely be something to remember.

On that night … very soon …