The Black Talon

II

The mangled bodies lay strewn as far as the eye could see, and well beyond that. Severed limbs and other bloody parts could be found everywhere. Now and then, an island of brown fur rose among the ogre corpses. More than half the mastarks in the day’s battle had been slain, as had many of the meredrakes, some simply because they had grown so maddened from the scent of blood that their handlers could not control them any longer and had to kill them to prevent unnecessary casualties on their side.

Although many bodies lay clad in the once-gleaming breastplates and helms, far more of the dead were easily marked as the uncouth warriors of the horde. Few had survived, as ogres are very brutal in victory or defeat. Those that still lived were marching along in chains, their fates possibly even more terrifying than that of their dead comrades. Examples would have to be made to emphasize the glory of the winning side.

The architect of that victory watched astride his second horse as guards shoved the beaten warriors and as others ferreted among the slain, seeking spoils. Born to a land offering little, ogres were practical; if an item could be utilized in any manner, why leave it to rot with the dead? Even the mastarks were still of some use; warriors scrambled up, over, and around the huge bodies, not only skinning the beasts, but salvaging what meat there still was. The stomachs of ogres welcomed flesh long past what other races would deem safe.

Those who had died for Golgren were respectfully burned so they would not feed scavengers. There would be no pyres for the dead enemy, however, in contrast to what was often done among other races such as the Uruv Suurt or the humans. Fuel was too valuable to waste on the defeated. Besides, after the carrion eaters had stripped the bodies, the bleaching bones would present a monument to the grand lord. The other chieftains would be reminded of the consequences of defiance of his will.

With whips and swords to prod them forward, a new set of prisoners was brought before Golgren. His garments were still bloodstained, but his hair again was neatly brushed. He surveyed the sorry lot. Two figures immediately caught his attention.

“Wulfgarn … Guln … ” The grand lord kept his speech in Common. His gloating grin was terrible to behold. “It is a sorry thing, this disaster into which Trang led you.”

Wulfgarn, an older chieftain with one eye long gone to a sword slash, frowned as he tried to translate the foreign sounds. Guln, much younger and with a thick head of black, unruly hair, grunted bitterly. He understood well enough.

“It is a sorry thing Trang led himself into,” added Golgren, gesturing to the warrior next to him. That ogre hefted the gory head of the dead chieftain. Trang’s expression was one of astonishment, as if he were only then discovering that he was defeated.

Wulfgarn spit in Golgren’s direction, though the missile fell well short of its goal. The older chieftain was rewarded with a savage whipping that sent him facedown on the ground.

The prisoners that were lined up behind those two-all subchieftains-looked anxious at the sight. They well knew the fate of most survivors. The grand lord might have them pulled apart by mastarks or bound spread-eagled among several meredrakes.

Looking past the two chieftains, Golgren picked out four ogres standing among the much-battered group. The guards undid their chains then kicked the hapless ones forward.

“Dakara i duru if’hani?” he asked of the chosen, eyes glinting. “Will you stand with or deny these dead?”

All four answered as he expected, falling down on one knee and bowing their heads to him. After acknowledging their submission, Golgren gestured for them to rise then had another guard present them with thick, weathered clubs stained with dry blood. The four ogres peered at one another, then at their captor.

The grand lord indicated the rest of the subchieftains, those he had passed over. Guards were already forcing those condemned souls to their knees. More than one had to be beaten down, for the prisoners knew what was coming. Other guards dragged Wulfgarn and Guln off to the side.

“F’han,” Golgren quietly commanded.

The four moved in among the kneeling subchieftains. Clubs rose high and came down with savage strength. The thick skulls of the condemned easily gave way under the onslaught.

It took only one or two heavy blows to execute each, but wanting to show their enthusiastic allegiance to their new lord, the four subchieftains bashed away over and over at their targets, leaving most in piles of unrecognizable pulp.

When there was no more killing to be done, one of the four started toward Guln, but the grand lord waved him back. The subchieftain quickly retreated to stand close to his companions.

With another wave, Golgren dismissed the survivors, who were led away by one of his officers. Wulfgarn and Guln were also taken off elsewhere, their fates-it would have been Trang’s, too, had he survived-already planned in advance. Golgren felt the need to set many examples for his people.

“A barbaric display,” came an almost musical, cultured voice at Golgren’s right. “But necessary, I suppose.”

The Grand Lord Golgren did not turn to face the speaker. In fact, he did not even reply right away. While his guards shifted nervously, their eyes drifting in the direction of the new voice, he continued to gaze ahead, waiting. One hand retrieved his vial. The grand lord took a slow, casual sniff.

Finally, there came the light movement of sandaled feet and the faint swishing of cloth. Despite the overcast sky, strong shadows stretched before the mounted ogre leader. They were followed by one, then several more, such forms, each of whom dwarfed even the tallest of Golgren’s warriors.

Each was one and a half times the height of an ordinary ogre but proportionately sleeker of form. They moved with an unnatural grace, almost gliding rather than walking. Their long, silken robes-dark blue with shimmering hints of red-flowed as part of them, accenting their wearers’ perfection.

The giants wore crimson sashes that draped over their right shoulders and came down their left sides under the golden belts at their waists. Their left shoulders were covered by an armor plate more decorative than functional, with their arms unclad, save for red, silken bands on the wrists of their left arms and silver metal ones on their right arms.

But as elegant as their garments were, they paled in comparison to the faces of the ones gathering before the grand lord. No, perfection was not a word that adequately described the countenances of the newcomers. Their flawless features made the most beautiful elves look dull and drab in comparison. Several of Golgren’s warriors stared, awed by what their eyes beheld and suddenly ashamed that they were lesser beings. It was hard for any among them to believe that those godlike creatures were kin, were also ogres.

The giants’ skin was bluer than the open sky and without blemish. Their upswept, golden eyes seemed to glow from within. Their ears were long and pointed but in a graceful manner. Most wore their midnight-black hair bound in a thick tail.

Their leader, the one who had spoken in the cultured voice, gave Golgren a low bow. His lips parted, and suddenly the perfection gave way to something monstrous. The giant evidenced twin rows of savage, pointed teeth, reminiscent of a shark.

“The day is yours, oh Grand Lord,” the figure pronounced in his almost musical voice, loudly and in succinct Common. “We give our congratulations to you on this great victory.”

He bowed low again, the others behind him following suit. With the exception of a few personal touches to their garments, the members of the astounding group-all male-looked nearly identical to one another. Their leader showed a few peculiarities; his face was a touch older, wizened. A streak of silver-not gray-rose from the hairline on his back.

“Your words are most gracious, Dauroth,” Golgren returned with equal ease of the tongue. He took another sniff from the bottle then returned it to the pouch. “And thus accepted by myself.”

The grand lord noted a slight stirring among Dauroth’s followers. They did not approve of his grandiose airs, he knew.

Golgren’s hand casually grazed his chest, where a pair of chains around his neck indicated that more than one thing hung hidden inside his garments. “The Titans performed their duties adequately,” he continued, ignoring the sudden darkening expression among those in the back at his careful choice of words. “Even though not all went in a manner so timely as might be desired.”

One of the Titans emitted a low, angry mutter. Dauroth’s head tipped slightly to the side, and the offending sound ceased. The lead Titan straightened to his full height. Even on horseback, Golgren was shorter and had to look up to meet his eyes.

Nonetheless, Dauroth showed nothing but subservience to the smaller ogre. “I must apologize for our missteps, oh Grand Lord. I promise that we shall endeavor to be of greater efficiency and value to you when next our services are needed.”

“The tremor was a most amusing touch,” Golgren commented offhandedly.

Dauroth smiled, displaying his sinister teeth. “I will personally see that we strive to enhance its effect in the future. This entire scenario was a first trial for us in such spell work, as you no doubt recall.”

Golgren nodded once then pretended to lose interest. “We are done here, Dauroth. You and your Titans have my permission to depart.”

“You have but to summon us again at your leisure, oh Grand Lord,” the senior spellcaster intoned, golden eyes suddenly flaring bright with magic. “And we shall stand before you, ready to do your bidding, in the blink of an eye.”

A whirlwind abruptly sprang to life around the Titans. Even though its reach did not extend beyond the magnificent giants, the nearby guards backed away. Only Golgren, his loose mane just slightly rustled by the wind, did not budge. The grand lord looked bored at their latest magical marvel.

Although they stood within the whirlwind’s center, the Titans, too, were barely grazed by the magical wind. They huddled closer together, gleaming eyes narrowed in concentration. Dauroth raised his hands to the sides, revealing in that moment two other jarring discrepancies in the Titans’ overall beauty. First were the bony, hooked spurs that sprouted from their elbows, almost five inches long. Yet more unnerving were their hands themselves. They were strong and sleek, true, but they ended in fierce, ebony nails-much like the claws of raptors-that stretched at least three inches.

As the wind rose, Dauroth looked to the sky and uttered certain words in a musical language. As one, the Titans vanished.

The wind died down as soon as they were gone. Golgren let out a grunt that marked for all around him his lack of amazement at Dauroth’s act. The other ogres quickly tried to copy his facial expression, wary of possibly letting the grand lord think that anything frightened them that didn’t frighten him.

Golgren turned his mount around and headed to his tent. The rounded structure was formed from tanned hides and bone slats with a thick piece of mastark fur draping the entrance. Two guards stood near the entrance-one a typical Kern ogre like so many that comprised Golgren’s following, the second a rounder, squatter figure in armor who hailed from the other ogre realm of Blode. The two saluted him with equal fervor, their meaty fists banging hard against their breastplates. There still remained a grand khan in Kern and a ruling chieftain in Blode, but Golgren was master of both regions in all but title.

And even that would soon change.

One of the guards took the reins but did not offer to assist Golgren down. The grand lord rarely ever accepted help from his own kind. An ogre who did not fend for himself was a fool.

Ignoring the guards, Golgren slipped into his tent. Inside was shade and warmth. The floor was covered by a wide mastark hide and softer skins, mostly from young amaloks, scattered here and there. There were also many colorful yet elegant pillows with intricate embroidery whose craftsmanship marked them as spoils from the conquest of elven Silvanost.

And even more important, another souvenir from that ravaged land, was the female who awaited the grand lord, a silver-tressed figure with eyes of crystalline blue and skin of ivory. Her form was slim yet appreciably curved in the ways Golgren liked; she appeared just a few short years into adulthood, even though she was a lifetime or two older than the ogre. Her hair was parted down the middle and flowed past her shoulders, down to nearly the crook of her back. Her somewhat narrow face bore features that were both delicate and yet toughened.

She wore the remnants of a once-grand gown whose color, green, almost matched the tint of Golgren’s eyes. The bottom of her gown was in tattered shreds, while the bodice had been revamped and lowered-at Golgren’s demand-to best display her charms. She wore only well-used, crude sandals of ogre make, sandals originally for a child of that race.

Her ankles and wrists were shackled in iron, providing her just enough mobility to perform her tasks but not enough to make an escape. In the past the elf woman-like her two predecessors-had tried to escape and failed miserably.

“Idaria,” he rumbled.

She lowered her head. “My lord Golgren.”

Assuring himself that the tent flap completely covered the entrance, the grand lord seated himself on the cushions. Idaria maneuvered herself around to her appointed place at his right. Without looking at her, Golgren held up the covered stump of his arm.

With practiced care, the elf undid what remained of the fastenings for his metal talons. Some of the stronger ones had dug into his flesh, causing bleeding that became apparent only when the wrappings had been completely removed.

“The weapon, it did not work to my satisfaction,” the ogre commented more to the air than to the elf woman. “The device’s making, it was crude. Not as I envisioned it. It shall need to be redone.”

Idaria said nothing. If and when Golgren wanted her to respond, he would give her a clear indication. She continued to remove everything from his arm so she could see to cleaning the injured stump. Once, the thought of performing such a task would have affronted the elf woman, but Idaria had discovered that she was capable of enduring many worse affronts; she was a survivor willing to do whatever she must. That alone set her apart from those who came before her.

Golgren’s ruined limb ended in a huge black scab with burn scars surrounding it. He had cauterized the wound himself in the midst of a high-pitched battle, long ago it seemed. Faros-then the leader of a band of escaped slaves that had been sold to Golgren’s people by Hotak, emperor of the Uruv Suurt-had severed his hand. Faros had gone on to kill Hotak, and the former slave became emperor of the minotaurs.

Such a terrible injury would have ended the lives of most creatures-even most ogres would have perished from such a blow-but Golgren had managed to keep his head clear long enough to find a torch and sear the wound shut. Even then, he had nearly died, although he had recovered to fight on.

The singular drive that ultimately brought him to power had preserved him then.

Golgren’s slave reached for two sealed jugs. From each she poured a small amount of liquid on a fresh cloth and began rubbing the mixed contents over the stump. The ogre let out a sigh when he was touched by the balm. His body visibly relaxed.

When she was done, Idaria replaced the jugs then wrapped the area almost tenderly. Golgren, who had in the midst of her ablutions shut his eyes, opened them and gazed deeply into hers.

“Wine,” he commanded.

As silent as the night, Idaria retrieved the sack of wine. The environment of Kern was not suitable for keeping something as sensitive as wine for long, but the crimson liquid was still preferable to the brackish water in those parts.

As Golgren took the silver goblet-another elven prize-there came a heavy grunt from outside the tent. A shadow loomed near the entrance.

“Nagh!” the grand lord called. “Enter!”

An ogre officer of Blodian origins edged inside. He sported one broken tusk and his left eye constantly looked as if it were squinting. His skin was a mottled brown.

He glanced at the elf woman. Idaria immediately took up a subservient position behind her master.

“Aaah, Khleeg,” greeted the grand lord, gesturing to the newcomer with the goblet. “You may speak freely.”

The other saluted Golgren. “All warriors gathered,” Khleeg rumbled, doing his best not to mangle his Common too badly. “Feed them now?”

Golgren gave him a curt nod. The army did not even eat without his permission.

Saluting again, the other ogre started to leave, then apparently recalled something else he wished to say. Looking anxious, the tusked figure muttered, “Grand Lord, may speak again? About … about the Titans?”

“My permission is given.”

His brow knitted, Khleeg said, “Grand Lord … the Titans … cannot trust in them … they are-” He struggled for the right phrase. “They are Jaro Gyun. Wearers of masks.”

The term had nothing to do with the fanciful false faces that Solamnic nobles were rumored to wear at certain private gatherings or even the totemic images ogres themselves employed for rituals on occasion. Jaro Gyun meant deceivers who acted as blood comrades until the time came to stab the unwary from behind. For one ogre to call another a Jaro Gyun was a strong insult. That Khleeg would dare to apply this term to Dauroth and his sorcerers was, to Golgren, a sign of just how great the officer’s dislike and distrust of them was. Khleeg knew his master could have him executed for speaking ill of the Titans, for their influence among the ogres was second only to the grand lord’s.

But Golgren only nodded understandingly to Khleeg and said, “At first light, we leave. Garantha awaits.”

Still visibly uncomfortable, the other ogre grunted. “Yes, Grand Lord.”

“Go.”

Khleeg bowed again, then, staying bowed, backed out of the tent. Golgren nodded but that time to himself.

“He speaks the truth about the Titans,” Idaria murmured, lowering her gaze to avoid the grand lord’s eyes.

“And so? You have the opinion to share also?”

The elf kept her eyes to the ground. She could be more easily executed than Khleeg for any hint of disrespect toward ogres. As an elf slave, she was less than nothing in the eyes of ogres.

But still Idaria talked. “The Titans chafe under your rule. They do not serve you willingly. Not even Dauroth.”

He chuckled, grinning. The grin revealed a set of teeth that belied the hints of elf blood he might have. His teeth, while in better, cleaner condition than most ogres’, were strong, harsh, and sharply edged-in all ways extremely ogrish.

“This is quite a surprise to me,” Golgren replied in a tone that indicated otherwise. He gulped some wine. It was sweet and richly colored, typical of the blend traditionally made by her people. “Dauroth and his, they do not adore this one?”

“They will try to kill you sooner or later … and soon enough. No matter the hold you have on them, they will do that.”

The grand lord’s grin reversed into grim, pursed lips. In a voice so cold and dead that it made Idaria flinch, Golgren replied, “Yes, they will.”

He put down his goblet then, cupping her chin, he raised her face until it was level with his own. Although Idaria waited-her gaze meeting his-for long seconds, the ogre said nothing. Finally he released her, his attention returning to his wine. The elf resumed her usual position, kneeling in wait, slightly behind him, ready for his next command.

“Garantha awaits me,” Golgren uttered without warning. “We must not let her pine for her love.” He took another sip then let out a hollow laugh that evinced little humor. “And soon, soon, she and I, we shall be wed!” He glanced at the slave to see if she shared in his bitter jest. “Soon, I will be crowned grand khan of all my people … the dream fulfilled.”

Idaria said nothing. She had heard the last part before, many times, and always in the same tone.

“The dream fulfilled,” the grand lord repeated darkly, drinking deeply again. His eyes narrowed, glaring from under his brow at the shadows in the tent. “The first dream … ”

In the overcast sky, a winged form alighted onto a high promontory overlooking a chaotic battle site. The shape clung to the dark there, for it had been warned what would become of it if any below noticed its presence. Breathing heavily from exertion, the form folded its leathery wings and climbed to a higher vantage, using its clawed hands and feet with an ease that spoke of its familiarity with such treacherous terrain.

Deep-set eyes surveyed the victorious ogres as they continued to strip the dead and began their preparations to depart. The watcher grunted appreciatively; a bloody victory was respected among his kind as well. He had enjoyed the spectacle, even though the use of magic by the victors had, to his brutish mind, seemed a bit like cheating. What was more pleasurable than personally tearing apart a foe? Still, magic could not be avoided in some instances; even the watcher understood that.

And thinking that over, he reached down to a pouch held by a leather strap looped over his thick neck and shoulder. With a dexterity that was remarkable, considering his pawlike hands, he gently removed from the pouch what looked like an octagonal box made of brass, topped by a rounded knob.

Raising the box to his eye, the watcher pressed the knob.

The metallic artifact shimmered blue. On the side near his eye, a small gap opened.

Peering inside, he observed the interior of a tent, but it was not the tent desired. The watcher focused more toward the right.

There! The tent of the one-handed ogre. The watcher grunted with satisfaction. For a few seconds, he watched intently as the leader of the victors drank his fill; a female elf attended him. Then, using the magical device as his master had dictated, the winged creature shifted his focus to the ogre’s chest and what lay beneath his breastplate and garment.

Looking through both barriers as though they were empty air, he immediately spied the larger of the two items he sought to identify. Seeing it disturbed even the grizzled watcher. Then the item shifted slightly and became visible.

A tiny, transparent vial hung from a thin, golden chain that was well hidden by the bulkier one used to keep the first object in place. The vial was no larger than a sewing pin, but through the magic eye, its contents radiated disturbing energies.

The watcher adjusted the artifact. The tendrils of energy faded from his sight, giving him a better view of its actual contents, a red liquid with which his kind was most familiar.

Satisfied, he pressed the knob, and the metallic device reverted to its original state. He spread his wings, already anxious to be away from there. The master awaited his findings.

The ogre had the blood upon him.