The Black Talon

XXII

It was not how it should have gone. Tyranos had put together scenario after scenario, but none of them had accounted for that … nothing, unless …

He shook his head. All that mattered was salvaging the situation as best he could and preserving his relationship with the Grand Lord Golgren if that was still possible.

“Chasm!” he shouted, calling the broad-shouldered gargoyle’s name. “Find the ogre!”

Chasm did not have to ask which ogre his master meant. There was only one that concerned them both. The huge gargoyle banked, swooping down closer to the devastation. High above it, the winged creature was not overly concerned about the tremendous quake, save that it stank of foul magic. Gargoyles could smell the magic to a degree, but even if he didn’t have the nose for it, Chasm would have recognized spell work in the madness below.

Still gripped tightly by his servant, Tyranos, whose hood was off and whose hair was whipping about, pointed the tip of his staff toward the ground. Whether or not he could successfully locate Golgren was another question. The remarkable energies organized by the Titans made it difficult to ferret out anything amid the chaos and destruction, but the wizard thought he might have a chance. Golgren was unique; even he did not understand just how unique he was. That very uniqueness was in part why Tyranos had chosen him in the first place.

As they descended, a dust storm assailed the pair. Tyranos covered his face as best he could and prayed that his masking spell would hold. Of all of his spells, it was the most vital.

The staff detected something. “Bring me down over there! Quickly!”

Chasm did so, his massive, leathery wings beating hard against the air. The gargoyle could cover a mile in less than a minute, but still Tyranos felt he was moving too slowly. Whatever it was the staff had sensed, it was already fading away.

That might very well mean that Golgren had just died.

But suddenly the staff detected something else, and instantly the wizard discarded any concern for his “ally.”

“Up! Up! Hurry!”

Gritting his sharp teeth, the gargoyle strained as he abruptly shifted direction and flew up. His breath came in heaving gasps, and for the first time, he faltered slightly.

Tyranos eyed the turbulent scene below him, cursing the arrogance of all spellcasters, himself included.

“Those damned fools! Those damned Titans!”

The Black Talon sustained the spell, but the great effort was beginning to tell on many of them. Sweat covered most, causing the fine silken garments they wore to cling to their bodies unceremoniously. One Titan already was breathing raggedly and weaving back and forth, the pain distorting his usually handsome features. Others were holding on by sheer grit.

But Dauroth paid no mind to the strain on his followers. His glowing eyes still gazed triumphantly into the ether, and his mouth wore its widest, most predatory smile.

He imagined the wonderful era that would follow once the Black Talon reestablished the true course of ogre destiny. Dauroth relived the dream of the golden city. The lead Titan saw himself finally gaining entrance into the vision and viewing the wonders aplenty within those walls, wonders that he would make real and for which he would be immortalized.

But again Golgren refused to die. Somehow, the half-breed managed to scamper over the rising and falling earth, avoiding the huge ravines that opened up to swallow both living and dead by the scores. Dauroth’s optimism turned to frustration, and he ripped more power from the others for his awe-inspiring spell.

“G-great one!” sputtered Kallel, betraying his fear. “Surely this is enough! S-surely the f’hanos have been returned to their graves and the grand lord shamed beyond redemption!”

“He is not dead,” Dauroth responded tonelessly. “He is not dead.”

No other protests were uttered, only sighs of exhaustion and resignation. The inner circle of the Titans steeled themselves for whatever their leader demanded of them next. They had no other choice. They would obey unto death.

“If it is not enough,” Dauroth said aloud to himself. “Then there will be more. Let us see how long you can dance, Guyvir.”

The other Titans trembled as he extended the spell. Spittle stained the mouths and chins of several of the spellcasters. Kallel looked ready to say something else, but Safrag quickly shook his head. Mouth set, the apprentice studied his master closely then declared, “Take from deeper within me, great one! Bind my full power to yours! If you guide me so, I can help amplify your strength yet more!”

Dauroth eyed the younger Titan approvingly. “Good, loyal Safrag, you shall be rewarded.”

A tendril of black energy darted out from Dauroth’s chest and struck Safrag. The apprentice let out a brief moan then steadied himself. His eyes flared bright with loyalty.

The elder spellcaster nodded. “Now. You and I shall see that no crumb of dirt remains untouched.”

With the other Titans to fuel them, the two combined their wills, multiplying Dauroth’s earlier efforts several times over.

“Garantha may feel some of this,” he admitted to the others. “But in the end, they will rejoice because of it.”

And in the capital of Kern, where hundreds lined the sturdy walls and towering gates and where many stared in awe and shock at the most violent quake ever witnessed in their lives, the ground shifted for the first time. Suddenly, the awe gave way to panic, for no club, no axe or sword was powerful enough to stop a tremor. Against such, ogres could only pray and die.

That the landscape beyond shook even harder than around Garantha itself did not in any manner assuage the populace. What rattled the city seemed powerful enough to level it.

Fragments of the outer wall broke off and fell into Garantha and outside its perimeter. Two guards lost their balance and plunged below. The towers swayed, and in one, cracks began to appear. A massive crack opened up near the gates and began racing with dreadful swiftness through the capital, regardless of what streets or buildings stood in its path.

And with each passing second, the tremors grew worse.

They would destroy everything. They would bring down all of Garantha and sacrifice all its people just to kill him, Golgren realized.

No, the grand lord corrected himself. Not they, but rather he! It was Dauroth’s doing only. He was who demanded of the Titans such monstrous use of their power, even though surely it would risk the lives of more than one of his brethren.

Golgren cursed both the master Titan and the useless vial sealed to his chest. Twice he had pounded on the latter without any success. And even if the vial could be shattered, Dauroth had stated quite bluntly how useless it would be.

The ogre leader had managed to find a massive rock formation to cling to, a wide, flat formation that thus far had not fallen away. But it was surely only a matter of time before he was lost. Golgren eyed the heavens; the overcast sky was filled with red-tinged clouds. Not only did the quake continue, a fierce wind also began to assail him.

In the face of all that, Golgren suddenly laughed his defiance. He raised the stump that had been his hand and shook it at the sky.

“Come, Sargas! Come, all you gods! If you would have Golgren, you must teach Dauroth to strike harder!”

And as if the gods had heard him, the land shook more terribly than before. As the stone suddenly twisted, spinning him around, Golgren saw one of Garantha’s mighty towers fall. A mushroom cloud of dust blossomed above the city walls moments later.

Then his view cartwheeled as the rock he clung to began to sink into a freshly deepening ravine. Golgren looked up and, bracing himself, he searched for somewhere-anywhere-to jump.

There was only one choice, no other. Bracing as best he could, Golgren hurled himself forward just as the vast stone tipped and dropped into the gap, completely disappearing.

The grand lord landed safely. Without warning, a skeletal warrior came from behind, seizing him. Surprised that any of the undead foes were still on their feet, Golgren was nearly throttled to death by the bony fingers before he reacted. Then he struck the f’hanos hard in the jaw, which only battered his own hand. The undead creature’s ragged nails tore at his throat. Golgren reached for his waist, seeking the dagger secured in his kilt-the dagger he had slain the ji-baraki with so long ago-and instead grasped the belt pouch. Feeling a weight within, Golgren tore the pouch free and swung it at the side of the f’hanos’s skull.

A crackle of fiery energy engulfed his fleshless adversary the moment the small bag touched bone. The f’hanos released Golgren. Flailing wildly, the skeleton began to fall apart, the pieces flying in every direction.

Heart pounding, Golgren grabbed for the pouch. His searching fingers plucked out that which he had earlier sought-the mysterious ring Idaria had thrust upon him. He still had no idea as to its origins or what it actually was supposed to do.

But surely there was enough power to help him. Golgren was no spellcaster, tutored for years by some bearded master. He could not explain his odd certainty that Tyranos’s staff would save him against the ghoulish mastark, and yet it had. Nor could he explain why he had such faith in Idaria’s ring.

Then the grand lord lost his footing again. Golgren banged his shoulder as he collided with the shifting ground. He nearly lost his hold on the ring but kept it between two fingers.

Golgren did the best he could to slide the piece of jewelry onto his fourth finger. For the first time, he got a good look at the signet, with its double-bladed sword turned downward. What that symbol or the others represented meant nothing to him, but Golgren was filled with a renewed determination. Surely, somehow the signet would aid him against Dauroth’s spell.

And even as he thought that, the signet flared a searing orange color. He was suddenly ringed by a brief, intense fire that shot several hundred feet up from the ground.

Then the fire dwindled, and all around him changed. It happened so abruptly that the grand lord could not at first believe it. He lay on the ground for a moment, staring at everything, then staring at the signet once more.

Then Golgren smiled.

Dauroth felt the opposite emotion. He felt the sudden surge of incredible magical forces around the mongrel just before he saw the astounding results. The lead Titan glared in disbelief.

“The power of the ancients!” he roared, eyes burning as bright as the sun. “How is it that he commands the power of the ancients?”

Kallel let out a hacking cough then called, “Great Dauroth! E-end this now! We h-have destroyed Golgren’s army and proven that only the Titans have the might to rule the ogre race! We have proven we are the masters of destiny! If we keep this up, we will only destroy Garantha and possibly our-”

“From the ruins we will be better able to rebuild the city and our kind! Now cease your whining!” Dauroth stared beyond the room, thinking furiously. “A signet! The half-breed must possess a signet of the High Ogres … and he even wields it!”

“How is that possible?” asked Safrag, sweat pouring down his face. Yet of all the others besides Dauroth, he looked the most determined, the most willing to push on with the spell.

“A moot question! Even the signet will not save him! In the end we shall salvage it from his crushed and buried body! Safrag, I must ask for more power from you and the others!”

No one dared protest. Dauroth was pulling all of them, including himself, beyond their known limits. Under his command, the robed spellcasters concentrated their willpower, their essences, into the task. Some no longer looked so handsome, so perfect. Instead, they appeared old and emaciated, in more than one case so withered that they seemed almost like f’hanos themselves. Their expressions, so pained, were horrific to behold. Yet they told themselves that all of that would be remedied when their work was finished … if it could be finished soon.

Only Dauroth did not care. If he had to sacrifice everyone else, he would see it through. Then not only would there be no more grand lord, but this new prize, the signet-however it had been acquired by the mongrel-would be added to his collection.

The two human f’hanos converged on Stefan and the elf, who were having trouble standing, much less preparing to fight.

Stefan eyed the pair regretfully. How he knew which of his comrades had become those fleshless fiends was beyond his ken, but he recognized the duo as easily as if they were alive and standing before him. Once again he condemned himself for failing to save them somehow, preventing their terrible fate.

“Sir Stefan!” Idaria shouted. She had been shouting his name repeatedly, trying to jar him out of his seemingly dazed state. “Sir Stefan! You cannot just stand there! Please!”

Forced to take action on her own, the elf slave picked up a large stone and tossed it at the nearest of the undead. However, the stone bounced off without doing any harm.

Her attempt managed to stir Stefan to action. He gave a start, struggling forward and lunging at the one he knew was once Willum. If the f’hanos retained any of their memories or abilities after death, Willum would be the most dangerous.

Indeed, the larger ghoul dodged Stefan’s awkward attack and continued to close on them. Willum carried no weapon, but one bony hand was folded into a fist and the other reached for the knight, likely with the intention of ripping out his throat.

The Solamnic swatted away the grasping hand then swung. His blade rebounded off the figure’s bones with such force that Stefan nearly dropped his weapon. At the same time, the thing that had once been Hector tried to seize his sword arm, but Idaria grabbed the bony limb, then tried to twist it around.

“Keep back!” Stefan cautioned, but Idaria did not heed his warning. Hector turned on the elf woman, seizing her forearm and holding it tight. She slammed her hand into his rib cage, but the f’hanos, moving swiftly, grabbed hold of her wrist.

“No!” Stefan made a desperate lunge with his sword at the other undead man’s nearest limb. However, Willum seized his arm, keeping the sword from being a threat to either creature. “Let her go!” Stefan pleaded, for Willum was eyeing Idaria hungrily. “She has nothing to do with us! Take me as you will, but let her be, Willum!”

The skeletal figure with Hector’s features, hearing the familiar voice of his old comrade, suddenly stilled. Willum, too, paused but then jerkily brought his fist forward.

Stefan started to react, but halted as the skeletal Willum opened his fist. In Willum’s bony palm lay a triangular pendant. The setting was forged from steel, and the center had a pair of arching horns made from brass.

It was a medallion of the god of just cause, Kiri-Jolith.

As Stefan stared in bewilderment, dead Willum offered it to him again.

Staring at the empty eye sockets, Stefan gingerly plucked the medallion from the f’hanos’s palm. A warmth began to wash over the knight.

Hector suddenly released the elf woman. The two undead warriors stood motionless for a moment, then collapsed together in a pile of bones.

At that point, the ground beneath them suddenly cracked and heaved worse than before.

Secreting the medallion in his armor, Stefan seized Idaria’s hand just as the two of them started to sink into a fresh chasm. Together, they jumped up to a nearby rise.

Idaria abruptly tugged him. “It is him! He is there!”

“Who?” No sooner had he asked the question than the Solamnic caught sight of the Grand Lord Golgren in the distance. The ogre leader looked crazy, his hair flowing wildly around his grinning face as he sought to climb up a high jumble of massive stones.

The elf cried Golgren’s name, but the ogre did not hear her. Golgren finally reached the top of his little mountain and stood straight. He laughed and held up his fist, shaking it at the sky and everything, as though taunting the forces assailing him.

And those forces responded in kind, for the sky, which had turned to fire, suddenly unleashed a dozen bolts of black lightning. They shot toward the grand lord, battering and burning around where he stood, dancing on the roiling land and dodging the bolts. The black lightning bolts churned up so much earth and dust that the pair quickly lost their view of him.

Idaria let out a gasp of fear. Stefan shook his head. “He can’t have survived that.”

But though the lightning continued unabated, through glimpses here and there they saw the half-breed still standing and laughing defiantly. His garments were ruined, his skin was black and bruised, but he retained an air of invincibility.

“We must reach him!” Idaria tried to move forward, but in doing so nearly fell into a ravine opening up on one side of them.

The knight pulled her back. “We can do nothing for him and likely nothing for ourselves but pray!” He touched a hand to the medallion. “If there is a way, great Kiri-Jolith … if there is a way to guide us-even him,” Stefan added, referring to Golgren, “-through this, then I ask humbly for your aid. Or else what is lost here may lead to a dread darkness spreading beyond the ogre realms.”

But their own position remained precarious, and the heavens assailed Golgren as the ground sought to devour him. Black lightning bolts peppered the ogre like monstrous spears.

Then one of the deadly bolts struck.

A rush of dirt and stone filled the air. Stefan and Idaria were blinded. The knight pressed his companion close, using his armor to shield her from the massive rush of debris that was certain to fall upon them. Stefan Rennert prayed over and over to Kiri-Jolith, in the end merely chanting the god’s name.

Huge chunks began pelting them. They clattered against the knight’s armor, battering and denting it. Stefan clutched Idaria closer. He wasn’t wearing a helmet, and raised one arm over his head to try to ward off the deadly rain.

Several heavy rocks struck the knight on his back. Then he was smacked on the back of the head. Pain jolted Stefan, and Idaria let out a muffled exclamation.

Then there was nothing.