The Black Talon

XXIV

What remained of the Black Talon stood in a circle. The center of that circle was where they had last glimpsed the prophet of their dream, their leader and founder, Dauroth.

The Titans were also spent, some dangerously so, but they dared not rest. What had happened only hours earlier still rattled them to the core. Those who were not members of the Talon could not be informed that Dauroth had perished. That unthinkable thing would spread chaos among the spellcasters. It might mean not only the end of the dream, but the end of all of them too.

“The elixir!” snapped a Titan called Yatilun. His pale, haggard face was the mirror of most others in the room. “Before anything else, we must partake of the elixir!”

“Then I should be first!” interjected another.

“Nay! I!” called a third. Arguments began to break out.

Morgada shook her head, her long, black hair flowing wildly. “We are lost! Without Dauroth, we are lost.”

“Nay.”

They looked to Safrag, who stood straighter than the rest, looking less weary than the rest.

He stood far more confidently than the rest.

Unlike the others, Safrag was resplendent, handsome, and in perfect command of himself. He glided among them, and they could not but help but be impressed and calm down slightly. “Dauroth’s passing will be known and it will be mourned, but the Titans-and the Black Talon, especially-do not live and die with him. The dream that the master sought is still attainable. Another must merely guide our efforts.”

“But who?” demanded Yatilun. “There is no other like Dauroth!”

“Perhaps at one time Hundjal might have led us,” the Titan next to him suggested. “But Dauroth found some terrible, inexplicable fault in him … just as he did with Kallel.”

Safrag nodded in agreement then, bowing with taloned hands spread, bluntly replied, “I would humbly put forth myself.”

Morgada had watched Safrag closely from the moment he had begun speaking. The hint of a smile appeared and began to spread across her face. “Yes! Safrag was Dauroth’s apprentice also! Safrag would know all the master’s secrets!”

“You are correct in your last statement, Morgada. No one knew the master better than I, perhaps not even Hundjal.”

There were those among the Talon who might have protested such a declaration, but as each one of the Titans stared at Safrag, comprehension dawned. He was not the servile toady many had thought Safrag to be. They all knew they were seeing a new side of the apprentice, a Safrag revealed as never before.

“The elixir?” Yatilun prodded almost gingerly.

Safrag smiled broadly, his teeth perfect and so perfectly sharp. “There is enough for now … for the Black Talon. A bit more can be made for others who most urgently require it. We also have the many bones. They will help us for a time.”

The gathered sorcerers murmured among themselves, reassured about their welfare, their future, and happy to be reminded that the bones would still be of use. Without casting a vote, with little more than nods and glances, they accepted Safrag as their leader.

“I will be taking over the master’s sanctum. At the midnight hour, you shall come to me one by one to receive the elixir.” Safrag’s gaze flitted among the Titans, finally settling upon one. “Morgada, you shall be first, and thereafter, you will assist me.”

“I am at your command,” she murmured, curtseying. Her eyes glowed with eagerness. Safrag had as much as declared her his chief apprentice.

“We must rebuild much and recuperate more,” he informed the others. “The dream will be fulfilled … in the name of the master, of course.”

The other members of the Black Talon bowed before Safrag, cementing his role as their leader, their new master. As he straightened, Yatilun cautiously brought up a subject thorny but familiar to the spellcasters. “What about the Grand Lord Golgren? What if, by fate or luck, he lives? He will wish vengeance! We cannot permit that, and yet we are weakened.”

“The mongrel does live,” Safrag informed them, startling more than one there with the new depth of his knowledge. “I sensed it. Whether he retains control for very long, though, is a question. For the time being, while we recuperate, we shall let him live and let him play at ruler. The dream is our ultimate goal and our ultimate destiny. The Grand Lord Golgren may continue to be a useful tool. When we are ready, he shall pass as all grand khans and lord chieftains have passed.”

“When we are ready …” repeated a Titan. “When we are ready …”

“Dauroth promised it would be soon, but he never said how we would finally accomplish it!” said a second. “The signets and other artifacts from the tomb were to assist, but that was all! He never told us how he would forever liberate all Titans from the continual need of elixir. The bones are a temporary solution! He never told-”

“He told me,” the former apprentice turned master replied with a gracious smile, displaying all his teeth.

As the others stared at Safrag with fresh i nterest, Morgada shifted her position nearer to the new leader. Safrag steepled his fingers in contemplation then expounded, “He told me his intentions only a day ago. The dream finally revealed to him the necessary path. It will take more sacrifice, more determination, but it will at last lead us to fulfilling all!”

“Pray, good Safrag,” the Titaness asked demurely. “What information did Dauroth relay to you? Can you give the rest of us some hope, some clue? Is that permitted?”

“I would not leave my fellow Titans wandering in the dark like the rest of our fallen race, dear Morgada. All shall know our course, for all shall be needed for the hunt.”

Yatilun frowned. “ ‘Hunt’? You almost sound like Hundjal when you speak so, Safrag! What are we hunting this time?”

The former apprentice smiled in a manner very much like that of his late mentor. He spread his arms wide again, as if to embrace all those present. “A dream in itself, a legend that has been determined at last to be fact. We owe Dauroth a debt for revealing to us the final piece.” His smile widened even more. “We hunt the resting place of the Fire Rose.”

That brought renewed gasps and gaping from the Black Talon. “The Fire Rose?” someone shouted. “But it is only reckless myth!”

“A myth Dauroth forbade us even to research,” reminded another, “for all the tales of it, he said, had endings most dire.”

“I ever found that strange,” Yatilun admitted. “Why forbid seeking something that supposedly did not exist?”

Safrag waved away all their doubts and superstitions. “The master sought only to protect those too eager to be of assistance. The Fire Rose is our key. You may trust me on that point.”

Yatilun shook his head skeptically. “But how can we find this thing so long lost? How do we track a legend so ancient?”

“Like calls to like. Dauroth taught us all that lesson. We can and will find it.”

“But to do that, we would need-”

“A part of the legend. A minute piece of the myth. Yes, Yatilun. Yes, all of you … Dauroth and I managed to discover a small fragment of the Fire Rose.” Safrag’s eyes burned with ambition, though he spoke modestly. “A thing in itself very powerful. We shall use it to find that to which it belongs.” He bowed his head at the empty space where his master had last stood, last stood staring at Safrag. “As Dauroth wished us to do.”

Idaria tended to Golgren, who had passed out just as the slave reached him, as best she could. She kept his head up, scanning the carnage for another living being who might help them. It was more than an hour before three warriors in breastplates came across the pair. Under her guidance, they carried the grand lord as carefully as they could toward the capital.

Golgren awoke during his journey and, despite his injuries, commanded the pair to set him down so he could walk. When they protested, he muttered, “It would not show strength to be carried through the gates like an infant.”

He accepted a supporting arm from two of the warriors out of necessity but kept his head high and his expression defiant. As they wended their way toward Garantha, survivors began to collect behind Golgren. Their numbers were small, but he hailed each. Most welcome was the survival of Khleeg. The officer, ugly even for an ogre, was even less appealing of face, bruised and bloodied and scraped. Khleeg was a ghastly sight. His toadlike mouth was still bleeding, and one tooth was gone. A huge bulge over his left eye made it nearly impossible for him to see out of that orb. His nose was also broken. Yet he silently took up a position near his master and, armed with an axe not his own, marched as if leading a parade of victory.

By the time they reached Garantha’s gates, a little more than a hundred warriors-many of them limping and even, in some cases, dragging wounded legs-marched with the grand lord. It was a sorry lot, admittedly, but at the same time one that set Golgren’s blood stirring with pride.

Another familiar figure met them at the gate. Wargroch, fairly untouched and mounted, leaped down from his horse and dropped to one knee. “Grand Lord, I thought all dead! I search and search then return here! When I hear of your living, I bring you this!”

He turned the horse so Golgren could mount. Golgren couldn’t suppress a grin, in spite of the pain, as he mounted. He looked back to survey the survivors of his force, nodding at Idaria nearby, then raised his hand and clenched his fist.

The beaten, broken soldiers shouted out his name. “Golgren! Golgren!”

Seeing one trumpeter among the guards still manning the ruined walls, the grand lord gestured. The trumpeter hastily put the goat horn to his mouth and blew hard. Another trumpeter farther away picked up the note and joined in. As Golgren started to ride, the capital resounded with one blast after another.

Khleeg renewed the shouting. “Golgren! Golgren!”

The other warriors followed suit and, within a minute, many onlookers did too.

And as the small party rode deeper into the devastated city, more and more ogres came out to line the cracked streets or halted their cleanup efforts to stare at the return of the grand lord. Many joined in the cheers and shouting.

At they turned toward the palace, Golgren’s eyes narrowed. He suddenly guided his horse in a different direction. Khleeg, Idaria, and the others did their best to keep up, not knowing what he had in mind. But Golgren did nothing by chance or accident.

As word continued to spread ahead of the march, ogres from various sectors of Garantha joined in the grand lord’s wake. Many were warriors left to defend the city, overjoyed to find their leader alive, even if so badly battered. But many ordinary citizens, in growing numbers, swelled the parade.

At last, Golgren arrived at his chosen destination. It was not the Jaka Hwunar, where he had once intended his glorious climax to take place, but rather the temple of Garantha’s patron spirit. The ancient edifice was intact-minus one column that had broken free and tumbled down the steps-and the area was clear enough of debris to enable a crowd of citizens to surround the grand lord as he rode the horse up the steps. At the top, Golgren leaped down as if full of fresh energy and entirely unharmed from his ordeal. Not even Khleeg or Idaria were allowed to know the pain that made him wince, the jarring of his bones when he landed on the stone steps. Golgren bound his mount’s reins to one of the columns then turned and stood before the many assembled ogres. Over his chest he still wore his mummified hand, and that he suddenly held high.

“Kee yo if’hanosi uth if’hani dakar!” he roared so all present would hear his claim. Golgren then repeated the words in Common. “I have brought death back to the undead!”

His followers barked and, lacking clubs, slapped one fist into the other over and over. Their enthusiasm spread among the ordinary folk. To the people, Golgren was alive and the undead were no more. The people were amazed, and they were proud.

“Dakar iGaranthi uld iGolgreni ne iGolgreni uld iGaranthi! Garantha is Golgren just as Golgren is Garantha!”

There was more clamor from the crowd and especially the grand lord’s warriors, with Khleeg leading the shouts, “Kala i iF’hanosi il aF’hanari Faluum iGolgreni! All praise to the Final Death of the Undead That is Golgren! All praise!”

“Kala i iF’hanosi il aF’hanari Faluum iGolgreni! Kala i iF’hanosi il aF’hanari Faluum iGolgreni!” the crowd repeated in an awkward chant. To ogres, any title was prestigious, and the more titles, no matter how ungainly they tripped off the tongue, the more prestige.

Golgren looked at Khleeg, who understood immediately what was asked of him next. The officer rushed halfway up the temple steps then turned and yelled in Common, “All praise the grand khan of all ogres! All praise the grand khan of Golthuu!”

The crowd immediately cheered his bold, new pronouncement; those whose grasp of Common was not good enough to understand all the words caught the gist and simply mouthed the Common chant, “All praise the grand khan of Golthuu!” Caught up in the excitement, all accepted the momentous proclamation, for it would bring a semblance of order and sanity to a devastating situation.

“All praise the grand khan of all ogres!” Khleeg shouted over and over at the top of his voice. As the rest assembled joined his effort, their thunderous chant flowed out over the rest of Garantha and became truth throughout the ogre realms.

It was not the extravagant traditional ceremony Golgren had intended, but in the end, it served him as well … at least for the time being. For he was the grand khan of all. When there came an accounting for all the tragedy, he knew there would be controversies and questions focused on his leadership.

There would be many repercussions from the disaster. News of the ruination would reach the Uruv Suurt, whose emperor would smile at the thought of so many dead ogres and who might think to add to their numbers. It would also reach the Solamnics, who, with the knight Sir Stefan Rennert lost-the dream of an alliance lost-might also cause future problems for the ogres.

And there were others whose fate was in question.

Golgren did not glance at her, but he felt Idaria’s gaze strong upon him. The elves beyond the realms, who sought to free their kind from slavery, might take the opportunity to create trouble. There were older enemies yet in Neraka and among his own kind. Not for a moment did the new grand khan believe he had won any clear victory. Not for a moment did he think that he would not soon face opposition from other ambitious ogre warriors. Even if seen as a victory, the day had drained the numbers of his supporters and loyalists.

There was also the mysterious force watching him-trying to manipulate him-through the eyes of gargoyles. Golgren had not rejected the notion that Tyranos guided the gargoyles. Tyranos no doubt had survived. But it was more likely that someone else steered the foul creatures, someone even more insidious.

Yet of all threats, of all his enemies, there existed only one that he considered of immediate danger. They might be leaderless and in disarray-for surely Dauroth was no more-but the Titans were in a power struggle to the death with him. The reins would be taken up, and they would seek Golgren’s blood anew.

He grinned wider and while the throngs assumed the grin was meant for them and his own pleasure, the half-breed ogre leader smiled in anticipation of the great fight ahead of him. In his life, Golgren had endured ridicule, beatings, enslavement, and sufferings that made the loss of his hand a minor inconvenience. He had endured those tribulations and grown the stronger. They had molded his ambition, his ruthlessness.

Guided by Khleeg and his other supporters, the ogres continued to cheer and shout his name. Golgren turned in every direction, waving and acknowledging the crowd. He knew he stood straight and tall and looked powerful, despite his slighter stature.

Yes, the Titans were welcome to betray him again.

The Uruv Suurt, the dark knights-all his adversaries-were welcome to try their best too. Golgren laughed, and his subjects, thinking he was savoring his triumph, laughed with him.

No, he was savoring his future triumphs. He was surrounded by enemies who wanted to unseat or kill him. That was why Golgren laughed. No sane person would wish to be surrounded by enemies … no one.

“Come to me,” Golgren murmured to those distant foes. “Come to me … and I will teach you fear.”

And as if hearing his taunt, something fluttered away from a building in the distance, something the new grand khan realized had to have been there all that time, watching.

Barely had he focused on the ugly thing than a second one rose from the west, joining the first in flight. A third was added to their ranks from the northern section of the capital. The three hovered in the sky, hovered just long enough for Golgren to understand they wanted him to see them; then, with a sudden, intense flapping of wings, the three gargoyles rose high into the yet overcast heavens … and vanished.