The Black Talon

VI

Ogre life was brutal, and it was twice as brutal for a warrior defeated or shamed. An ogre was measured by his victories, and only one loss could completely alter his standing.

When any chieftain, khan, or lord of the race had a fresh victory to crow long about, an elaborate party was in order.

The minotaur empire had its Great Circus, a huge, oval stadium in which tens of thousands could sit and watch huge spectacles and duels between skilled gladiators. Stories of the battles that took place in the Great Circus were known as far away as the island of Northern Ergoth, off the western edge of Ansalon.

The ogres had a similar arena, which, when first constructed, had been considered one of the wonders of the ancient world. Even with its dome long gone, it was still an imposing structure rivaling in size that of the cursed horned ones. However, like all else in Kern or Blode, it had suffered the ravages of time and neglect and uncivilized behavior. Its dome was gone. Its surrounding walls-once covered with elegant reliefs of griffons and athletes-had either been scoured flat by the elements or battered into ruins during the many vicious power struggles that had decimated the once-proud capital over the centuries. The statues that had stood atop the gates had long been reduced to merely the sandaled feet of some forgotten ruler or the paws of the city’s guardian.

Within the arena-called the Jaka Hwunar by ogres, which roughly translated to the Place of Glorious Blooding in the Common tongue-the signs of decline and decay were also prevalent. The rows of marble benches, which long ago had lost their woven, padded backings, were cracked and mottled. Some parts were broken or missing, due to generations of enthusiastic onlookers bashing at the marble with their clubs. Large rocks and fragments from the wall had been scavenged to fill gaps, but if anything, that added to the ugliness of the setting.

Reaching one of the benches was a precarious job, for the steps and walkways had also suffered over the years. Those areas not worn away by multitudes of heavy feet constantly treading the surface were likely cracked from the same clubs, dropped or pounded, that had brutalized the once-pristine marble seats.

Yet despite such destruction, the Jaka Hwunar had never fallen into disuse in all its long history. Every ruler had shed blood there to prove his power and delight his subjects, who generally reveled in such entertainment. It was a place where warriors vied against other warriors for status, where ogres engaged in competitions with savage beasts, and it was also a place for the public shaming and execution of rivals.

Thus, Golgren took the next step in cementing his mystique by parading out into the arena an array of sorry-looking captives led by the defeated chieftains Wulfgarn and Guln. Wulfgarn wore a look of exhausted resignation, while Guln constantly swung his head back and forth and snarled like a mountain cat at any among the crowd he thought was jeering him. They were followed by a ragtag line of warriors from the beaten horde then a number of figures clad in ruined robes that marked their wearers as formerly among the elite castes. Those last were those Golgren had deemed too close to Zharang to be allowed to go unharmed. Each new ruler of the ogres did the exact same thing, eliminating all family and associates of his predecessor.

Khleeg and a newly armored Wargroch had the honor of standing guard over their master, who sat upon the pillowed couch that had once been reserved for Zharang. Idaria knelt nearby at Golgren’s right, a flask of wine sitting on a small tray before her. The elf showed no more discomfort with what was unfolding before her eyes than anyone else in the audience.

Next to Golgren, there stood a tall, high-backed seat carved from rare black oak, which was found in the mountains toward the northeast. Upon it had been carved various symbols in the ancient writing of the High Ogres. Its dimensions made it look far too large to accommodate any of the ogres assembled thus far. Golgren eyed it briefly with a slight, humorless smile. Dauroth did not think that he could read the ancient symbols, but he could. They honored whoever sat there as lord of the land, and while the script referred originally to some forgotten ruler of the ancients, the grand lord had no doubt that Dauroth saw himself as the heir to those words.

The Titan was not there, though Golgren had commanded his presence. That slight would be addressed at some future point.

The warriors in charge of the prisoners arranged them into groups according to the grand lord’s prior instructions. Khleeg signaled to a trumpeter, who raised his goat horn and let loose a long, baleful note.

The first group, which included only captured common warriors from the horde, was ushered forward into a wide, open area of the arena. As they took their places, the seated throngs began to bark and beat their clubs against the stone.

From the other end of the arena marched a long line of armored guards with clubs and other heavy weapons. They formed twin ranks before the warriors, creating a menacing gauntlet.

The first of the prisoners was shoved forward. Chained, he stumbled at first then began to run awkwardly through the gauntlet.

The second fighter he passed swung brutally at him. The club struck the prisoner’s shoulder so hard, the crack of bone echoed throughout the arena. The crowd lustily barked its approval and battered the seating area into further ruin.

Somehow the chained ogre managed to keep his footing and throw himself forward. However, that merely set him up as victim for a savage series of blows that rained all over his back. Blood splattered the victim, the guards standing in line, and indeed into the front rows of spectators. The prisoner finally let out a howl and slumped to the ground. That, though, brought him no mercy. Instead, the nearest warriors began beating on him in true earnest until finally what lay between them was nearly unrecognizable as a once-living creature.

With long braided whips, two guards forced a couple of the remaining prisoners to advance and drag away the bloody remains. As they did, another captive was picked to be next for the gauntlet.

The prize for any prisoner who managed to make it all the way through the deadly gauntlet was freedom and a place of pride once again among his own kind. The odds were great against such a hope, however, and no one remembered any prisoner ever doing so.

The moment the second prisoner was prodded to move, he tried to run with all the swiftness his exhausted body and the chains allowed. He ducked and dodged as the first guards swung at him, landing only glancing blows. His early success brought momentary cheers of encouragement from the stands.

But no prisoner could withstand such repeated, vicious attacks. That one made it partway but then was caught by a volley from both sides that sent him crashing into the line. One grinning warrior picked him up and shoved him back into the center then cracked him across the jaw with his thick club.

The prisoner fell on his back. Another guard brought down his weapon, and again it was time to drag the corpse out of the way.

Over and over the gruesome scene repeated itself. The sturdiest of the captives managed to get almost halfway. At one point, the captain of the guard had his warriors switch positions, placing those at the end of the gauntlet closer to the front, so they could have their fun too. Not one prisoner gained his freedom, pleasing the Grand Lord Golgren. Despite that, and despite the fact that the carnage went on for more than two hours, the packed crowd was not in the least put off or bored. They had come for blood, and blood was what they got. And they wanted more.

When the last of the bodies had been unceremoniously dragged away, the captain looked up at Golgren. The grand lord gave an almost congenial nod then looked to Idaria for more wine.

“You are pleased at so many ogres dead?” he murmured to her, his tone possibly mocking, possibly merely inquisitive.

“I have no thoughts on the matter,” Idaria replied calmly with her gaze lowered. “I exist only to serve.”

She was expected to say that. He didn’t pay her any further attention. Golgren accepted the wine, refocusing on the events below.

The warriors who had formed the gauntlet had departed. The robed ogres who had been Zharang’s most ardent supporters were prodded forward at spear point to stand before the grand lord.

At that point they surprised everyone by suddenly whirling about as a group and punching and attacking their guards.

One warrior reacted too slowly, and for his failure he died with his throat crushed in by a set of chains tightly wrapped around it. Another of the prisoners quickly seized his spear and whirled toward Golgren.

But Wargroch reacted quicker, grabbing a nearby guard’s spear and positioning himself in front of the grand lord’s seat. With expert aim, he hurled the spear at the would-be assassin.

The force of his throw shoved the sharp missile right through the robed ogre, who dropped his weapon and grasped at his chest where Wargroch had struck him. However, the spear had sunk in so deep that the prisoner could not pull it free.

The ogre dropped abjectly. Soon his companions lost heart and were subdued.

Khleeg grinned at his lord. “Wargroch prove himself, ke?”

Golgren nodded then beckoned Nagroch’s brother over closer to him. Falling down on one knee, Wargroch awaited his reward.

“You have my favor,” the grand lord decreed. “Let the honor of the executions be by your hand, for that favor.”

The Blodian ogre was gleeful. “Great is the grand lord! Great is Golgren!”

With one eye on the breathless crowd, Golgren rose. He drew the sword at his side-the very blade with which the grand lord had dispatched his former khan-and presented it to Wargroch. The Blodian’s eyes bulged, an even wider grin crossing his toadlike features. The honor that Golgren had bestowed on him with his gesture was not lost on any present.

“Agrani ahwuni i ihwuni! Their blood is your blood!” Wargroch roared, raising the blade up in front of his face in salute to his lord.

Golgren indicated with a thrust of his chin that the fighter had his permission to begin. With incredible agility for one of his massive girth, Wargroch turned and leaped down into the arena, an act that would have left a lesser ogre with a shattered ankle or injured leg. Khleeg let out a grunt of respect at the other warrior’s manifest abilities.

“Golgren is indeed fortunate to have such a one watching his back,” Idaria murmured near the grand lord’s ear.

“But I do not need him, do I?” he replied, his eyes still on the tableau before him. “I have you to watch my back, do I not, my Idaria?”

There was a slight hesitation before she said, “Oh, yes, my master.”

Below, the guard captain had organized the robed prisoners into a tight line and forced them to kneel. Wargroch strode around them, hefting the sword in a manner that enabled him to better get the feel of its weight. Drums beat a steady rhythm, heightening anticipation among the crowd. Satisfied with his grip finally, Wargroch took up a position near the first figure in line and looked up to the grand lord for a signal.

Golgren made a slight cutting motion with his hand.

Teeth bared and with spittle on his lip, Wargroch raised the sword with both hands and slashed downward.

A collective grunt escaped the assembled ogres as the cleanly severed head fell and rolled over toward the wall below Golgren. The grunt of exclamation was immediately followed by the ritual beating of clubs and barking and cheering.

Pleased at the results of his handiwork, Wargroch took up a position behind the next victim. Blood from the previous execution dripped onto the neck of the kneeling robed ogre, who, despite the intense pressure, did not so much as breathe hard.

The drums beat again. Nagroch’s brother steadied himself before he slashed viciously down. Again, the victim’s head rolled cleanly away as the torso flopped forward onto the rocky ground.

One by one, Wargroch solidified his status and reputation by eliminating the rest of Zharang’s inner circle. Khleeg nodded his approval as the others died. Golgren shifted position, looking distracted and once more eyeing Dauroth’s empty seat.

The only two left alive were Wulfgarn and Guln. They had been given a prominent spot to view the proceedings, knowing that their own executions would be the climax and highlight of the day’s events. The older chieftain grew restive, and Guln struggled with his guards, who nonetheless kept their grip on him.

A horn blared, and from the side where the bodies of the dead lay piled like refuse, herders brought forth four huge mastarks. Raised for blood and battle, the beasts were not at all unnerved to find themselves surrounded by the smells of death.

Briefly Guln managed to break free. He made a dash for the nearest exit, but his guards quickly tackled him.

Wargroch, meanwhile, had returned to Golgren and the others. Kneeling before the grand lord, he presented the blade.

Indifferent to the blood staining Wargroch’s garments, Golgren stood and accepted the sword with an approving nod. As Wargroch stepped away, Golgren raised the sword high for all to see.

The crowd roared. Golgren brandished the sword three times then, to the surprise of many in the arena, beckoned Wargroch and handed it back to the Blodian.

Wargroch took the sword and, holding it across his outspread hands, kissed the crimson-tinged blade. He then stepped back, grinning like a child, as the guards prepared the next and final act in the sordid drama.

The giant mastarks stood two abreast with one pair facing the other. The mastarks wore the harnesses designed for toting wagons and such behind them. However, they also wore two chains ending in empty manacles, dangling at the back end of those harnesses.

Using the chains from one animal, the guards snapped a manacle to Wulfgarn’s left wrist. As he desperately tried to resist, they attached the manacle from the other chain to his left ankle.

For Guln, a different torture was to be utilized. Instead of a wrist and ankle, he had both of his wrists manacled to one mastark and both of his ankles manacled to another.

Despite their attempts to struggle free of the guards, both defeated chieftains were quickly chained in place. The crowd shouted its eagerness, the swelling noise causing the mastarks to grow nervous. One of those to whom Wulfgarn was attached took a step forward, tightening the chain and tearing from the ogre an unearthly shriek as bone and muscle threatened to give way.

“A very dramatic display,” a voice next to Golgren quietly proclaimed in perfect Common.

Khleeg, Wargroch, and the other guards gave a start. Only Golgren and Idaria looked unsurprised at the sudden arrival of Dauroth, who sat in the tall seat looking very much at home, as if he had been there the entire time. The Titan was sipping from a goblet of his own, an elegant gold-and-silver chalice with a row of blood-red rubies lining the middle.

“A very dramatic display,” repeated the gigantic spellcaster. He took another sip of the clear liquid in his elegant goblet then glanced at Golgren and added, “One would hardly think you’d need to stage a coronation, however. Your exalted position is certainly secure among the race, isn’t it?”

“I will be named grand khan and lord chieftain,” Golgren returned just as confidently. “It will be so.”

“Then you are determined to follow through with all of it?”

The grand lord’s eyes narrowed slightly. “All of it … ”

The mastarks began swaying back and forth impatiently. The guard captain stood waiting for some sign from the grand lord.

At last Golgren nodded. The handlers urged the great beasts, and they began to lumber forward.

The chains tightened. The two prisoners fought furiously to free themselves, but their efforts were doomed.

The mastarks continued unhindered. The chains grew taut.

Guln’s shrieks lasted nearly twice as long as Wulfgarn’s. Even the cheers of the audience could not drown out their suffering. All in all, it took only two or three minutes for the beasts to finish their awful task. The arena floor was awash with blood and other bodily fluids, not to mention gobbets of flesh.

Golgren stood once more. A silence fell upon the Jaka Hwunar. All present, even the late-arrived Dauroth, rose to their feet.

The grand lord thrust out his hands toward his people, and they, in turn, began to shout a single word-or rather, a name.

“Golgren,” they cried, their voices growing louder, more emphatic, with each repetition. “Golgren … Golgren … ”

And as they continued to shout, the grand lord glanced over his shoulder at Dauroth, expressionless, as though unfazed by all the acclaim.

“It will be so,” the grand lord murmured.

Dauroth took another sip from his drink, his golden eyes revealing nothing of his thoughts. He bowed slightly to Golgren, then raised his goblet in a toast.

The smaller ogre lowered his arms, but the crowd continued shouting. Golgren looked to Khleeg, who, with a gesture to the arena, indicated the grand lord’s imminent departure. Horns blared and drums beat as Golgren and his retinue-Dauroth assuming a place on his left side-left the Jaka Hwunar.

Once Golgren was gone, the calls eventually died down. Stirred by the event, the ogres shambled out of the ancient arena. They grunted and growled among themselves, arguing over which part of the bloodbath had been the most entertaining.

When the Jaka Hwunar was empty of its audience, the handlers and guards began the cleanup. Slaves, both ogres and otherwise, began the messy task of loading up the rickety, two-wheeled carts with ruined corpses, tossing what remained of Wulfgarn and Guln among the others without thought or ceremony.

The tainted bodies would receive neither burial nor burning. The ogre race had many hungry pets such as the meredrakes and the baraki to feed. That day, the voracious reptiles would feast well.

And when all were gone, brownish red stains remained, spreading over the floor and marking a day when the Place of Glorious Blooding had more than lived up to its name.

A crowd as large as that inside the arena awaited the grand lord outside. Golgren raised his arms to acknowledge the crowd’s approbation as his name was roared over and over.

Dauroth suddenly edged toward Golgren and, with a quick bow, whispered, “With your august permission, oh Grand Lord, I shall take my leave. There are matters of great import-”

Without even glancing at the sorcerer, Golgren casually muttered, “No.”

The Titan’s handsome features twisted irritably but only for a moment. Only Idaria was close enough to notice. The elf involuntarily moved nearer to her master.

The Titan cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon?”

“No. Dauroth will come to the palace, yes?”

Dauroth bowed again. “Of course, oh Grand Lord. I am as ever at your beck and call.”

Golgren grinned toward the crowd pressing from all directions, but his smile was not for them. “Yes.”

The journey was a short one; the grand lord was in a hurry and did not pause to take the usual accolades from his people. Khleeg, Wargroch, and the guards matched Golgren’s determined pace as the entire party, including Dauroth, arrived at the former abode of the Great Dragon That Is-Was-Zharang.

Golgren did not proceed to his quarters, instead entering a vast balcony situated beyond the throne room. Patchwork had returned the balcony to close to its original glory but also made it safe and secure. The legs of the banisters had once been carved to resemble griffons and, under the reign of Zharang’s predecessor, some had been repaired. The floor, originally a marble mosaic forming the silhouette of the fabled beast, was in fair condition, save that the griffon was missing a leg and most of one wing. Its hide was also perforated with white squares, the outcome of inept restoration work.

Khleeg angrily ushered out the elf slaves who were engaged in repair work. Dauroth watched the chained figures scurry past, as if sizing up each one of them. It was ironic, he reflected, that the slaves toiled so hard to restore Garantha’s icon to its greatness. The royal family of Silvanost honored the same beast as their symbol; the elves believed it was their tradition from the beginning of time. Yet ogres believed the elves had stolen the legacy of the griffons from ogres. It was Golgren’s intention to restore the griffon as an emblem of his people’s might and a symbol of the elves’ downfall.

The grand lord paused at the rail of the balcony. The sight was breathtaking, for the city looked beautiful from that distance, and beyond Garantha the local mountain range offered an equally picturesque vista. But in reality Golgren cared little about the view. He had other things on his mind.

“Khleeg!” he abruptly declared, reverting to the Ogre tongue. “Falan du hach!”

“Falan du hach?”

“Ke!”

Puzzled, the officer began commanding the others to join them on the balcony. However, Golgren shook his head. “Bin iDaurothi!”

The warrior and the sorcerer exchanged a look; then Khleeg reluctantly nodded, following the others as they left. Only Idaria remained behind with Dauroth and the grand lord.

“You have a sudden fondness for the mongrel tongue with which most of our people bark?” the Titan asked in Common when the others were safely out of hearing.

“As much a sudden fondness as you have for my company, spellcaster.” When Dauroth chose not to remark on his peculiar comment, Golgren turned and glared at the giant. “We do not pretend here, yes?”

“We have never pretended, Grand Lord.”

Golgren’s hand grazed his chest. “No, good Dauroth, this one believes you have not.” The grand lord bared his teeth. “Our goals, they are both the same and completely different.”

“An astute way in which to state it.”

“But one thing must be agreed. The future of the ogre is for the ogre to decide.”

The Titan nodded. “There can be no other way, no thought of intrusion by another race.”

“Yes.” Golgren continued to bare his teeth. “Thus, the Titans first must see to the Uruv Suurt. They test the borders. They must be taught the borders are ours to define, ours to cross.”

“This is surely a task for your commanders, Grand Lord-”

The smaller half-breed shook his head. “That would be war. This would be … ” Golgren searched for the right phrase. “This would be Kyethna Uulusaar.’ ”

“ ‘The Gods’ Laughter,’ ” Dauroth repeated. “The word or phrase in Common you seek, oh Grand Lord, might be happenstance or better pure coincidence.”

“Yes … what befalls the Uruv Suurt will be coincidence, will it not, good Dauroth?”

“As you say,” the blue-skinned spellcaster replied, his tone even. “As you say.”

Without warning, Golgren turned away from Dauroth, suddenly seeming more interested in the view. He did not see the momentary gleam in the Titan’s eyes, but Idaria did. She almost let out a cry of warning, but Dauroth’s gaze shifted to the elf, stifling her.

Then the Titan vanished in a swirl of black tendrils of smoke.

As if sensing the departure, Golgren immediately turned back toward the elf woman. Triumph shone in his own eyes.

His triumph was tempered by the knowledge that his victory was only temporary.

“Now the Titans will be kept busy for a time, do you not think, my Idaria?”

“I … I suppose so, master.”

Golgren chuckled softly. He took her chin in his hand and guided her face so she was forced to look up intimately into his eyes. “Fear not, my Idaria. Golgren will not let him have you.” His expression hardened as his gaze returned to where the sorcerer had stood before he departed. “No … I have only one gift in mind for Dauroth and his Titans.”