The Black Talon

VII

Stefan trudged along the barren land, watched carefully by his captors even though his arms were bound. The ogres holding him belonged to a small nomadic band that had come upon the battle site at the same time as he and his party of knights. There were about forty in all, led by a young chieftain named Atolgus. Although Kern was led by a grand khan, and lesser khans governed vast stretches of the realm in his name, chieftains were the backbone of ogre rule in Kern as they were in Blode. Atolgus ruled with the iron fist and heavy club necessary for survival there. Stefan knew that, not the least after having witnessed the shaggy, black-mopped giant beat into submission at least one surly warrior who resisted his commands.

Stefan himself had been struck only once in the nearly six days since his capture. Atolgus had no sympathy for the human. He was keeping the knight alive for only one reason. The chieftain was a minor figure among leaders in his realm; that was obvious from the small size of the party, which roamed around without belonging to an actual village. However, Atolgus would elevate his status by presenting his captive to one of the khans, who in turn could use the knight to increase his own standing.

All that would happen, assuming that Stefan survived the long, arduous trek to wherever Atolgus intended to take him.

Stefan observed his guards warily, especially a scarred, vicious beast named Thraas. Nearly bald and with a nose obviously broken more than once, Thraas was ugly, even for an ogre, and more ill-tempered than the typical member of the race. Atolgus wielded the ultimate authority, but Thraas clearly boasted some unique status of his own among the clan, for more than once he balked slyly at orders given him by the chieftain, sidestepping actual disagreement. Yet Thraas did not directly defy his leader, nor did Atolgus call his underling to task.

Atolgus was the only male who could speak Common at all. However, his mate, the only slightly less fearsome Torma, proved to be something of a sophisticate. She was well versed enough to translate most of the chieftain’s garbled words and phrases.

“Atolgus learn from shelled ones,” Torma explained with a grunt. “Shiny, like you.” Although younger than Stefan, her face was sadly worn by life in the rough wild and her breasts-barely covered by the ragged animal skin she wore-hung very low. Most ogres failed to live past forty years.

“While fighting the Nerakans … uh, the black shells?”

The ogress nodded affirmatively. It was Torma who had the duty of feeding the prisoner. Normally, such a task would have fallen on a lesser female, but Atolgus did not trust any of the others and, in truth, Torma seemed to enjoy the opportunity to practice her Common.

“They taught you, did they?” Stefan asked, honestly curious.

Torma stuffed a piece of meat tougher than jerky into his mouth. Her eyes burned fiercely. “Females not taught, but Torma listened much … learn some.”

Female ogres usually joined in the fighting and even on a rare occasion took up the mantle of chieftain, but the conventional wisdom was that most of them existed simply to breed more male ogres. The women’s inferior position obliged them to deal with most of the camp work whenever the clan settled down for the night. It was often the women who pitched the rounded frame tents that were covered in long-abused animal skins; the females did the main cooking, and they saw that order was kept among the young, especially the hot-headed males.

Torma finished feeding the captive. “Sleep now,” she said sternly in Common. “Long journey Garantha is.”

Sleep Stefan did, for he had no other choice and in fact he was bone weary. The ground was as crude and inhospitable as his taskmasters, but the march had truly exhausted him. He drifted off almost immediately into a very deep slumber.

That was why he did not wake until the shadowy figure in the dark hovering over him had nearly freed his limbs.

It was actually the shush of breathing that woke the Solamnic, breathing that sounded as if some savage animal loomed very close to him. Stefan jerked awake then heard a low, bestial grunt. As he started to rise-realizing at that moment that he was no longer bound-there came a sound like the fluttering of wings. Taloned hands clutched his shoulders.

Stefan tried to punch his attacker, aiming for where he assumed the head of the creature must be, and was rewarded with a thwack on the side of his enemy’s jaw. The shadowy form snarled but did not release its hold. Stefan kicked up, but the winged form’s chest proved to be better protected than its jaw, and the knight ended up only ramming his leg into something very solid.

Stefan’s foe was nearly as tall as he and about half again as broad. Its strength seemed on par with that of an ogre.

Stefan was about to cry out when from nearby came someone else’s shout of alarm. Suddenly, Stefan’s attacker lost all interest in him.

“Fool,” grunted a voice that was neither human nor ogre. The shape retreated, melting into the darkness. Leaping to his feet, Stefan tried to grab him or it, but once more there sounded a rapid flapping of wings and suddenly the human was alone.

Although that did not last for long. A hissing filled the air. Stefan gasped as something sinewy enfolded him, cutting off his breath. He fought for air, only to be pulled off his feet without warning.

He landed on the ground with such force that he nearly blacked out. A heavy foot slammed into him hard in the side. Through tearing eyes, the Solamnic beheld Thraas looming over him, a torch in one hand and the handle of a whip-the source of the knight’s breathing difficulties-in the other.

“Magaros ul i f’han, Shok G’Ran,” snarled the ogre. Shok G’Ran was the phrase used by the monstrous race for the Solamnics. It literally meant the shelled ones who bite like lions and was a reflection of the ogres’ grudging respect for the Knighthood’s skills. Shok meant a powerful beast.

Thraas had his foot planted on the human’s chest and was busy squeezing the air out of Stefan’s windpipe. At the same time, he thrust his torch dangerously close to the knight’s face.

“Vardok! Da i vardok!” Atolgus had arrived, shoving Thraas to the side just before the ogre would have succeeded in killing Stefan. As the knight gasped for air, the two ogres began arguing. Thraas pointed insistently into the dark landscape and, as other ogres gathered around, rushed out of the camp in that direction. Another warrior followed close at his heels.

Moments later, they returned with a grisly burden between them. It was another ogre, likely one of the guards, dead. The back of his neck had been ripped open, and for good measure his head had been twisted around and nearly off. Someone had then gone to the extra trouble of cleanly removing both his hands by means of a blade. Of the severed appendages, there was no sign.

With an odd gentleness, Thraas and the other male ogre set the corpse down in front of Stefan. Thraas barked something at his chieftain, and his furious gaze fixed on the human.

Atolgus, too, glared at Stefan, who was dumbfounded. The chieftain reluctantly nodded then rounded on his prisoner.

“D’ihra tu Shok G’Ran!” Atolgus growled ferociously. “Shelled one is to blame! How? What! Blood of Thraas slain coward! Kill like ji-baraki and take the warrior from him!”

Stefan did his best to comprehend. The guard was kin to Thraas, and the knight was accused of being his murderer, that much was clear. But that in itself was not the trouble; rather that Thraas was claiming Stefan had slain the ogre in a fashion considered base and cowardly even by the bestial race. Ji-baraki-which essentially meant larger baraki-were considered foul creatures by ogres. To be called a ji-baraki was a high insult and didn’t bode well for Stefan’s fate.

The chieftain turned to his mate, who had rushed up belatedly to join the others. He jammed an accusing finger at the captive then repeated, “D’ihra tu Shok G’Ran!”

As Atolgus and Thraas fell into another heated discussion, Torma and two guards took charge of the prisoner. The ogress avoided Stefan’s eyes, looking as though she were embarrassed by the human’s transgression and no longer wished to be associated with him.

“I did not kill the ogre,” Stefan tried to tell her, “but if I had, why would that be cowardly? I am a prisoner. Surely it is brave to try and escape and kill one’s captors.”

The ogress thrust up both hands in front of Stefan. “Hunter with no hands! Warrior with no hands! Craal’s spirit not to be hunter, not to be warrior! Must beg always!”

The human’s brow furrowed thoughtfully. “You are saying that because of this-because Craal’s-hands were cut off and taken away, his spirit will also have no hands and-”

“No hunt! No fight! No honor!” She spit at Stefan. “No honor, Shok G’Ran! Craal was cousin to Thraas. Personal insult to Thraas too. Very evil thing to do, even for human!”

“I did not slay him, and I would certainly not have taken his hands! When could I have done it? Where did I put them?”

She only shook her head. “Only Hada ky F’han answer! Shok G’Ran and Thraas must do Hada ky F’han! Death battle.”

“Hada ky F’han? A battle to the death? With Thraas?”

“Ke! Thraas! Shok G’Ran! Hada ky F’han!”

Despite himself, Stefan felt a deep fear. He wore no armor. Thraas was likely twice as big and heavy as he, and most of the ogre was muscle. The knight was tired and dazed; he had been walking without much nourishment for days, whereas Thraas was one of the few ogres who owned a horse and had been riding it on the journey. The odds were greatly against the human.

“How soon?” he asked Torma as she turned from him. “When the Burning comes?” Ogres called the daytime iSirriti Siroth-or Sirrion’s Burning-in their tongue. The phrase harkened to the god of fire whom they believed lived in the sun and daily tried to set the land on fire merely for his entertainment.

The ogress grunted. “Ne iSirriti Siroth! Byyn!”

He was suddenly grabbed by the guards and shoved back in the same direction where Atolgus and Thraas had gone. The ogres had no intention of waiting until daybreak. Whatever his condition, Stefan would have to fight Thraas right then… and likely die.

The entire clan had gathered in the center of camp. Even before Stefan reached the area, all the mature males other than his guards, including Atolgus and Thraas, had formed a crude circle several yards in diameter. All of those in the circle hefted thick, wooden clubs. Outside of the circle, torches held high by females lit up the area almost as bright as noon.

Memories of the stories a senior knight-one Tempion-had related came back to Stefan in a rush. Tempion had been among the Nerakans sent to help the ogres learn tactics in the early days of their fractious alliance. The older knight-a trainer of novices after having suffered a savage wound in one battle-once described a curious ogre ritual he and his comrades had been forced to watch.

When an ogre was accused of disgracing the honor of another ogre, the accused and the accuser were obliged to settle their differences within a circle of armed warriors. They each were given weapons and, at a signal, were expected to fight to the death.

But that was only one aspect of the ritual. There was a harsh penalty for stepping over or even too near the boundaries of the circle. The nearest ogre on the perimeter had the pleasure of taking a swing with his club at the trespasser and imparting whatever damage he could to the one who had made a misstep.

Thraas was already building himself up into an ecstasy of bloodlust. He whirled his club eagerly. Atolgus suddenly thrust a much smaller weapon into the human’s hand. Glancing down, Stefan stared in shock at the rusty dagger-Nerakan, by its markings-with which he was somehow expected to defend himself.

“Where is my sword?” the Solamnic demanded, almost sputtering. “I demand by right the weapon of my choice!”

Thraas let out a coughing sound that passed for ogre laughter. With a grunt, Atolgus said, “No right. Thraas choice.”

The Solamnic grimaced. “If I win,” he asked of the chieftain, “do I go free?”

Atolgus snorted, emitting more ogre laughter. “You live.”

With that, the lead ogre stepped back. Thraas struck the ground hard with his club then grinned at the puny human.

“Jeka!” shouted Atolgus, departing to stand outside the circle.

Thraas lunged forward, swinging as he charged. Stefan drew back then twisted to Thraas’s right just as something grazed the back of his leg. He had come too close to the circle of warriors. Another inch or two, and his leg would have been shattered.

Thraas grinned lewdly. Showing incredible dexterity for one so huge, the ogre reached quickly and managed to snag the human’s wrist, the hand with his weapon. The ogre’s grip tightened so much that Stefan nearly fumbled his rusty blade.

As the bestial warrior dragged Stefan closer, the knight did drop his blade and twisted and picked it up with his left hand. Before Thraas could react, the knight jabbed.

The human’s dagger penetrated the ogre’s thick hide but just barely. Worse, the blade snapped in half, the upper portion of it sticking out of the shallow wound.

Thraas laughed and grabbed for the Solamnic, but Stefan kicked up hard at the piece of metal sticking out of his adversary’s side. The dagger blade was forced in deeper.

At last Thraas felt pain, even if it was only minor, annoying pain. However, the surprise made his grip loosen, enabling Stefan to pull free and dodge around the ogre.

Eager, tusked faces eyed the knight and more than one ogre in the circle looked tempted to break ranks and strike out at him. Two or three steps in any direction would be enough to unleash them, but he kept his footing and stayed away.

Stefan spun around as Thraas came toward him again. Eagerly, the ogre raised his club-.just as Stefan threw himself shoulder-first as hard as he could into his giant foe.

Thraas was heavy, but Stefan had the propulsive edge. The impact of their collision sent the ogre stumbling back.

A club slammed into Thraas’s shoulder as one of the ogres in the circle took advantage of his clumsy maneuvering. He howled, dropping his weapon. Stefan attempted to seize the fallen club, but its weight was such that the best he could do was drag it away. The Solamnic shoved it behind him, where it rolled to a halt at the feet of some of the warriors of the circle.

Thraas recovered and started to lumber toward him again, then appeared to think twice about his strategy, for he suddenly hesitated and circled the knight with a fresh wariness.

“Kya i f’han, Shok G’Ran!” snarled Thraas.

“We shall see who death claims,” the knight retorted. His gaze darted around the circle at the bloodthirsty warriors, eager to bash either one of them if they drew too close.

Thraas lunged again. Stefan’s attempt to leap over the diving ogre fell short. The tusked giant managed to grab him. Rolling around on the ground, Thraas wrapped his huge arms around Stefan’s midsection and squeezed.

With both fists, the knight pummeled Thraas’s injured shoulder. The ogre let out a howl and let go. With some effort, Stefan pushed himself to the side.

He saw that Thraas’s side was dripping blood. Gritting his teeth, Stefan jumped on the ogre, who was slowly getting to his feet, thrusting his fingers into the wound and doing his best to push the piece of broken blade deeper inside.

His initial reward was a backhanded slap that sent him hurtling across the circle. As Stefan landed on his back, he looked up at a toothy warrior preparing to swing down at him. Reacting instinctively, the Solamnic pushed himself away just as the club came crashing down where his skull had been.

Another form loomed above him. Thraas grabbed for the twisting human, but the knight avoided his meaty hands and rose.

Breathing heavily, the ogre stomped toward him. Again, Stefan avoided the reaching, clutching hands. Then, all of a sudden, Thraas staggered, momentarily seeming to lose his bearings.

The ogre’s wounds were taking their toll. Stefan barreled into his adversary. Caught off guard, the injured giant was knocked back.

Thraas collided with several ogres in the line of the circle. They shoved him forward then began swinging.

The first blow fell squarely on Thraas’s already damaged shoulder. The second slammed into his legs. Under the onslaught, he buckled, first to one knee then to all fours.

Despite being their favorite, Thraas was clubbed eagerly, over and over, until he crawled away from his tormentors. Without his monstrous strength and tough hide, he wouldn’t have survived.

But survive he did, and somehow the ogre got away from the onslaught. Bruised and bloodied, Thraas finally straightened and again moved toward Stefan. Arms spread wide, the ogre herded his smaller opponent to one corner of the circle. Thraas looked battered and weary but still capable of great harm.

Taking a deep breath and making a short, silent prayer to the patron gods of the knighthood-Habbakuk, Kiri-Jolith, even lost Paladine-Stefan again surprised the ogre by charging straight at him.

The tusked behemoth waited, grinning. His thick arms embraced his victim just as Stefan smashed into him. Despite his injuries, Thraas absorbed the collision and held on.

But Stefan, his arm bent wildly, jammed his elbow hard into Thraas’s throat. The ogre let out a harsh rasp and couldn’t breathe again. He bobbled his grip on the human. Stefan elbowed him hard again, that time in one eye, and Thraas turned away, gasping frantically for breath and stumbling.

He almost stumbled within range of some of the guards-their jaws agape at the sudden turn of events-but fell down on one knee and tried to crawl away.

Stefan, himself panting, stepped up behind the struggling ogre. He grabbed Thraas by the head and twisted with all his might. There was a sickening crack, and Thraas struggled no more.

As he let the ogre’s body fall forward, the circle suddenly gave a roar and began to batter the ground with their clubs.

The battering rose in volume as Atolgus stepped into the circle, his own club in his hand. Although the Solamnic was too exhausted to defend himself anew, he nevertheless straightened, refusing to beg or die without honor.

Atolgus raised his club then turned to the other ogres and shouted something unintelligible in his own tongue. Immediately, the cries from those in the circle-from all the ogres present-increased tenfold. Grunting barks filled the air.

They were cheering Stefan’s victory.

“Ahgarad, Shok G’Ran,” rumbled the young chieftain, using his free hand to slap Stefan on the shoulder so hard that the human nearly collapsed. “Good fight!”

“I–I am honored by you-and your people, Chieftain Atolgus. Thraas fought well; I w-will remember his name.”

Atolgus slowly digested his words, making sure of their meaning. Then the tusked giant nodded. However, bearing something of a grin, he then added, “Shok G’Ran still prisoner.”

Maintaining a proud stance, the knight was marched away with Torma and his guards. As a mark of his victory, the guards did not tie him up until he was far from the circle. Torma then brought him a water sack and, using her own hands to guide the flow, let Stefan drink to his heart’s content. The clear liquid was a valuable commodity in that harsh land, and was the surest sign that Stefan had risen in the ogre’s eyes.

Torma left him, and the guard took up a position farther away. Bones aching as he stretched out, the captive human pondered the mercurial nature of his captors. He had no idea who killed the ogre guard or why. And it was as if the others had utterly forgotten his supposed earlier transgression.

There is no understanding ogres, Stefan thought. But understand them he would have to if he hoped to have any chance of escape.

And that brought his mind back to the shadowy creature who, he now understood, was seeking to unbind him in the dark, and he wondered just what that unseen creature wanted of the Solamnic.

The village was burning. Most of the males were dead, including his father, for whom he had never had much love. His mother, though, his mother was cleverer, far more clever. She would still be alive… if only he could find her in time.

It was ironic that his shorter, slimmer frame for once was of great advantage to him. Unlike his brutish brethren, he could hide better, run faster, and thus, avoid the killing blades. A horse snorted. Out of the smoke rising from another fiery hut, a black-armored figure emerged, mounted on a sleek, brown steed, and nearly ran him down. Although the face was hidden by the visored helmet, it was clearly one of the humans his mother called “Nerakans.” The word sent a chill through him, for he could never have imagined humans-only about as tall as he was, as a youth-so easily slaughtering muscular warriors who towered over them by several feet in height.

And yet it was happening to his village.

The rider swung at him with a sword far sharper than the rusty, pillaged one his father had wielded. Only swift reflexes saved the youth, and even then the tip of the blade left a burning cut in his left shoulder.

With nowhere else to go, he leaped into the burning hut. Flames licked at his body, and his kilt smoldered. He expected the human to charge in after him; then in an instant understood why he didn’t.

The roof of the hut came crashing down. It was only by a miracle that he was not buried under the burning wood and furs. In the background, the sound of hoofbeats receded. The Nerakan assumed he was dead, which would be the case if he did not hurry.

Beating at the burning wall at the back, the youth managed to create an opening big enough to leap through without getting singed too badly. The moment that he was out, he continued along his path toward his family’s hut. He had been out beyond the borders of the village when the attack occurred, staring-as he often did, despite the beatings his father gave him for doing so-in the direction from which she said her people came. Only when he had heard the first scream had he rushed back, fearful for her safety alone. The rest of the village could have been slaughtered for all he cared. His only concern was his mother.

There was the family hut. His heart leaped, for as far as he could see, the structure was still intact. He ran faster, ignored by the other riders who were in pursuit of more threatening targets.

But as he neared the entrance, he saw that the opposite side of the hut had been crushed in. Choking, the youth shoved through the wreckage of the fur-covered entrance and peered inside.

She lay sprawled on the ground, her torso awash in blood. He knelt down beside her, determined to carry her slight body away and give it a decent burial rather than let it rot with the others. She wasn’t heavy to lift. Had she been like his father, big and bulky, the task would have been impossible, for ogres were among the heaviest of races.

Whereas elves such as his mother were different.

She had silver hair that hung down to her shoulders, which had been to him, as a child, fascinating in its delicacy. It had once hung much longer, so she had said, butthat had been when she still lived among her own kind.

As he touched her, her eyes fluttered open.

Those emerald green orbs, which he had inherited, reminded him of the rare blossoming of mountain flowers during the early spring. Her narrow face had many age lines but was still the most beautiful face in all the village. He leaned close and smelled the faint scent, almost like that of the aforementioned mountain flowers.

“Guy… Guyvir… ”

He hated his name, for it was a curse imposed upon him by his father. Guyvir, the unborn, he was called that by even his mother, who more than once had said she wished, for his sake, that he had not been born of his captive mother and her obsessed enslaver. Yet when she said the name, he could always sense the love that she had had for the half-breed who bore her heritage.

And she was dying.

“Mother,” he mouthed, despite his tusks, preferring the Common word to the ogre Lagruu ul, which did not truly mean mother but rather something akin to breeder.

“Guyvir… Braag… your father… ”

His father, the chieftain, was dead already. Guyvir had witnessed his slaying. He had felt only a slight pang of emotion when the three knights had cut the chieftain down, not like the sea of turmoil overwhelming him at that moment.

She saw his expression, and he, in turn, read not only the satisfaction in hers, but also some deep-seated regret.

The moment passed. Clearly summoning her last strength, his mother said, “To the north! Braag’s cousin… his village is safe from this incursion! Go to him… he… he is softer and has no heir… ”

Guyvir had met his cousin twice and had respect forthe one-eyed warrior. The chieftain had looked at the puny child and nodded at the slim body while making a swift arc with his hand. He knew that there was more than what met the eyes to the young one whose appearance lacked size and muscle.

“I’ll take you with,” Guyvir replied in Common. His mother had taught him the language in secret.

She put her trembling hand to his cheek. “I will always be with-”

Her hand fell; her eyes grew slack. At the same time, Guyvir sensed someone enter the hut. He freed the dagger hidden by his kilt and faced a slim ogre clad in elegant, unblemished robes, an ogre whose tusks were shaved down and who had only one hand.

It was himself.

At that moment, Golgren awoke with a start. Cold sweat bathed him. He shivered and stared at the darkness, his gaze finally fixing on Idaria.

With a hiss of anger, the grand lord lay back again. He had many dreams, most of them of conquest and triumph, but only one that played itself over and over, ending in damnation. There were some memories that could never be forgotten, could never be buried.

At the same time, those memories also drove Golgren as nothing else. As he shut his eyes, the grand lord imagined a land that he had only briefly and surreptitiously explored, but that always beckoned-a land that was his waking dream to conquer.

“I will come, Silvanost,” he murmured. “I will come … ”