Richard Knaak - The Black Talon

Its master grinned devilishly, showing that, while his tusks had been filed down, Zharang had teeth sharpened to points. He was able and eager to bite through bone.

Suddenly, Golgren reached around and grabbed the iron-wrought cage and threw it down to the ground. Crashing on the marble floor, the cage broke open and the angry bird escaped. The added pandemonium briefly distracted Zharang, enabling Golgren to rush under his guard. The grand lord’s weapon swept across his khan’s chest, cutting a minor but bloody swathe, the initial red ribbon spreading over much of Zharang’s ruined robe.

His little wound only energized Zharang, who countered with several bone-shaking strikes. One at last managed to do what seemed inevitable. Golgren’s sword went flying out of his sole hand.

No sooner had the grand khan started to crow at his inevitable triumph than Golgren hurled himself at the other ogre, sending both of them crashing atop a small table. Something sharp raked across Zharang’s wrists, causing them to momentarily spasm. The grand khan’s fingers twitched open, and his sword hilt slipped away. He reached for it, but a heavy force slammed into his windpipe. Belatedly, Zharang realized that it was his adversary’s arm, the one lacking a hand.

“F’han, iZharangi,” mocked Golgren quietly in his ear. “F’han.” The shorter ogre held something before Zharang’s eyes: a small dagger drenched in blood-the grand khan’s blood.

The wounded Zharang spit forcefully in Golgren’s face then pushed away from his foe. However, it was too easy; the grand khan realized that his enemy had willingly separated himself.

When the grand khan tried to rise, a heavy foot kicked him back down among the spoiled meats and table shards. Try as he might, Zharang could not seem to struggle up again. His hands and wrists felt numb, and the numbness was quickly spreading along his arms. His breathing became labored.

He heard something metal scrape on the marble floor, and a moment later there it was: his own magnificent sword, clutched in Golgren’s hand. Despite the weight of the blade, the other ogre handled it with ease and with obvious relish.

“This sword,” Golgren uttered in the Common tongue that Zharang so loathed. “This sword I once told you was yours, oh Great Khan! You did misunderstand what I meant! It was always meant to be for your finish.” The grand lord chuckled.

“Ja i f’tuuni!” the wounded ogre rasped. “Ja i f’tuuni, Guyvir!”

Golgren’s grin turned dark. “Yes, once there was an unborn , my Grand Khan. Marked by a name cursed. Guyvir, he was called. But he is no more.” The triumphant Golgren raised the heavy sword high then slowly turned the blade so its point was poised over Zharang’s throat. “There is only Golgren now.”

With that, he thrust the blade straight down as hard as he could. Zharang let out an enraged cry, one quickly cut off as the sword point not only savaged his throat, but plunged on until it had buried itself deep in the shattered wooden table beneath.

The body of The Great Dragon That Is Zharang, the Grand Khan of all Kern, twitched madly for several seconds, as if he were still furious at the unfortunate turn of events. Then, the spasms ceased and Zharang simply stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Blood spilled from his throat onto the food scattered over the table.

The grand khan’s avian pet, attracted by the delicious scent, immediately leaped atop the khan’s bleeding carcass. With utter disregard for the one who had fed it most of its life, the bird eagerly began to tear at what remained of Zharang’s throat.

Golgren pulled free the sword but did nothing to stop the bird’s grisly feasting. He held the dripping weapon for all to see. The other ogres fell to their knees and began chanting his name.

The grand lord grinned.

The valley lay nestled only two dozen miles from the ogre city of Bloten-capital of Kern’s sister and once-rival, Blode-yet even the most wily of ogre hunters would have had an all but impossible time finding it. That would have assumed that they even knew that it existed, for powers had been at work for decades to strip all of knowledge of its existence-the powers of those who dwelled within.

The Titans.

What had once been, for the ogre realms, an idyllic, forested valley surrounded by imposing mountains was now a fog-enshrouded domain where no sounds of animal life could be detected. Those unfortunate enough to stumble into the deep valley found it impossible to quickly depart, for even the path by which they had entered seemed to change. Instead of heading out, it would lead deeper and deeper into the misty land.

And once trapped into following that direction, there was no escape from the Titans, the guardians of Bloten.

The terrifying fate of such poor lost souls was of little concern to the giant spellcasters, especially their master, Dauroth. All that interested them was their ambition and their arts. With the latter they hoped to achieve the former, that being the revival of the Golden Age of their forebears.

A revival currently being tarnished and twisted by what some referred to as “the mongrel” to whom they had to bow.

Some questioned why Dauroth let Golgren live, much less command their magic for his own gains, but none brought up the matter to the elder Titan’s face. If Golgren somehow held Dauroth in his sway-for surely there could be no other reason for the spell master’s tolerance of the half-breed-it was also certainly true that Dauroth held the rest of the Titans just as tightly in his formidable grip. After all, only he knew the secret of the process by which they sustained their power.

And that night, as the fog grew to its thickest, blanketing the entire valley, the blue-skinned sorcerers were busy preparing the ritual of admitting one into their exalted ranks.

There were many chambers in the citadel of Dauroth, many more than even his followers could tally. Oftentimes, those chambers would change their size and location at Dauroth’s whim. Those who wandered his citadel soon learned that no one even walked around there without the spell master’s permission.

Crystals the color of Nuitari’s moon illuminated many of the corridors, but in some, fiery balls the size of apples lit the way. Only Dauroth knew why or how. Most of the halls were built of stone, but a select few boasted walls of iron and were decorated with images of tall, magnificent Titans staring back at their living brethren. Again, it was only the master who knew why the walls varied so, although there was certainly reflection and discussion about the subject among his followers.

In general, there were always two or three of the sorcerers walking the halls to some destination, yet such was not the case at that moment. That night all the Titans were gathered in the circular chamber where most group spells were cast and most general experiments performed. Under the domed roof of the main chamber, the spellcasters-more than five dozen strong-stood in a circle within a circle. At the center of the pattern had been set a platform upon which lay something that to an outsider might chillingly resemble a long, metallic coffin, whose lid could be raised or lowered by use of chains. Yet to the sorcerers, it was not a symbol of death; instead it was rebirth . For it was where all Titans began.

Dauroth was positioned nearest the sarcophagus, an array of vials and small objects at his side. Next to him stood two others-his chief apprentices, Hundjal and Safrag. His senior assistant, Hundjal, striking and athletic, even compared to most of his brethren, was just then handing a golden bowl to his master. Safrag, almost a shadow in size compared to the other two, silently mixed herbs together.