Richard Knaak - The Black Talon

Dauroth held up the bowl. The words he spoke were not those of his race’s bastardized language nor were they even, in truth, those in the revered tongue of the ancient High Ogres. They came from the language of the latter only as the elder giant dreamed that language to have existed, just as so much about the Titans of late was the product of his dreaming.

It was a dream he was determined would soon become reality for all.

“Aarias asana atilio,” Dauroth sang, for his High Ogre language was pure music. “Afreesia ausias aairias.”

The other Titans repeated his words with the same fervor as their leader. The beauty of their voices would have touched even the souls of an elf court, though the ritual that musical language accompanied might have shocked the cultured race. Even before they finished their chant, a crimson aura had formed over the top of the golden bowl, an aura radiating from its contents.

Dauroth lifted the bowl, displaying it for his followers to admire. The crimson glow illuminated the chamber better than the crystal globes, which hovered at equidistant points along the walls. The red tint turned the Titans’ blue-skinned faces into lurid parodies or, perhaps, better revealed their true essences.

At the top of the sarcophagus was a system of tubes and a long, narrow vent. Into the vent, Dauroth poured the crimson liquid from the bowl. As it seeped inside, from within the strange sarcophagus there came a sound like sighing.

“Asiriosio anthrayan isul,” Dauroth announced, holding high the empty bowl.

“Asiriosio anthrayan isul,” repeated his flock.

Safrag handed his steaming mixture to Hundjal, who handed it to Dauroth. The lead Titan immediately poured the potion into the same vent. Again there came the sighing sound, one that might have been a mixture of pleasure and pain.

Dauroth’s apprentices retreated into the shadows. Dauroth himself bent over the coffin, the palms of his hands running across its tremendous length. Black energy crackled at his fingertips, an energy that remained there several seconds after he withdrew his hands.

Gazing up, Dauroth examined the array of tubes. They ran from various points in the darkness above into the center of the sarcophagus. For three nights upon three, he had imbued what would flow through them with his magic. For three nights upon three, he had added the necessary alchemical ingredients to what the magic had created.

For three nights upon three prior to taking those necessary steps, the screams of elves had echoed throughout the citadel.

Nodding his satisfaction, Dauroth turned his gaze back to the sarcophagus. With one taloned finger, he drew several blazing black runes on the edge of the coffin. That, in turn, caused others already etched in the metal to stir to life.

Stepping back, the senior Titan raised his hands to gesture to his followers. As they in unison repeated his latest movement, the same black energy Dauroth had summoned moments before flared up and erupted around the Titans as a whole.

Dauroth began chanting, with the rest repeating his words moments afterward, a choral echoing. The dark aura grew stronger, spreading from around them to embrace the metal coffin.

And at last, when it had fully enveloped the sinister sarcophagus, Dauroth gestured to the shadows above. There was a brief flash of red, followed by a rushing sound, as if water or some other liquid had suddenly begun to flow with tremendous force.

The tubes shook. The sound of running liquid echoed from inside of them. Then, from inside the sarcophagus, came the first distinct trickle of drops against metal.

Dauroth’s hand came whizzing down.

The sarcophagus blazed a startling blue. A shriek escaped from within. Hard, desperate banging arose against the coffin walls, and as quickly the sound faltered and faded away.

The Titans renewed their chanting, feeding their power into the process of which Dauroth alone was master. The tubes continued to shake as their contents flowed into the fiery coffin.

For more than an hour, the assembled sorcerers repeated their calls without hesitating for breath. By the end of that time, the container flared as hot and as bright as an azure sun.

Then Dauroth cut off the chanting with an abrupt wave of his hand. The other Titans took a step back from their original positions, leaving in front only their leader and his two apprentices.

A snap of the fingers drew two new figures through the ranks toward the red-glowing sarcophagus. Ogres those muscular beasts were-at least according to vague definitions of the race. However, those specimens had heads too small and brains smaller yet. Their eyes were wide and dark like creatures accustomed to only the blackest night. It clearly pained them to approach the hot, blinding sarcophagus, yet they did so without hesitation. Although shorter by far than the Titans, the brutish figures were well muscled. At Dauroth’s indication, one began unlatching the steel hooks that kept the metal coffin locked. With that accomplished, both seized the chains used for lifting the lid and began tugging it open.

Even with their strength multiplied by Dauroth’s experiments, it took some effort at first for the pair to pull the top free. Finally, with a fierce, sucking sound, the lid came open. A gush of thick, red liquid poured over the sides of the coffin but, oddly, evaporated before reaching the floor.

In utter silence, the servants slowly pulled the lid higher for all to see what lay within. Expressions of growing anticipation spread among the Titans until at last it was revealed: a bubbling, congealing, red mass. Steam rose from the ugly, red bubble and a scent like that of burned flesh wafted past the nostrils of the watching sorcerers. They did not skitter back in disgust, however; rather, they openly welcomed the smell.

As his servants secured the chains so the lid would not drop down again, Dauroth approached the sarcophagus. Hundjal and Safrag followed softly in his wake. The apprentices took up positions on each side of the wider part of the coffin and waited expectantly for their master. Dauroth stretched a hand over the bubbling contents and uttered a single word.

And from within the red mass a howling figure who looked as if he bled profusely all over sat up. The howling went on unabated for several seconds; then the half-seen form shivered. Slowly the red slime dripped and fell away, and for the first time, the brilliant blue skin of the figure became apparent.

The hand that he had held over the sarcophagus Dauroth offered to the shivering figure. Blinking away tears of blood, golden eyes seized eagerly on the hand. The blue-skinned, blood-drenched figure reached for that hand, but his own slipped.

Dauroth smiled like a patient father. Stepping back, he gestured for the figure to rise. When the other faltered, Hundjal and Safrag immediately grabbed him-for it was clear by that point that the striking figure was male-by the arms, assisted their master in guiding the dripping being out of the coffin, helped him to a standing position next to it.

“Issura assalias,” murmured Dauroth. The rest of the solidifying red slime burst from the figure’s body, but rather than splatter those watching, it immediately dissipated in the air.

Before the assembled spellcasters, the new Titan stood blinking and, to all appearances, looking around. He was perfect in the eyes of the others, just as each thought himself so. Handsome, lean, and muscled, he was the newest and latest created as gods over their kind-over all races-an ogre who could crush other ogres as easily as ogres crushed bugs.

Once he had been a subchieftain by the name of Ulgrod. He had bowed to Golgren but with a reluctance not unnoticed by Dauroth. Ulgrod’s ambitions and his passion for Dauroth’s dream had enabled him to rise up despite many enemies, and in the past he had eagerly performed certain “tasks” for the lead Titan.