Richard Knaak - The Black Talon

They did not make that suggestion within Stefan’s hearing.

“Kinthalas is Argon, who is also Sargonnas,” Stefan informed the questioner. “ ‘The Horned One,’ as he is also called.”

“A perfect kingdom for him, then, this place,” Willum jovially commented. “Only a god like him could favor ogres and minotaurs.”

Stefan was not entirely certain that Sargonnas favored the ogres, not considering reports of a deep rift between the two races in the past few years. It was widely believed that the current minotaur emperor had put a price on the head of the charismatic leader, once his ally, who was rising up to unite the ogres. Whether or not the rumor was true, there was much evidence of growing bad blood between the races. Stefan doubted Sargonnas would divide his followers and wish them to slaughter themselves. Better that they band together against outsiders, such as those he and his companions represented.

Shaking off that uncomfortable thought, Stefan took a sip from his water sack. Even though it was near dusk, Kern was still hot and dry. Wearing armor hardly helped, but protocol was protocol.

Besides, the armor was a small burden in the face of the exciting prospect ahead: learning more about the strange and mysterious Golgren. That mission had become Stefan’s passion over the past few years. He had become convinced early on that the activities of the half-breed signified a monumental shift in the east and had entreated his superiors again and again until they had agreed to let him proceed with his surveillance of the grand lord.

And even Stefan had been astounded by what he had learned and documented about the ogre’s ambitions.

The party skirted around Kinthalas’s Helmet. The sun had just slipped below the higher peaks, causing large shadows to be cast over the open region ahead.

But those shadows were not yet deep enough to obscure the carnage laid out in front of them for as far as the eye could see.

“Kiri-Jolith protect us!” muttered one knight.

Indeed, to Stefan it seemed that perhaps the bison-headed god of just cause had protected his party, for the dead that lay scattered and torn were all ogres. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of ogres lay about, all chopped up, ripped apart, or half eaten. Stefan fought back his disgust; he had seen the losses of battle before, but what lay before him had clearly been a massacre of some sort. One hand slipped to a pouch at his belt, where he took comfort in the warmth of the item within.

Leaning forward, Willum gasped, “The ground looks all torn up! It’s as if there was an eruption or earthquake.”

“Is that-is that what killed ’em?” Hector asked with just a hint of a tremor in his voice. Out of respect for the youngest knight’s relative inexperience, the others gave no indication that they had noticed any fear.

Stefan shook his head, explaining, “No. Most of them were slain in combat, that is clear. You can see the handiwork in the nearest corpses.”

Hector swallowed and asked nothing more. The scouting party urged their mounts ahead, wading into the monstrous scene, guiding the animals as best as possible around the many decaying bodies. Black flies and carrion crows flew to the sky as they passed then settled down afterward to renew their gory feasting.

A gigantic animal corpse caught Stefan’s attention. “A mastark,” he said, nodding to Willum. “The victors had no concern for time. The bodies have been methodically stripped. Most of the dead animals, too, have been stripped of anything useful.”

Indeed, there was not a serviceable weapon or decent utensil to be found anywhere.

“Who did this?” asked Hector. “Minotaurs?”

Stefan actually wished it had been the horned creatures. That would be less peculiar. “No, the bull-men do not stray this deep into Kern. Not yet, at least.” He stiffened, then glanced at Willum. The broad-shouldered knight wore the same brooding expression as Stefan. “Willum, we assumed that the grand lord was putting together a larger force with the intention of heading west, but-”

“Aye! But instead it seems that they were hunting one another!” The mustachioed soldier grinned. “So it’s good news we’ll be bringing back! Let the beasts kill one another.”

But as Stefan surveyed the darkening stretches of grisly remains before him, he could not help but reflect on how ogres had a distinct advantage over humans, in size and strength. And how dangerous might they become if their master managed to whip them into line and actually teach them discipline?

He pushed his mount in among the dead. Everyone knew that ogres were simple-minded monsters, incapable of organized warfare. That was the way it had been in his father’s time, his grandfather’s, and for as long as the Knighthood had recorded history.

But Golgren appeared to be writing a new, modern history.

His mount stumbled over the ravaged bones of a particularly large ogre. A stench arose, one that caused the horse to shy. As Stefan fought to regain control of his steed, that stench suddenly made the hairs on the nape of his neck stiffen. It did not come from the dead, but rather from something that had been gnawing on the bones.

Raising a hand, Stefan silently signaled for the party to turn around. No one questioned his decision. As the Solamnics guided their mounts, Hector-who had been in the rear-momentarily took his place at the head.

All of a sudden, a sleek shadow that at first Stefan mistook for a runner darted at Hector. There was a hiss, and two arms shot forth. The young knight was dragged off his horse. The animal shrieked and tried to run, but another tall, narrow form rose up and slashed through the horse’s belly with curved talons as long as human fingers.

And suddenly, seemingly rising from the ground beneath, a dozen reptilian fiends surrounded the scouting party. Their hisses sent chills through Stefan even as he reached for his sword. Those unnerving hisses were punctuated a moment later by Hector’s screaming.

“Get that devil off of him!” Willum shouted, charging toward the fallen knight.

Stefan tried to join the rescue, but a long, narrow head out of nightmare thrust itself up at his face. Claws snatched at him, only to scrape against his breastplate.

The creatures were like giant baraki, the bipedal fighting lizards said to be exploited as entertainment by the ogres’ upper castes. Researching ogres and Golgren in particular, Stefan had learned how the ogre race enjoyed watching baraki fight one another; he himself had witnessed such bouts and been repulsed by their viciousness. However, those creatures were no more than waist-high even as adults. The creatures before him were as big as men.

Finally freeing his sword, Stefan slashed at the two-legged reptile. He expected to sever its head, but the monster dodged away with a nimbleness that astonished him. A moment later, his own mount cried out and shuddered.

Stefan barely had time to get his feet out of the stirrups before the horse collapsed on the ground. As he leaped away, another lizard snapped at his hand. The knight managed to avoid getting his limb bitten off, but just barely.

A shrill sound raised his hopes. Someone-likely Willum-had dealt at least one of the creatures a mortal blow. However, it was all Stefan could do to keep from being torn to ribbons as the two lizards pursuing him renewed their onslaught. He slashed again at the nearest and was pleased to see that his sword cut a veritable river through the creature’s chest. Hissing angrily, the badly injured beast withdrew.

“There’s another one!” a voice called. Stefan tried to locate his companions, but between the deepening shadows and the reptiles harrying him, he caught only glimpses of the fight elsewhere. There seemed to be only one figure still astride a horse, which did not bode well for the situation.