Richard Knaak - The Black Talon

Then Khleeg returned. “Great One,” he rasped, kneeling and respectfully averting his eyes. “There is warrior who begs audience. He claims blood of loyal servant, Nagroch.”

Golgren’s brow arched. “Yes? Very well. Give him permission.”

Idaria herself had started slightly at mention of the name, one that even she recognized. The elf glanced up at her lord, but Golgren only gestured for her to continue with her chore.

The guards stood at wary attention as Khleeg brought the newcomer inside. The warrior was slightly shorter and broader of build than most around him. He was clearly Blodian by birth and his grotesque, toadlike visage bore a striking likeness to not one, but two ogres who had served the grand lord early on.

Both of whom were dead.

The Blodian wore a tarnished breastplate obviously inferior to those supplied to Golgren’s warriors. His helmet was ill fitting. The Blodian carried no weapons, for they had been confiscated. Golgren didn’t pretend to think that all his race adored him.

“Great Grand Lord Golgren,” the ogre croaked in surprisingly good Common after he had sank down on one knee. “I am Wargroch, brother to Nagroch and also Belgroch, who served you well.”

“Their names are known to this one, yes,” replied Golgren smoothly. “And the name of Wargroch was mentioned by them, especially by Nagroch.” He gestured for Idaria to stop. The slave retreated to a kneeling position beside the throne. “And Wargroch is honored by this one in memory of his brothers’ deeds and loyalty.”

The other ogre beamed. “Great Grand Lord Golgren, I would serve as my brothers did. I would serve the true lord of Blode and Kern, my weapons and life yours in blood oath.”

“Yes? So good a wish cannot be denied, but first, Wargroch must prove himself worthy, as his brothers before him did.”

Wargroch leaped to his feet, causing Khleeg and the guards to tense and shift nervously. Golgren waved them still.

“Hasag i iWargrochi un f’han!” Wargroch growled, pounding on his breastplate with his heavy fist. “I swear I will do whatever you wish, even to my death, if it must be!”

Golgren nodded his appreciation of the fighter’s ardor. “But such a waste that would be, to die so. Your chance, it will come. Khleeg, Wargroch is yours until his loyalty can be tested.”

“Ke,” replied the officer sharply, his eyes narrowed suspiciously on Wargroch. “Yes, Great One.”

Wargroch bowed with eagerness. “My axe will reap many heads! My sword will cut out many hearts!”

The grand lord granted Nagroch’s younger brother a benevolent smile as the latter was led out of the room. As Khleeg and his charge vanished through the entrance, Idaria brought a goblet of wine for her master. Golgren did not hesitate to sip from it, aware that from that elf he needed fear no poison.

Suddenly, however, the grand lord stiffened; only Idaria noticed. Handing her the goblet, Golgren rose and, without a word, strode toward the entrance. Encumbered by her chains, Idaria scurried to keep up. The guards stood at attention as both of them passed through the portal.

Like the chamber from which he had just departed, the hall through which Golgren strode was a sad reminder of past glories. There were cracks in all the walls and also in the fluted columns. Many of the cracks had been sealed over, but several were in need of fresh attention. Zharang had grown lax in his duty to upgrade the palace in keeping with his position, perhaps because he had sensed it would not be his responsibility much longer.

Golgren had his own plans for the palace’s improvement, but at the moment such mundane matters were far from his thoughts. His pace increased as he neared what had been his predecessor’s private sanctum. Once disposing of Zharang, Golgren had wasted no time in ordering all that had belonged to the grand khan removed-including the spoils given to the khan by those commanders who had served him best-and his own possessions installed.

Tattered tapestries hung along the walls, many of them scavenged from other races, especially the admired craft-work of the elves. None of the tapestries displayed ogre figures. Instead, the grand khans had chosen depictions that were more enduring: castles atop mountains, great creatures, such as dragons or griffons, even images of the coats-of-arms of human knights. Swords, shields, banners were exhibited too.

One tapestry caught Idaria’s attention as she hurried to keep up with Golgren. Once it had been a beautiful landscape of high green trees and mythic dancing beasts. A vast oak stood in the center and in a hollow in its trunk glowed a bright star.

The tapestry was one of the more recent prizes, she knew, taken in the fall of elven Silvanost. It had been taken, by sheer coincidence, from the house of Idaria’s family. Even Golgren did not know that fact, nor did he know how it marked her lineage- Oakborn . It was said that her first ancestor had been born in the hollow of such a tree and, thus, her family name. Since the Age of Dreams, the Oakborn had stood at the forefront of the elf culture, often as architects or as counselors to its leaders.

But no more.

Her expression set as if in stone, the slave moved on. Golgren had the faster stride, but her kind were swift of foot, even shackled. She caught up with him just as he reached the guarded doorway. The ogre giants on duty crisply saluted the grand lord as if he towered over them, not the other way around.

“Azaln!” Golgren snapped, momentarily slipping back into his native tongue. “Leave!”

The guards did not query or hesitate, rushing off as if a swarm of meredrakes were snapping at their heels. The dictates of the grand lord were not to be questioned.

Golgren entered without further ado, Idaria slipping in next and shutting the door after herself. Inside, shadows of the lost day filled the chamber. Some cast odd and disconcerting silhouettes.

Idaria went to light an oil lamp, but Golgren barked, “No!”

The elf quickly drew her hands close to her side and bowed her head as she waited for his next command.

However, Golgren said nothing else directly, at least not to her. Instead, the grand lord peered intently at the shadows, choosing the deepest of them upon which to focus. “Face me.” He commanded with a strong hint of annoyance. “Face me.”

Idaria kept still, watching carefully. Some of the shadows came together, coalescing into a figure not quite as tall as Golgren, but far broader in its shoulders. The shape further defined, becoming a hooded figure with a thick mane that gave him a considerable leonine aspect. That was all that either Golgren or even Idaria, whose eyesight was far sharper in the darkness than her master’s, could make out of the newcomer.

In a voice that rumbled like a bull’s, the shadowed figure said almost casually, “As you wish, oh Grand Lord.”

One hand emerged from the figure’s voluminous sleeve. As it turned palm down, a staff sprouted whose bottom tip just touched the floor. The top of the staff rose as far as the mysterious visitor’s chest, at which point a five-sided crystal the size of a fist abruptly flared into a silvery illumination.

In the macabre glow of the crystal, the stranger was better revealed. Human his countenance was, though his resemblance to a lion was even more evident. His hair was golden brown and thick, and his nose and jaw were broad. To any onlooker, he appeared more akin to a fighter than the mage he certainly was.

Yet his robes and cloak were not obviously a mage’s, for they were not white, red, or black, no color of any of the known orders. Rather they were colored a deep, rich brown.

“Play no games with this one, Tyranos,” murmured Golgren in an equally diffident tone. “Play no games.”