Richard Knaak - The Black Talon

The gargantuan ogre chieftain shivered and fell back, dead.

Golgren leaped atop the corpse. Continuing to work with his dagger, the grand lord cut through the rest of the neck until the ogre’s head finally came off. Blood and other fluids dripped over his garments as he raised the grisly evidence of his victory high over his head, letting out a bestial howl of triumph.

Those nearest turned at the sound, noting the smaller ogre commander’s victory over his mountainous opponent. The sight further disheartened and panicked the warriors of the horde.

An armored ogre on horseback fought his way to the grand lord. The moment he reached Golgren, the warrior leaped down and handed the reins to his leader. Golgren thrust Trang’s head into the warrior’s waiting hands then mounted.

“Do not lose my prize,” he warned in Common. All those who would serve close to the grand lord had to learn the tongue, for Golgren felt it a part of “the fruits of civilization” he was bringing to his people.

“Will not!” grunted the warrior loudly, his round eyes showing his fear of his commander.

As his minion retreated to the back lines, Golgren procured a new sword from another underling. Armed once again and with the reins secured to his maimed limb, he let out a louder, more bloodcurdling cry and eagerly urged his steed into the struggle.

The slaughter continued.

The mangled bodies lay strewn as far as the eye could see, and well beyond that. Severed limbs and other bloody parts could be found everywhere. Now and then, an island of brown fur rose among the ogre corpses. More than half the mastarks in the day’s battle had been slain, as had many of the meredrakes, some simply because they had grown so maddened from the scent of blood that their handlers could not control them any longer and had to kill them to prevent unnecessary casualties on their side.

Although many bodies lay clad in the once-gleaming breastplates and helms, far more of the dead were easily marked as the uncouth warriors of the horde. Few had survived, as ogres are very brutal in victory or defeat. Those that still lived were marching along in chains, their fates possibly even more terrifying than that of their dead comrades. Examples would have to be made to emphasize the glory of the winning side.

The architect of that victory watched astride his second horse as guards shoved the beaten warriors and as others ferreted among the slain, seeking spoils. Born to a land offering little, ogres were practical; if an item could be utilized in any manner, why leave it to rot with the dead? Even the mastarks were still of some use; warriors scrambled up, over, and around the huge bodies, not only skinning the beasts, but salvaging what meat there still was. The stomachs of ogres welcomed flesh long past what other races would deem safe.

Those who had died for Golgren were respectfully burned so they would not feed scavengers. There would be no pyres for the dead enemy, however, in contrast to what was often done among other races such as the Uruv Suurt or the humans. Fuel was too valuable to waste on the defeated. Besides, after the carrion eaters had stripped the bodies, the bleaching bones would present a monument to the grand lord. The other chieftains would be reminded of the consequences of defiance of his will.

With whips and swords to prod them forward, a new set of prisoners was brought before Golgren. His garments were still bloodstained, but his hair again was neatly brushed. He surveyed the sorry lot. Two figures immediately caught his attention.

“Wulfgarn … Guln … ” The grand lord kept his speech in Common. His gloating grin was terrible to behold. “It is a sorry thing, this disaster into which Trang led you.”

Wulfgarn, an older chieftain with one eye long gone to a sword slash, frowned as he tried to translate the foreign sounds. Guln, much younger and with a thick head of black, unruly hair, grunted bitterly. He understood well enough.

“It is a sorry thing Trang led himself into,” added Golgren, gesturing to the warrior next to him. That ogre hefted the gory head of the dead chieftain. Trang’s expression was one of astonishment, as if he were only then discovering that he was defeated.

Wulfgarn spit in Golgren’s direction, though the missile fell well short of its goal. The older chieftain was rewarded with a savage whipping that sent him facedown on the ground.

The prisoners that were lined up behind those two-all subchieftains-looked anxious at the sight. They well knew the fate of most survivors. The grand lord might have them pulled apart by mastarks or bound spread-eagled among several meredrakes.

Looking past the two chieftains, Golgren picked out four ogres standing among the much-battered group. The guards undid their chains then kicked the hapless ones forward.

“Dakara i duru if’hani?” he asked of the chosen, eyes glinting. “Will you stand with or deny these dead?”

All four answered as he expected, falling down on one knee and bowing their heads to him. After acknowledging their submission, Golgren gestured for them to rise then had another guard present them with thick, weathered clubs stained with dry blood. The four ogres peered at one another, then at their captor.

The grand lord indicated the rest of the subchieftains, those he had passed over. Guards were already forcing those condemned souls to their knees. More than one had to be beaten down, for the prisoners knew what was coming. Other guards dragged Wulfgarn and Guln off to the side.

“F’han,” Golgren quietly commanded.

The four moved in among the kneeling subchieftains. Clubs rose high and came down with savage strength. The thick skulls of the condemned easily gave way under the onslaught.

It took only one or two heavy blows to execute each, but wanting to show their enthusiastic allegiance to their new lord, the four subchieftains bashed away over and over at their targets, leaving most in piles of unrecognizable pulp.

When there was no more killing to be done, one of the four started toward Guln, but the grand lord waved him back. The subchieftain quickly retreated to stand close to his companions.

With another wave, Golgren dismissed the survivors, who were led away by one of his officers. Wulfgarn and Guln were also taken off elsewhere, their fates-it would have been Trang’s, too, had he survived-already planned in advance. Golgren felt the need to set many examples for his people.

“A barbaric display,” came an almost musical, cultured voice at Golgren’s right. “But necessary, I suppose.”

The Grand Lord Golgren did not turn to face the speaker. In fact, he did not even reply right away. While his guards shifted nervously, their eyes drifting in the direction of the new voice, he continued to gaze ahead, waiting. One hand retrieved his vial. The grand lord took a slow, casual sniff.

Finally, there came the light movement of sandaled feet and the faint swishing of cloth. Despite the overcast sky, strong shadows stretched before the mounted ogre leader. They were followed by one, then several more, such forms, each of whom dwarfed even the tallest of Golgren’s warriors.

Each was one and a half times the height of an ordinary ogre but proportionately sleeker of form. They moved with an unnatural grace, almost gliding rather than walking. Their long, silken robes-dark blue with shimmering hints of red-flowed as part of them, accenting their wearers’ perfection.

The giants wore crimson sashes that draped over their right shoulders and came down their left sides under the golden belts at their waists. Their left shoulders were covered by an armor plate more decorative than functional, with their arms unclad, save for red, silken bands on the wrists of their left arms and silver metal ones on their right arms.