Richard Knaak: The Black Talon

Golgren’s ruined limb ended in a huge black scab with burn scars surrounding it. He had cauterized the wound himself in the midst of a high-pitched battle, long ago it seemed. Faros-then the leader of a band of escaped slaves that had been sold to Golgren’s people by Hotak, emperor of the Uruv Suurt-had severed his hand. Faros had gone on to kill Hotak, and the former slave became emperor of the minotaurs.

Such a terrible injury would have ended the lives of most creatures-even most ogres would have perished from such a blow-but Golgren had managed to keep his head clear long enough to find a torch and sear the wound shut. Even then, he had nearly died, although he had recovered to fight on.

The singular drive that ultimately brought him to power had preserved him then.

Golgren’s slave reached for two sealed jugs. From each she poured a small amount of liquid on a fresh cloth and began rubbing the mixed contents over the stump. The ogre let out a sigh when he was touched by the balm. His body visibly relaxed.

When she was done, Idaria replaced the jugs then wrapped the area almost tenderly. Golgren, who had in the midst of her ablutions shut his eyes, opened them and gazed deeply into hers.

“Wine,” he commanded.

As silent as the night, Idaria retrieved the sack of wine. The environment of Kern was not suitable for keeping something as sensitive as wine for long, but the crimson liquid was still preferable to the brackish water in those parts.

As Golgren took the silver goblet-another elven prize-there came a heavy grunt from outside the tent. A shadow loomed near the entrance.

“Nagh!” the grand lord called. “Enter!”

An ogre officer of Blodian origins edged inside. He sported one broken tusk and his left eye constantly looked as if it were squinting. His skin was a mottled brown.

He glanced at the elf woman. Idaria immediately took up a subservient position behind her master.

“Aaah , Khleeg,” greeted the grand lord, gesturing to the newcomer with the goblet. “You may speak freely.”

The other saluted Golgren. “All warriors gathered,” Khleeg rumbled, doing his best not to mangle his Common too badly. “Feed them now?”

Golgren gave him a curt nod. The army did not even eat without his permission.

Saluting again, the other ogre started to leave, then apparently recalled something else he wished to say. Looking anxious, the tusked figure muttered, “Grand Lord, may speak again? About … about the Titans?”

“My permission is given.”

His brow knitted, Khleeg said, “Grand Lord … the Titans … cannot trust in them … they are-” He struggled for the right phrase. “They are Jaro Gyun . Wearers of masks.”

The term had nothing to do with the fanciful false faces that Solamnic nobles were rumored to wear at certain private gatherings or even the totemic images ogres themselves employed for rituals on occasion. Jaro Gyun meant deceivers who acted as blood comrades until the time came to stab the unwary from behind. For one ogre to call another a Jaro Gyun was a strong insult. That Khleeg would dare to apply this term to Dauroth and his sorcerers was, to Golgren, a sign of just how great the officer’s dislike and distrust of them was. Khleeg knew his master could have him executed for speaking ill of the Titans, for their influence among the ogres was second only to the grand lord’s.

But Golgren only nodded understandingly to Khleeg and said, “At first light, we leave. Garantha awaits.”

Still visibly uncomfortable, the other ogre grunted. “Yes, Grand Lord.”

“Go.”

Khleeg bowed again, then, staying bowed, backed out of the tent. Golgren nodded but that time to himself.

“He speaks the truth about the Titans,” Idaria murmured, lowering her gaze to avoid the grand lord’s eyes.

“And so? You have the opinion to share also?”

The elf kept her eyes to the ground. She could be more easily executed than Khleeg for any hint of disrespect toward ogres. As an elf slave, she was less than nothing in the eyes of ogres.

But still Idaria talked. “The Titans chafe under your rule. They do not serve you willingly. Not even Dauroth.”

He chuckled, grinning. The grin revealed a set of teeth that belied the hints of elf blood he might have. His teeth, while in better, cleaner condition than most ogres’, were strong, harsh, and sharply edged-in all ways extremely ogrish.

“This is quite a surprise to me,” Golgren replied in a tone that indicated otherwise. He gulped some wine. It was sweet and richly colored, typical of the blend traditionally made by her people. “Dauroth and his, they do not adore this one?”

“They will try to kill you sooner or later … and soon enough. No matter the hold you have on them, they will do that.”

The grand lord’s grin reversed into grim, pursed lips. In a voice so cold and dead that it made Idaria flinch, Golgren replied, “Yes, they will.”

He put down his goblet then, cupping her chin, he raised her face until it was level with his own. Although Idaria waited-her gaze meeting his-for long seconds, the ogre said nothing. Finally he released her, his attention returning to his wine. The elf resumed her usual position, kneeling in wait, slightly behind him, ready for his next command.

“Garantha awaits me,” Golgren uttered without warning. “We must not let her pine for her love.” He took another sip then let out a hollow laugh that evinced little humor. “And soon, soon, she and I, we shall be wed!” He glanced at the slave to see if she shared in his bitter jest. “Soon, I will be crowned grand khan of all my people … the dream fulfilled.”

Idaria said nothing. She had heard the last part before, many times, and always in the same tone.

“The dream fulfilled,” the grand lord repeated darkly, drinking deeply again. His eyes narrowed, glaring from under his brow at the shadows in the tent. “The first dream … ”

In the overcast sky, a winged form alighted onto a high promontory overlooking a chaotic battle site. The shape clung to the dark there, for it had been warned what would become of it if any below noticed its presence. Breathing heavily from exertion, the form folded its leathery wings and climbed to a higher vantage, using its clawed hands and feet with an ease that spoke of its familiarity with such treacherous terrain.

Deep-set eyes surveyed the victorious ogres as they continued to strip the dead and began their preparations to depart. The watcher grunted appreciatively; a bloody victory was respected among his kind as well. He had enjoyed the spectacle, even though the use of magic by the victors had, to his brutish mind, seemed a bit like cheating. What was more pleasurable than personally tearing apart a foe? Still, magic could not be avoided in some instances; even the watcher understood that.

And thinking that over, he reached down to a pouch held by a leather strap looped over his thick neck and shoulder. With a dexterity that was remarkable, considering his pawlike hands, he gently removed from the pouch what looked like an octagonal box made of brass, topped by a rounded knob.

Raising the box to his eye, the watcher pressed the knob.

The metallic artifact shimmered blue. On the side near his eye, a small gap opened.

Peering inside, he observed the interior of a tent, but it was not the tent desired. The watcher focused more toward the right.

There! The tent of the one-handed ogre. The watcher grunted with satisfaction. For a few seconds, he watched intently as the leader of the victors drank his fill; a female elf attended him. Then, using the magical device as his master had dictated, the winged creature shifted his focus to the ogre’s chest and what lay beneath his breastplate and garment.