Richard Knaak: The Black Talon

Looking through both barriers as though they were empty air, he immediately spied the larger of the two items he sought to identify. Seeing it disturbed even the grizzled watcher. Then the item shifted slightly and became visible.

A tiny, transparent vial hung from a thin, golden chain that was well hidden by the bulkier one used to keep the first object in place. The vial was no larger than a sewing pin, but through the magic eye, its contents radiated disturbing energies.

The watcher adjusted the artifact. The tendrils of energy faded from his sight, giving him a better view of its actual contents, a red liquid with which his kind was most familiar.

Satisfied, he pressed the knob, and the metallic device reverted to its original state. He spread his wings, already anxious to be away from there. The master awaited his findings.

The ogre had the blood upon him.

G arantha was the city’s true name, although those who were not ogres-meaning all other races-called it by the less-glorious appellation of Kernen . Kernen was the capital of present-day Kern as well as one of the most ancient cities on all the continent of Ansalon, and even in all of the world of Krynn. Built by the High Ogres, the magnificent ancestors of its current inhabitants, Garantha once had been a jewel among jewels.

When first it had been built, the city had been surrounded by a four-sided, thirty-foot-high marble wall with sets of wide gates forged of-at that time-rare and impervious steel. Towering obelisks carved from the same white marble as the wall stood by each gate, proclaiming, in the flowery language of its founders, the name of the city and welcoming all who visited. The marble wall was covered in fantastic reliefs rising nearly the full height of the protective barrier, highly realistic reliefs beguiling newcomers with the wonders of the capital.

The city within was even more beautiful and astounding. One could walk through a vast open-air market that filled the southern quarter. Designed to resemble a virgin garden in some lush jungle, it was as much a sight for visitors as it was a destination to purchase or trade foods, crafts, artifacts, and more from every part of Ansalon and the lands beyond the seas.

In the center of Garantha lay the giant domed arena where scholars, politicians, philosophers, and other notables could debate the topics of the day and the issues of the world before audiences numbering well into the thousands. Plays involving full-scale battles and sea journeys were also enacted there.

There had been so much more in the city, long ago. There was the Zoo of Sagrio, home to the rarest of all beasts. The four fabled towers just within the walls, illuminated towers that acted as beacons for the weary pilgrims approaching. The crowns of each of those four towers had been artfully decorated with the city symbol-a majestic, stylized griffon. The towers stood above white cobblestoned streets kept pristine.

Far to the west lay the palace of the grand khan, a sprawling edifice resembling three perfect turtle shells, the smaller two flanking the larger and also huddling up close against it. The outer sections of the palace rose four stories high; the center stood six. The sloping, ridged roof further accented the illusion of giant reptiles in repose. Underneath the roof, arched windows ran along the length of the palace.

Originally, twin towers had also flanked the imposing structure, and the palace itself had been cast in a subtle, greenish pearl luster. Those entering the area of the palace rode under a great arch formed by two battling griffons.

This and much more once was Garantha, though the present city reflected only a twisted shadow of that ancient glory.

Since the fall and degeneration of the ogre race, the wall had collapsed into a few randomly spaced sections that mocked its function. Over time, feeble and sloppy attempts to rebuild the wall had taken place. They had resulted in worse disarray and damage. The obelisks had also suffered the ravages of the passing of time and the barbarism of the citizens; two were simply no more, their rubble carted away at some point for the efforts to revive the wall. The others were broken at the top and only one still bore the weather-worn name of the city, not that most who entered or even lived there could read the language.

The city had likewise fallen into general disrepair and ruin, with only the grand khan’s palace and some of the surrounding ancient villas sporting healthy facades. The two flanking towers of the former remained in pieces, however, and the nearby arena-although still utilized-no longer had any hint of a dome, that having collapsed inward centuries ago. Even the revered symbol of Garantha had suffered, for most of the griffon statues and carvings had long ago toppled and lay in fragments or were worn down so that they had become unrecognizable.

But what had seemed an unstoppable spiral into utter devastation had begun to reverse itself over the past generation. More than half the main wall had been restored, inexpertly patched with gray stone where marble could not be found. The lone identifying obelisk stood at the foremost gate, its crown reshaped to give it some semblance of its original look, with its elaborate script studiously reetched.

As Golgren’s column entered through the gates, he paused from waving to the crowds to admire the work that had been done since his departure. In place of many of the ancient reliefs of High Ogre faces, his own image had begun to take prominence. The craftsmanship and detail involved in those depictions surpassed even the work on a new, intricate griffon statue just being erected on the right side of the gates. The grand lord nodded his approval at the anxious workers who were busy with final work on that statue. The workers knew that their lord had commanded that piece be ready by the time he returned from crushing his rivals, and they hastened to do as expected.

Farther within, other buildings also showed signs of the continuing patchwork and reconstruction. Every portion of Garantha visible to the grand lord as he passed was busy being improved. If Golgren was to be the master of his people, he expected they and their greatest city to be worthy of him.

Idaria rode beside him, ready to hand him a vial of scent or whatever else he desired during the procession. Compared to other slaves, hers was a vaunted position, for most ogres would have insisted that she trail far behind their horses, her feet bare and her back red from whippings. Idaria had only three faint streaks on her back, dating from her one failed escape attempt. There might have been more, only Golgren had not deemed her other minor transgressions worthy of such punishment.

Behind the pair rode Golgren’s guards and his senior officers. Khleeg was chief among them. Khleeg had been given the singular and exalted honor of holding aloft at the end of a spear the drying head of the defeated rebel chieftain Trang. The squinty-eyed ogre was very proud of his responsibility and waved the gaping head high above his own to give the trophy maximum visibility to the throngs.

For the coming of the grand lord-an arrival announced in advance by riders from the column some days before-the crowds were tremendous indeed. They were dressed as few outsiders had ever witnessed the race; in robes and other garments mostly refashioned from elven finery, the highest of the caste looked nearly as magnificent as the finely dressed leader whom they greeted with cheers. Many even had crudely brushed and cleaned their hair, and more than a few had filed down their tusks in the manner of the grand lord. To most humans, dwarves, or elves, the scene might have been amusing-brutal beasts playing at civilized behavior-but others would have looked upon the spectacle with wonder, awe … and worry.