Richard Knaak - The Black Talon

And not just any Titan … such knowledge, such casting of spells, required a member who belonged to Dauroth’s inner circle.

The Black Talon.

And with that realization, he turned his torturous gaze upon those standing with him, his eyes focusing first and foremost upon Kallel. Kallel, who had protested ever Dauroth’s demand upon the rest for power, who constantly worried about whether there was enough elixir or whether the other sources they had gathered would ever be enough to replace the blood of elves. Kallel … Kallel … the name played over and over in his head, in condemning fashion. Dauroth’s skull pounded.

“Betrayer!” he shouted at last, the shocking denunciation fortified by the torture Dauroth was undergoing. “Betrayer!”

Taken aback, the rest of the Black Talon broke from the pattern, not caring that in doing so they shattered the spell. Kallel, gaping, sought to hide among his comrades. However, they shoved him away, leaving him to face the master alone.

Something had begun to gnaw at Dauroth, a terrible gnawing that grew with each labored breath. “Betrayer!” he managed to gasp again. One hand twisted into a fist. He felt Safrag strengthen him for what he was about to do. “Kallel, you are condemned!”

“Nay, great one! I know not even what you speak of! I did nothing!” Kallel’s eyes were bright with fear. “Nay! Do not-”

“You are an Abomination to me.”

Kallel howled. His body seemed to lose all solidity, as if his bones had turned to butter. His blue skin paled, turning a foul, decaying green. Hideous boils erupted all over his body. Kallel’s face distorted, the eyes seeming to slide to random positions. His mouth deformed. A stench arose from him, one of corruption. His limbs twisted into tentacles.

His own insides twisting, Dauroth let out a sharp cry of his own. With a commanding gesture, he cast the transforming Kallel from the sight of the rest of the Black Talon, sending him to that remote place to which all Abominations were condemned.

At the same time, Dauroth felt Safrag sever the link between master and apprentice.

“Safrag!” The elder Titan spoke in a grating voice, startled by the development. Safrag he counted on as his key to survival. “Safrag! Attend me! Attend me now!”

But his apprentice, staring stonily, merely shook his head. “There is nothing I can do for you, my master.”

The gnawing sensation had been moving up Dauroth’s body, yet he retained enough presence of mind to cast a keen glance at Safrag, and at last he understood. For one of the very few times in his existence, Dauroth knew he had been played for the fool.

Kallel had not been the culprit. Safrag had merely fostered that idea in his master’s mind, just as he had fed so much distrust of Hundjal before, Dauroth realized.

“Safrag! You-”

But it was too late to punish the traitor. The curse upon the vial’s contents took its final toll. It was as if someone were peeling Dauroth apart from the inside. His chest folded open-his ribs, organs, and beating heart were momentarily revealed, to the horror of the others-and from inside of him burst a green-tinged energy that further ate away at the Titan.

In the end, it was not hatred for Golgren or anger over the betrayal by one of his own that was Dauroth’s last thought; rather it was the long-held dream. He beheld the ancient spirit from his first vision, then the golden city from the more recent. The city stretched out before him, the gates open and inviting. The gleaming figure was there too, and at first Dauroth believed he beckoned the spellcaster toward those gates.

But then the guardian transformed into the robed spirit. The beautiful male/female shook its head in sorrow. It waved a slim hand, and the gates shut tight.

You have failed to earn it , the guardian sang. You have failed…

As the rest of the Black Talon watched, Dauroth reached a shaking hand toward empty air, and the last of him was peeled away until nothing remained but dissipating wisps of smoke.

In Garantha, the quake came to such an abrupt halt that nobody could question its supernatural origins. The remaining towers, still teetering, very quickly stilled. Dust drifted over everything, so thick as to be blinding.

Certain the catastrophe would return, Garantha’s inhabitants remained frozen, and the only sounds heard throughout the city were those of the injured and dying calling out unheeded for aid. Only as more time passed and the land remained quiet did more normal signs of life gradually return. Only then did help begin to come to those in dire need.

With the return of normal life came the shock of awareness of the death and destruction that had engulfed the city. The cries and weeping began anew, for even ogres can stand only so much before their spirits break. Yet for all the violence within the city, an even greater menace, encroaching from the west, had been met in battle. Guards peeking over the walls caught their first glimpses of the ruined land beyond, making them thankful the city had not suffered as much by comparison.

The call went out for those who ruled to take command of the emergency and issue instructions for relief and aid, but of the self-proclaimed master of all Kern and Blode, the only signs were the mangled and ruined banners and the cracked images.

Idaria woke first; it was she who first discovered that she was alive. She lay half buried in silt and stone, her body bruised and slashed, but miraculously not badly harmed.

No, it was not so miraculous. Recalling her rescuer, she looked around hopefully. Yet there was no evidence of any silver armor nearby, no hint of a human hand or limb.

“Sir Stefan!” she rasped, her wracked voice sounding like it’d be more suitable for a goblin. “Sir Stefan!”

The elf bent down and started digging frantically, tossing aside loose dirt and small debris. When the first hole she dug did not satisfy her, Idaria tried a second and a third and more. The knight had saved her life. He must be buried there somewhere, crushed by dirt and rocks. She had to find him.

But each shallow hole ended in sheets of solid rock. Whether that rock was ancient or the result of the quake was impossible to say. Stefan could lay buried yards away or right under her feet. Never had she felt so defeated.

“Sir Stefan,” the elf rasped again. “Sir Stefan … ”

Then her fingers scraped against something. Desperate, Idaria scrabbled at the object, finally uncovering it.

It was the medallion. She recognized both the medallion and the revered symbol decorating it. That drove her to prayer. “Kiri-Jolith! Lord of Just Cause! I call you in the name of one of your own! Help me find him if there is still any hope.”

What she expected in response, Idaria did not know. The medallion did not flare bright, however, and no ghostly image of the good god appeared, pointing the way to the buried knight.

But then a clatter of rock to her right made her straighten expectantly. To her astonishment, she saw the armored figure she sought, off in the distance, stumbling away from her over the ravaged landscape. Stefan kept his head turned away from the elf, as if something before him held his utmost attention.

Confused, Idaria took a step after the human. Stefan was heading toward neither Garantha nor in the direction of distant Solamnia. If anything, he was heading toward the more mountainous regions of Kern and, for that matter, Blode.

“Sir Stefan!” she shouted after him. “Sir Stefan!” Although her voice was strained, her cry was loud; yet the human did not give any sign of hearing her, nor did he turn around. He continued to stumble determinedly along on his path.

Idaria hesitated. Golgren’s face formed in her mind. She remembered all she had struggled for in her mission as an ogre slave. And she fought against feelings that had nothing to do with that mission, having only to do with herself.