Richard Knaak - The Black Talon

“Ka i’Urkarun Dracon iZharangi!” growled Khleeg, giving a cursory bow. The other revelers grew silent, some surreptitiously eyeing the grand khan of Kern, who was clearly irritated but struggling to keep a blank, bored expression. “Ka i’Urkarun Dracon iZharangi!” The newcomer repeated.

At first Zharang-or The Great Dragon That Is Zharang, as his name-title translated to in the Common that his rebellious lackey so admired-did not acknowledge the ceremonial greeting. Instead, he took up a long clay pipe and inhaled from it more of the scent of the Grmyn flower. The flower was a popular pastime among those of his inner circle, and a thick, purple-tinged cloud already floated over the assembled guests, hindering the efforts of the torches in the walls to keep the chamber properly lit.

The heady smell sent renewed confidence through the grand khan. He finally nodded at Khleeg.

Eyes narrowed, the officer turned toward the curtains at the back and, in a manner most unlike an ogre, snapped to attention, as Zharang had heard human warriors often liked to do. Zharang had hardly ever seen one of his own race look so erect or foolish in military posture, he thought bitterly.

In a wrought-iron cage high off to one side, a fearsome dark-red avian picking at the finger bones of a hand squawked as the curtains flew aside again. The huge bird stretched its wings and snapped with its sharp beak through the bars. At the same time, Zharang found himself unconsciously straightening. Golgren strode into the chamber, his sweeping bow accenting that aspect of his lineage that was rumored to be elf. He grinned widely at the grease- and wine-splattered spectators, some of whom shifted as much as they could to avoid his scrutiny.

“Welcome, Grand Lord,” Zharang uttered, showing that he, too, knew enough Common to get along at official occasions. In truth, the heavyset ogre had struggled to learn what little he could speak, but felt obliged, as those who knew the foreign language might be using it to speak ill of him behind his back.

“Your greeting is most gracious,” returned Golgren, his words flowing with the ease of a mighty river. Then the grand lord paused without adding the many other titles of the seated figure, as tradition warranted. That was a clear insult to accepted ritual, which Golgren compounded by continuing with words that emphasized his own greatness. “The enemies are broken, their swords and clubs shattered! I bring two for later display and, as a gift to my khan, this wonder!”

He snapped his fingers, and an ogre behind Khleeg brought forth a bagged bundle. Despite himself, Zharang leaned forward in curiosity.

Golgren pointed at the low table upon which square plates full of seasoned goat, amalok, and snake, along with goblets of wine, had been set for the grand khan and his guests. Acting on instinct, many of the latter quickly pushed away from the table.

The armored ogre poured the contents of the bag on the oak table. It bounced once, its vibration spilling several nearby goblets, then rolled along the length of the table toward Zharang. As it did, Golgren’s “wonder” rattled wooden dishes and splattered food in all directions-food and still-congealing blood.

The head of the chieftain Trang rolled to a stop with its bulging eyes staring straight up at the grand khan. In its cage, the black-orbed raptor squawked eagerly, hoping for a tidbit.

Zharang took another quick inhalation of the Grmyn flower then nodded his approval to Golgren. “Good. Good,” he responded, his skill with Common faltering. “Corruun i’fhani.”

“A splendid dead he makes, yes.” The grand lord snapped his fingers again. “And even more splendid is this.”

Two more guards entered; in their grip was a surly figure. The ogre chieftain Guln glared at his hated captors.

“Ja i f’tuuni!” he defiantly rasped at Golgren. “Ja i f’tuuni!”

Golgren ignored the insult, instead gesturing for Guln to be brought forward, to Zharang. Having dreamed of that moment, the grand khan grinned wickedly and rose. He extended his hand behind him and was presented with a long, sharp sword cast of steel that Golgren himself had gifted to him after a previous victory over the black-armored humans called Nerakans.

Ogre tradition demanded that a triumphant chieftain bring a powerful foe back home as a present to his lord. The grand khan would acknowledge the chieftain’s victory and loyalty with a ceremonial execution of the prisoner as celebrants watched.

Despite his jaded, rotund appearance, Zharang swung the sword back and forth experimentally in a manner that showed his skill as a warrior had not faded entirely. Indeed, he had enjoyed practicing with his sword since that defeat of the Nerakans. His display of prowess earned grunts of approval and banging of fists on tables from his guests, and even Golgren nodded appreciatively.

Guln was shoved to his knees. Even though he was well aware of his doom, the chieftain did not reveal despair or fear. To do so would leave his spirit wandering in shame and also mark his clan for a generation.

Gripping the sword firmly, the grand khan took up a position to the side of the prisoner and near Golgren. The guards stepped away, but they kept their weapons ready should Guln attempt something reckless at the very last moment.

Golgren, his own sword sheathed, watched the events unfold. A hint of amused anticipation touched his countenance.

Zharang, his face twisting into an expression of dark pleasure, raised the once-Nerakan blade high. With a grunt, he brought the sword down heavily-and at the last moment shifted its angle so as to aim its sharp edge toward Golgren .

Thus Zharang had dreamed and plotted for weeks, certain of his opportunity. Golgren’s triumphs would prove his own undoing.

But the shorter ogre’s throat was no longer where it had been, where it was supposed to be, in the grand khan’s scheme. Zharang encountered only empty air. Momentum sent him whirling in a circle, so hard had he thrown himself into the attack.

And when he next caught sight of the grand lord, it was to see the one-handed figure with his own weapon at the ready and grinning as only an ogre could. All hints of elf lineage had vanished from his bestial face, utterly.

Rattled but now committed, Zharang attacked again with ferocity. Still holding the sword with both hands, he beat repeatedly at Golgren’s defenses. The grand lord was pushed back.

No one interfered, not even Golgren’s guards. Everyone edged away, some gaping. The day had been long in coming, and all were well aware that the loser would die and the winner would own their loyalty-or they, too, would die. There were not even any wagers, as was usual when fights broke out. Not one square copper coin was tossed in the room, for to bet on the outcome of that spectacle was to take chances with one’s own future.

The two ogres were zigzagging around the great chamber, others scattering from their path. Zharang had an advantage that few other ogres could claim against Golgren; for a long time, he had been observing the grand lord, carefully studying his fighting moves and noting those that the upstart favored. Zharang believed he knew and could parry the best of them.

Despite being momentarily harried, Golgren continued to smile as though amused and unconcerned. That served only to infuriate Zharang, who advanced and swung his sword all the harder.

Twice, Golgren nearly lost his grip. Zharang continued to pursue him around the chamber, even forcing his smaller opponent against the cage inhabited by the savage, red-crested bird. The vicious avian creature snapped at Golgren’s cheek, drawing blood. A favored pet of the grand khan, much of its diet came from the severed fingers of those who had lost favor with Zharang.