The Black Talon: Ogre Titans, Volume One (Dragonlance: Ogre Titans, Vol. 1) Read online

  As the wind rose, Dauroth looked to the sky and uttered certain words in a musical language. As one, the Titans vanished.

  The wind died down as soon as they were gone. Golgren let out a grunt that marked for all around him his lack of amazement at Dauroth’s act. The other ogres quickly tried to copy his facial expression, wary of possibly letting the grand lord think that anything frightened them that didn’t frighten him.

  Golgren turned his mount around and headed to his tent. The rounded structure was formed from tanned hides and bone slats with a thick piece of mastark fur draping the entrance. Two guards stood near the entrance—one a typical Kern ogre like so many that comprised Golgren’s following, the second a rounder, squatter figure in armor who hailed from the other ogre realm of Blöde. The two saluted him with equal fervor, their meaty fists banging hard against their breastplates. There still remained a grand khan in Kern and a ruling chieftain in Blöde, but Golgren was master of both regions in all but title.

  And even that would soon change.

  One of the guards took the reins but did not offer to assist Golgren down. The grand lord rarely ever accepted help from his own kind. An ogre who did not fend for himself was a fool.

  Ignoring the guards, Golgren slipped into his tent. Inside was shade and warmth. The floor was covered by a wide mastark hide and softer skins, mostly from young amaloks, scattered here and there. There were also many colorful yet elegant pillows with intricate embroidery whose craftsmanship marked them as spoils from the conquest of elven Silvanost.

  And even more important, another souvenir from that ravaged land, was the female who awaited the grand lord, a silver-tressed figure with eyes of crystalline blue and skin of ivory. Her form was slim yet appreciably curved in the ways Golgren liked; she appeared just a few short years into adulthood, even though she was a lifetime or two older than the ogre. Her hair was parted down the middle and flowed past her shoulders, down to nearly the crook of her back. Her somewhat narrow face bore features that were both delicate and yet toughened.

  She wore the remnants of a once-grand gown whose color, green, almost matched the tint of Golgren’s eyes. The bottom of her gown was in tattered shreds, while the bodice had been revamped and lowered—at Golgren’s demand—to best display her charms. She wore only well-used, crude sandals of ogre make, sandals originally for a child of that race.

  Her ankles and wrists were shackled in iron, providing her just enough mobility to perform her tasks but not enough to make an escape. In the past the elf woman—like her two predecessors—had tried to escape and failed miserably.

  “Idaria,” he rumbled.

  She lowered her head. “My lord Golgren.”

  Assuring himself that the tent flap completely covered the entrance, the grand lord seated himself on the cushions. Idaria maneuvered herself around to her appointed place at his right. Without looking at her, Golgren held up the covered stump of his arm.

  With practiced care, the elf undid what remained of the fastenings for his metal talons. Some of the stronger ones had dug into his flesh, causing bleeding that became apparent only when the wrappings had been completely removed.

  “The weapon, it did not work to my satisfaction,” the ogre commented more to the air than to the elf woman. “The device’s making, it was crude. Not as I envisioned it. It shall need to be redone.”

  Idaria said nothing. If and when Golgren wanted her to respond, he would give her a clear indication. She continued to remove everything from his arm so she could see to cleaning the injured stump. Once, the thought of performing such a task would have affronted the elf woman, but Idaria had discovered that she was capable of enduring many worse affronts; she was a survivor willing to do whatever she must. That alone set her apart from those who came before her.

  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 Blödian 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 tee
th 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.

  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.

  III

  THE DRAGON WHO IS ZHARANG

  Garantha 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 lo
ng 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.