Beating at the burning wall at the back, the youth managed to create an opening big enough to leap through without getting singed too badly. The moment that he was out, he continued along his path toward his family’s hut. He had been out beyond the borders of the village when the attack occurred, staring-as he often did, despite the beatings his father gave him for doing so-in the direction from which she said her people came. Only when he had heard the first scream had he rushed back, fearful for her safety alone. The rest of the village could have been slaughtered for all he cared. His only concern was his mother.
There was the family hut. His heart leaped, for as far as he could see, the structure was still intact. He ran faster, ignored by the other riders who were in pursuit of more threatening targets.
But as he neared the entrance, he saw that the opposite side of the hut had been crushed in. Choking, the youth shoved through the wreckage of the fur-covered entrance and peered inside.
She lay sprawled on the ground, her torso awash in blood. He knelt down beside her, determined to carry her slight body away and give it a decent burial rather than let it rot with the others. She wasn’t heavy to lift. Had she been like his father, big and bulky, the task would have been impossible, for ogres were among the heaviest of races.
Whereas elves such as his mother were different.
She had silver hair that hung down to her shoulders, which had been to him, as a child, fascinating in its delicacy. It had once hung much longer, so she had said, butthat had been when she still lived among her own kind.
As he touched her, her eyes fluttered open.
Those emerald green orbs, which he had inherited, reminded him of the rare blossoming of mountain flowers during the early spring. Her narrow face had many age lines but was still the most beautiful face in all the village. He leaned close and smelled the faint scent, almost like that of the aforementioned mountain flowers.
“Guy… Guyvir… ”
He hated his name, for it was a curse imposed upon him by his father. Guyvir, the unborn, he was called that by even his mother, who more than once had said she wished, for his sake, that he had not been born of his captive mother and her obsessed enslaver. Yet when she said the name, he could always sense the love that she had had for the half-breed who bore her heritage.
And she was dying.
“Mother,” he mouthed, despite his tusks, preferring the Common word to the ogre Lagruu ul, which did not truly mean mother but rather something akin to breeder.
“Guyvir… Braag… your father… ”
His father, the chieftain, was dead already. Guyvir had witnessed his slaying. He had felt only a slight pang of emotion when the three knights had cut the chieftain down, not like the sea of turmoil overwhelming him at that moment.
She saw his expression, and he, in turn, read not only the satisfaction in hers, but also some deep-seated regret.
The moment passed. Clearly summoning her last strength, his mother said, “To the north! Braag’s cousin… his village is safe from this incursion! Go to him… he… he is softer and has no heir… ”
Guyvir had met his cousin twice and had respect forthe one-eyed warrior. The chieftain had looked at the puny child and nodded at the slim body while making a swift arc with his hand. He knew that there was more than what met the eyes to the young one whose appearance lacked size and muscle.
“I’ll take you with,” Guyvir replied in Common. His mother had taught him the language in secret.
She put her trembling hand to his cheek. “I will always be with-”
Her hand fell; her eyes grew slack. At the same time, Guyvir sensed someone enter the hut. He freed the dagger hidden by his kilt and faced a slim ogre clad in elegant, unblemished robes, an ogre whose tusks were shaved down and who had only one hand.
It was himself.
At that moment, Golgren awoke with a start. Cold sweat bathed him. He shivered and stared at the darkness, his gaze finally fixing on Idaria.
With a hiss of anger, the grand lord lay back again. He had many dreams, most of them of conquest and triumph, but only one that played itself over and over, ending in damnation. There were some memories that could never be forgotten, could never be buried.
At the same time, those memories also drove Golgren as nothing else. As he shut his eyes, the grand lord imagined a land that he had only briefly and surreptitiously explored, but that always beckoned-a land that was his waking dream to conquer.
“I will come, Silvanost,” he murmured. “I will come … ”
VIII
As he was their leader in all matters, minor or significant, the Black Talon convened at Dauroth’s pleasure. In a central chamber on the main floor of the Titans’ sweeping edifice, the robed sorcerers gathered. For each of the eleven, there awaited a massive, stone chair whose arched back rose high over its occupant. The chairs were set behind a curved, wooden platform that gave the seated giants the appearance of condemnatory judges. Once, when first that place had been built, a massive chandelier had lit the chamber, but it had been replaced with a ball of white-blue energy that hovered over the oval of chairs.
It was there, in that central chamber, that the Black Talon discussed daily events and how the lives of ogres could be manipulated for the Titans’ ultimate goal. The Grand Lord Golgren was often a part of those discussions, and many sharp, disapproving comments were made about the half-breed, although such comments were always moderated in tone so Dauroth would not take offense and punish the speaker.
The platform was arched like a crescent moon so all the Titans had some glimpse of the others and any who stood before them. At the center of the platform, seated slightly higher than the rest, was Dauroth. Hundjal and Safrag flanked him. The others were divided evenly on each side, with those farthest away of least importance; all had an equal vote in decisions, although even their unanimity could be overturned by their leader should Dauroth deem such a step necessary.
“He treats us like collared mastarks!” growled Hundjal, his handsome face twisted into an ugly sneer by his fury. In his anger, he had slipped into Common, a tongue very useful and even more eloquent than the Titans’ musical language when it came to complaining about the grand lord’s dictates. “Go out and crush his enemies then return to our stalls until needed again!”
Dauroth’s expression remained consistently neutral. Among the others, Safrag and the lesser Titans watched, most wise enough to keep their opinions to themselves for the moment.
“His concern about the borders with Ambeon are not without merit,” the lead Titan finally answered, choosing Common because his apprentice had also spoken in that language. “And although the views of some among the Black Talon may differ on that issue, I, as its head, have decided that we will abide by his request.”
“Request?” Hundjal nearly spit before recalling his place. “He ordered it, master! Ordered you.”
“This particular discussion is ended.” Dauroth switched back to the more superior Titan tongue. His words were a beautiful song to the ears of the others, but in Common they would have translated as, “Let us now turn to another matter. There is one among our number who wishes to speak to the Talon.”