The others grew animated. Few among the ranks of the Titans would care to bring unnecessary notice to themselves by requesting an audience with the inner circle. Such an act of daring could just as easily diminish their standing among their kind.
Narrowed, golden eyes turned to the empty area before the Talon. On the stone floor was etched the symbol of the gathering, a set of avian claws, utterly dark in color and seeming poised as if to grasp whomever stood above them.
Dauroth stretched a hand toward that spot, and as he did, sinister black flames erupted from the stones there. They burst into high flame, leaping toward the illuminating sphere.
But no sooner had the black flames erupted than the magical fire died again, and where they had been stood a figure that caused everyone to gasp-everyone, that was, except Dauroth.
She was as beautiful as an elf maid, though as shadowy in cast as the Titans were like the sun. Her unbound raven tresses nearly flowed down to her waist. That she was garbed much like a member of the Talon-though hers was more form fitting in preferred places-was no coincidence.
“Asahna inaris oMorgada,” Dauroth sang. “Welcome to you, our sister Morgada.”
Long lashes half veiled the golden eyes of the Titaness. The full, artfully black lips parted, and if Morgada’s teeth were not as large as those of the males in the room, they were, without a doubt, cleaner and sharper.
“Great to me is the gift of this audience,” she sang back in the Titan tongue, “even if it is not I for whom I speak.”
“You come for another?”
Smiling, the ogress surveyed the darkened figures. She knew well the effect she had on the powerful males; they were keenly aware of her unusual beauty. The spell that had transformed her was intended to give her just that advantage.
“I come for a brother known to you all, who, by the curse of the mongrel playing at khan, has now suffered as none of us would wish.” The Titaness shuddered sincerely, for she, especially, appreciated what such a fate would mean.
Dauroth straightened, understanding. “Ah! It is Donnag of whom you speak.”
“Donnag … yes, great Dauroth … poor, pitiful Donnag.” And as Morgada sang those words, she stepped to the side, revealing a misshapen thing her magical arts had hidden until that moment.
The living thing crudely resembled an ogre if some giant hand had managed, only half successfully, to conjure one of the race from a short, muttered description. The creature had bones that did not seem to align with those with which they were joined. One thick club of an arm dragged on the stone floor, while the other seemed to have atrophied. The thing was hunched and bent to the right, and it was clear to all that when the figure moved, he did so using three of his stronger limbs.
A worn, brown cloak covered much of the pathetic creature’s body, fortunately, as much of its visible skin was mottled and covered in boils or warts. There was not much hair on its body, which was contrary to the norm for ogres, and what little there was were wisps that had turned a sickly gray.
A general nervousness spread throughout the Black Talon, with even Dauroth frowning at the sight. The lead Titan’s nose twitched; a rancid smell permeated the august chamber and clearly that stink was emanating from the foul, misshapen Donnag.
The twisted mouth with four angled tusks opened, and a voice that would have made even a toad’s sound beautiful croaked in Common, “G-great D-Dauroth … why … ” The thing paused, its watery, round eyes that were too big for its head squeezing tightly shut in an attempt to formulate its thoughts. “Why … ” the cloaked form tried again, “you forsaken D-Donnag?”
Once, there had been a powerful chieftain called Donnag, who had, through his savage might, fought his way up to become ruler of Blode, and he had exerted a great influence over the court of Kern as well. That Donnag had been a fierce warrior with a trail of blood honored in legend, even before his ascension to the throne. Once, ogres had believed that if the race ever were to unite, it would unite under the iron club of Donnag.
And for a long while, there had been nothing to make anyone believe otherwise. Indeed, at one point, the ruler of Blode had been approached by the Black Talon as a candidate deemed possibly worthy of rising to even greater glory; perhaps he might even join the Titan ranks. That Donnag had been no fool; he knew the magic of the Titans would be a valuable weapon to add to his arsenal.
Donnag’s future had appeared glorious and inevitable until the emergence in Kern of the slight-to Donnag, almost childlike-half-breed calling himself Golgren.
How it was that Golgren had ingratiated himself with the grand khan was not difficult to understand. Zharang had become little more than a self-indulgent wastrel. Golgren had thus easily manipulated events so the servant became the master. But Donnag was no Zharang. He had intended Golgren to serve him until the half-breed was drained of any use; then would he be executed.
But Donnag had erred even more stupidly than the grand khan. Golgren cleverly built alliances, and one of those had been a partnership with the foul Uruv Suurt priestess, Nephera. The Titans blamed Nephera for much of their troubles, for her malevolent deity had enabled the witch to steal the secrets of the spellcasters and pass some of those secrets on to Golgren. That put them into the hands-hand-of the dog from Kern.
Dauroth alone did not seem to regard Golgren suspiciously, and, in fact, the leader of the Titans appeared to welcome Golgren as a potentially useful tool in re-creating the High Ogre race. Action was in Donnag’s blood; he had moved to squash the half-breed, rashly convinced that, together, his magic and his might would be sufficient to destroy the spindly half-breed.
But he had underestimated Golgren. Donnag had failed, and for his failure, Golgren had commanded-commanded-that no Titan provide the elixir and spell work that the chieftain of Blode so badly required to resuscitate and maintain himself.
Within two months of his defeat, Donnag had lost all of his magical ability. His understanding of the Titan tongue had melted away, and even Common and Ogre required tremendous effort. Worse, as his mind went, his body degenerated at an even swifter pace. His once-glorious form had suddenly bent and twisted, and none of his limbs moved as they should. The festering boils and strange warts popped up with grim abandon.
By the end of three months, Donnag had become the barely sentient blight that tried to stand before the Talon.
“W-why?” he asked Dauroth again. “Why?”
“Donnag knows the reason why,” returned the lead Titan as succinctly as possible in Common. “Donnag did not listen. Donnag was told his course was wrong, but he failed to listen.”
The once-glorious Titan shambled past Morgada, who, although she had acted as his sponsor, seemed eager to edge away from his stench. “Know this!” growled the macabre form. “Know this! But-but look!” Donnag held up a hand that was more a paw. Two of his fingers had fused together, and the others had grown stunted. “G-grows worse! No-never s-stops!”
That was what frightened any Titan, even those of the inner circle, the most. The degeneration did, indeed, appear to be endless. Always there was something changing, something mutating. There was no one there who did not recognize how Donnag had grown worse since last they had glimpsed him. Then he had been petitioning for some relief, some assistance, from the Black Talon or, more to the point, from Dauroth.
But Dauroth was unmoved, just as on those past occasions. “Donnag brought this sorry circumstance upon himself. He knows that there is nothing we can do for him-”
“Coward! Bec-cause Dauroth-Dauroth is coward!”
Even Hundjal gave an involuntary shiver as the rest of the Black Talon froze, waiting for the punishment that would surely befall the chieftain for his blasphemous words. Yet Dauroth did not burn Donnag to ash or have his insides become his outsides. Rather, Dauroth looked calm and even solicitous, gazing upon the monstrous figure with a mask of pity.