The Gargoyle King

by Richard A. Knaak

  Steadying herself, the elf stared at the figure. It was not merely a knight from Solamnia.

  It was Sir Stefan Rennert.

  “It cannot be,” she blurted. “You are one of his creatures!” Idaria insisted, referring to the master of the ancient citadel.

  “There is only one to whom I swear an oath now,” Stefan solemnly replied. His face and form were utterly devoid of any injury, and his armor gleamed as if freshly polished. He was even clean shaven. “And that is Kiri-Jolith.”

  Mention of the bison-headed god of just cause prompted the elf to look around. After the intrigues of Sirrion, she fully expected to see the other deity present. Yet there was no sign.

  “He has his tasks, and monumental they are,” Stefan commented, as if reading her thoughts. “I’ve the honor of seeking to help in his place.”

  “But you—you are dead. I saw you die!”

  Chasm grunted agreement, the gargoyle partially blocking the ground between the elf and the impossible visitor.

  Stefan looked pained. “I don’t rightly know if I’m alive or dead or somewhere in between. I only know that as the blade sank into me and I grew cold, then, at the very last moment, Kiri-Jolith came and took hold of me. He kept me safe until I felt strength returning. When I opened my eyes, he and I stood in the midst of what had once been a great castle but which had become merely an arrangement of stones half-buried by time.”

  Once this was a place of tremendous courage and honor, the god had told him as the human had struggled to rise. But that was so long ago, when even I was young.

  As was reasonable, Stefan had paid less attention to the god and more to the fact that he was not lying on the floor of the citadel as a cold corpse. He had asked much the same question of Kiri-Jolith as Idaria had directed at him. Was he alive or dead or something else?

  That remains to be seen, was all the bison-headed warrior had answered. For the first time, the Solamnic had noticed that Paladine’s son looked weary, even somewhat aged.

  Things change and yet stay the same, and I wonder whether my place is still here upon Krynn or anywhere, the deity had gone on to say, striding through the ruins.

  Stefan had kept pace, aware that he owed everything to the god who had taken him as his cleric, and also aware that he could help Idaria and the others only with Kiri-Jolith’s aid.

  Finally, Stefan had dared to speak up again, stating that his tasks were unfinished, that if Kiri-Jolith had saved him, it was only because the god must wish him to return to his friends and help them. He also assumed Kiri-Jolith intended to move against either Sirrion or the gargoyle king or both.

  But the majestic warrior, looming more than two feet over the human and certainly capable of standing taller should he so desire, had replied that his actions were limited against Sirrion for reasons Stefan would not be able to understand. Kiri-Jolith needed the knight, not the other way around.

  “He told me that Krynn is in flux, that the gods are all seeking their proper places in the world,” Stefan told Idaria. “Some go by the will of Krynn’s people; others attempt to manipulate matters to their own end.” The Solamnic frowned. “And others, such as Sirrion, are simply unpredictable.”

  “But the god of fire is not an evil thing,” the elf pointed out. “Not like Takhisis was.”

  “No, but his nature is mercurial; his decisions are of the moment. He is volatile in the absolute sense. He feels that he has been ignored despite his presence in the aspect of every creature’s life. He likes games, too, and though on the surface they veer neither to the light nor darkness, they can by themselves plunge our world into chaos!”

  Idaria had already experienced the truth of that statement. “What is your part in this, then?”

  The armored figure’s expression looked vague. “I’ve more than one part, but the one most important as far as you are concerned deals with a grove and your people.”

  “My people?”

  Stefan nodded. “We need to save them now, and for that, you, I, and Chasm here must go into the heart of the Titan realm and their very sanctum.”

  General Thandorus had only lately come to Ambeon, but he was determined to make his mark. He had fought as first hekturion in Wyvern Legion during the taking of Silvanost and for his achievements had been granted a promotion to commander of the newly formed Badger Legion, the first such unit assembled entirely in the colony. A stout-muzzled warrior of a dusky brown fur, Thandorus had been in charge for the entirety of three days and had already begun crafting his new command in his own image. He intended for the emperor to hear of Badger Legion’s exploits as soon as possible.

  The legion was one of those stationed near Sargasanti—the former capital of the elves, renamed for the minotaurs’ chief deity—and it was ready to march to the wooden forts located on the western borders. Thandorus would have preferred to march north toward the ogres but hoped that perhaps circumstances west might create an encounter with the Solamnics. What mattered most was raising his legion’s reputation as dedicated servants of the emperor.

  He sat in his tent, poring over the charts showing the path west. For the first several days of the march, good minotaur roads of stone—carved out of the once-virgin forest—would make the travel swift. Beyond that, serviceable dirt paths continued on to Fort Four, the official designation of his destination.

  A guard interrupted. “General! He is here!”

  Thandorus looked up. “Who? The governor?” The colonial leader was supposed to meet Thandorus before the morning’s march, but that appointment was still hours away. “Why now?”

  The legionary, a scarred, hardened soldier whose expression looked uncommonly startled, shook his head. “Nay! Not the governor! The emperor himself!”

  The commander snorted furiously. Tossing aside a berry- juice-tipped quill he had been using to make notes on the charts, he bellowed, “You dare jest with your general? You—”

  “He doesn’t jest, Thandorus.”

  As his commissioning had taken place at a ceremony overseen by the emperor, the general had no trouble recognizing the first figure who stepped into the tent. However, the one who followed Faros inside astounded him, and the third troubled him.

  “An ogre? A human?” As Thandorus peered at the pair, he saw the maimed limb of the second newcomer and realized that he was no ogre, but a rare half-breed. He recalled there was only one such with a maimed hand who matched that description.

  “Golgren!” Thandorus reached for his gleaming, twin-headed ax, but Faros gestured for him to stand down.

  “Matters have changed,” the emperor declared. “And Badger has new orders.”

  Faros stepped to the charts, shoving aside one of the two stools set near the table and leaning over the maps for a better view. Golgren and the human followed his example. Eyes darting between the charts and the infamous half-breed, the general listened as Golgren pointed out several locations in the more vague areas north of the minotaur-ogre border. The more Thandorus drank in the discussion, the more eager he became. The intelligence passed on by Golgren was invaluable; over the past two years, dozens of scouts and spies had unsuccessfully attempted to learn as much.

  Eyes afire with anticipation, Faros finally gave Golgren a grim nod. Golgren retreated to where Tyranos waited.

  “We are done here,” the deposed Grand Khan quietly informed the wizard.

  “About damned time!” Tyranos readied the staff.

  Before they could vanish, Faros suddenly rejoined them. He paid no mind to Tyranos. With a gaze as strong as the half-breed’s, he looked into Golgren’s eyes.

  “Matters are not settled between us,” the minotaur calmly announced.

  “A good enemy is more preferable to a terrible one,” Golgren replied.

  Grimacing, the wizard summoned the power of the staff.

  The pair vanished.

  And a moment later, Golgren and Tyranos landed in a desolate region. The brown hills led into dank mountains; a harsh wind blew. The silenc
e marked a place barely inhabited by even the most stubborn wildlife. Yes, it was very familiar territory to the former Grand Khan. They were in the midst of ogre country, perhaps but three days’ distance from Garantha.

  Tyranos all but dropped onto the ground. Gasping, he muttered, “Glad that’s over with!”

  The half-breed looked around. “Why are we here? This is not where I dictated we go next.”

  “Because you may think that with the staff I can send us all over the length and breadth of Krynn, but there are severe limitations and we’ve reached them!” The brawny wizard held up the staff. The five-sided crystal glowed only faintly. “If I use this right now, we’ll likely end up over there.” He pointed at a spot perhaps two yards away.

  Golgren frowned then sat down beside the robed figure. “You have reservations about where we must go.”

  “Even more than I did about our previous destination.”

  “It is essential—”

  Tyranos angrily cut him off. “Everything you desire is ‘essential’! I’ve gotten little on my end of the bargain! I might be better off on my own, as I was for so long, with only Chasm beside me. And I’d trust that gargoyle a thousand times more any day than I trust you … partner.”

  Golgren opened his mouth to reply then saw a thoughtful look pass over the wizard’s face. “What do you sense?”

  “Nothing. I’m merely exhausted.”

  “As well you should be. I did not give the matter proper consideration, how dangerous the meeting with the Uruv Suurt might be for you.”

  “No more dangerous than for you,” Tyranos uneasily countered.

  The deposed Grand Khan shook his head. “Untrue. You are to be admired, Tyranos, for all your efforts but especially in this last. This good face you put on, even when likely confronting your own people after so many lonely years—”

  The mage stiffened. The color drained from his face. “What by the Kraken do you mean—?”

  Golgren snatched the staff from the distracted Tyranos. Concentrating, he uttered the magical word that he had heard the other use.

  The half-breed disappeared. Echoing in his ears was a last-moment epithet from his betrayed companion.

  It had been a calculated risk. During the attack by the skeletal army on the capital, Golgren had discovered that he could wield the staff as if born to such powers. It was possible that the signet had something to do with it, but whatever the true reason, it had given Golgren the impetus to dare what he had just done. The pact between Tyranos and him had become strained, and the wizard’s actions had given the half-breed reason to believe that he could no longer expect help from Tyranos.

  Golgren reappeared elsewhere. However, perhaps because he was not very familiar with the staff, the deposed ruler materialized several feet in the air. He struck the ground hard then tumbled down a hill.

  At the bottom, Golgren came to a painful halt. He had lost the staff midway in his descent, but as he raised his head and cleared the dust and tears from his eyes, Golgren spied the staff lying a short distance away. As he had surmised, the staff had retained more power than Tyranos had claimed. It had been the wizard who was weary … and untrusting.

  Then Golgren noticed a pair of fiery feet clad in sandals of brilliant gold.

  The half-breed looked up to meet the amused gaze of Sirrion.

  Without hesitation, Golgren moved quickly toward the staff. However, Sirrion raised his right hand, and a furious ring of high, blinding flames surrounded both of them.

  “Unpredictable, amoral, mercurial … you are more my child than your mother’s … or his. It will be interesting to see how you are further tempered, should you survive the tempering.”

  “What do you want—?” Golgren started to demand.

  Yet Sirrion was already gone. The flames extinguished a breath later. Once more, the half-breed caught sight of the staff.

  He also caught sight of several wary riders heading his way, riders who clearly had not seen the god of fire nor his handiwork.

  Riders who were Knights of Solamnia.

  The time is upon us, the ghostly master of the citadel announced.

  The gargoyles shrieked their eagerness. For generations, they had been bred to serve and perish for the master. All their activities, from birth onward, were aimed toward making themselves as fit as possible, readying them for the battle that might achieve his centuries-long objective.

  And finally those assembled heard that they were to be so honored.

  You know where you must fly. You know what you must do. Go, my pets, and die if need be so that I may obtain that which was so basely stolen from me.

  One by one, shrieking all the while, the gargoyles rose from their perches. Vast dust clouds arose as the winged creatures took flight. Spiders and other vermin scurried into the shadows.

  The flock leaders roared out orders in their bestial tongues, summoning the subservient to them. Each lesser flock chose a different avenue of departure from the ancient mountain citadel. Out of the mountainside itself came some, summoned by the voice ingrained in their brutish minds. A veritable airborne army blanketed the already-shrouded sky above the Vale of Vipers.

  For a moment, the huge swarm hovered in expectation. Then with a shriek that thundered throughout the dread mountain range, the gargoyles headed toward the ogre capital.

  And below, in the macabre chamber where he held court, the gargoyle king summoned his other followers. The dead that were not dead, the unliving that were living—they came to him with a horrid eagerness. Rotted garments clinging to desiccated bodies, the smell of ancient decay clinging to them, they gathered. For so very long, they had been tormented shadows, but that day marked the long-awaited reward for their suffering.

  My dear friends, the shrouded figure proclaimed. My dear, loyal and trusting friends, you who gave so much are soon to breathe, soon to have your hearts pulsing again. You will know love where you only know envy; you will once more feel sated where you know only eternal hunger.

  From out of every dark corner, the shambling forms emerged. Although they in truth numbered only several dozen, their intensity made it feel as if a thousand stood listening. Corpses they might look like, but a hint of the power that they once had yielded was still evident in their ghastly presence.

  The gargoyle king had been seated for the departure of his winged subjects, but he stood and bowed to those who served him.

  I promised you that if you gave me all that you were, we would see our triumph … I promised that if you kept me fresh, I would keep you from death long enough … I have kept that promise. The Fire Rose will soon be in my grip, and we shall see all that we loved reborn with it.

  The rotting figures knelt as one. Although they had no lungs or tongues with which to speak, a wind seemed to rise up from among them; it whispered a single name.

  Xiryn, it called. Xiryn …

  Their leader nodded in gratitude. Xiryn reached up to touch the cloth that bound the lower half of his countenance. As he did, he continued speaking.

  The decay will be reversed … It will be as if these past travesties of life had never been. History itself will be reversed through the Fire Rose.

  The skeletal figures clapped their bony hands together, creating a clatter. Over and over, the wind whispered Xiryn’s name throughout the ancient edifice.

  The traitors will have failed at last, and we shall see our world come alive again and ourselves made whole.

  Xiryn pulled down the cloth, revealing his face. The lower half was decaying. There was still enough to recognize individual features, but it was also possible to identify the people to which Xiryn—and, thus, the ghastly throng—belonged.

  He no longer had lips, but that did not matter, for when Xiryn spoke, his mouth did not move. Ages past, the decay ever so slowly eating through him had taken his physical voice away. Xiryn spoke through magic and magic alone.

  Perfection is returned to us, he called to his loyal court. Raising his arms high, the gargoy
le king added, The day of the High Ogre is upon Krynn again.

  VIII

  TEMPEST AMONG THE TITANS

  It was an unusual gathering of the Titans, taking place in the chamber where the Black Talon alone always met. Generally, few outside of the Black Talon were summoned there. Yet Safrag had commanded that all should attend.

  To the rest, that surely meant they were finally to have their chance to wield the Fire Rose. It had been a struggle for some to keep their tongues, Kulgrath especially, but it appeared that their patience was at last to be rewarded.

  With the exception of Morgada, the rest of the inner circle was already seated and awaiting Safrag. The lone female Titan stood next to the empty, high-backed chair as if awaiting not only her teacher, but her lover as well. Kulgrath shielded his distaste from her view, sharing it instead with a slightly anxious Gadjul and two others among the Talon.

  The rest of the assembled Titans stood facing the tall platform upon which the Black Talon members were seated around a table. In the center of the chamber, where the symbol of the inner circle covered the stone floor, sorcerers suddenly fled from a black whirlwind arising among them. Gadjul half rose, stopping only when Kulgrath stilled him with a warning hand.

  The whirlwind swiftly grew, its tip touching the ceiling. Yet just as quickly, it diminished, shrinking to nothing in the space of a single breath.

  And in its wake it left the fiery figure of Safrag, the Titan leader, holding in his right hand the artifact that was coveted by the gathered sorcerers.

  “I am glad to see all of you here,” he proclaimed as he gazed at the assembly.

  “The master summoned,” Morgada replied subserviently. “How could any dare keep away?”

  “We’ve been eager to hear from you,” Kulgrath added politely but not at all subserviently.

  Safrag nodded then vanished. He reappeared in the chair, the Fire Rose still held reverently in his hand. Morgada smiled in his direction then took her seat next to him.