The Gargoyle King

by Richard A. Knaak

  A bird screeched from high above, drawing the party’s attention. One of the officers raised his arm and made a sound akin to the avian creature’s cry.

  The brown, red-fringed bird alighted. It was a small raptor, used for both hunting and messages. The empire’s message network was among the finest in all the known world; the birds were trained to exhibit the same efficiency as their masters.

  The officer removed a small note bound to the bird’s leg. Without reading it, he handed the message to General Thandorus.

  “The scouts report no sign of any hand or any other ogre force for half a day’s journey. They have three message birds remaining. The next report comes at sunset.”

  Faros eyed the rising landscape. “No word of Titans?”

  “None.”

  “We should assume their presence anyway. The damned spellcasters could be miles away; then they can materialize in a heartbeat, right in front of us if they like.” The emperor glanced over his shoulder. “Or behind us, even.”

  “Dishonorable way to fight,” growled Thandorus.

  “But still a tactic we must watch for. Make sure the guards in the rear are keeping watch on the path we’ve already taken.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Thandorus snapped his fingers. One of the officers nodded, turned his mount around, and rode off to ensure that the emperor’s command was obeyed.

  “We’re already deep into ogre land,” Faros muttered. For a moment, his eyes grew veiled, and Thandorus looked away. The emperor was remembering the harshness of his time as a slave and a fugitive. The general had seen up close the many scars covering Faros’s body. Some had come from minotaurs, but most had been delivered by Faros’s ogre slavers. “How deep will they permit us?”

  Shielding his gaze, Thandorus rose in the saddle. “Perhaps they don’t think us worthy of notice, my lord. Perhaps all they care about is the half-br—”

  Something swift and sharp burrowed through the general’s chest, armor and all. It struck so quickly that Thandorus even had time to glance down at the gap just beginning to grow red before he toppled off the horse.

  “Drop!” Faros roared, obeying his own command as he spoke.

  The sky filled with hissing darts flying so fast that they were all but invisible until they struck a target. Two more officers fell before the rest could join the emperor. Faros’s mount let out a short whinny before tumbling toward him.

  He rolled to the side just before the weight would have crushed his legs. Around him, the emperor heard the screams of the wounded and dying and the continued hiss of death from above.

  They were not normal weapons. No ogre fired them. Kneeling beside his horse, Faros saw that they had more or less materialized above a high ridge to the north.

  Scores of legionaries already lay wounded, dead, or dying. At the beginning, someone had been aiming for Faros in particular, but the strike had gone awry. Either the Titan or Titans who had cast the spell—there could be no other source for such an attack—had from a distance mistaken Thandorus for the emperor, or something else had saved Faros.

  “I will fight my own battles, Sargonnas,” the emperor muttered then shook his head at his own mistake. It was not the customary behavior of Sargonnas, though the god of vengeance had saved Faros in the past. Yet what other deity would see favor in his living?

  There was only one other, Sargonnas’s rival for the minotaurs, Kiri-Jolith.

  But one rescue did not mean that Faros was immune to death. Whatever god or circumstance had saved him, it was up to the emperor to prove that he was worthy of living.

  The catapults were near but not ready for firing. Faros peered around, squinting as the polished armor of his followers at times blinded him.

  He snorted.

  Seizing one of the officers, the emperor growled an order. The other minotaur nodded and passed on the word.

  Within seconds, legionaries turned to present a frontal angle that at first glance appeared crazy, for it made them more open to the rain of deadly missiles. Yet the deaths of some might be necessary to save the expedition as a whole.

  Indeed, more than one soldier slumped as missiles penetrated breastplates and helmets.

  Then …

  The last of the missiles faded in midair. The area stilled; the only sounds were the moans of the grievously wounded.

  Faros had judged the light of the sun and the position from which the attack had come and made a desperate play. The many legionaries who had received his orders had turned in such a manner as to shine the light of the sun at the source of the threat. His soldiers had blinded the sorcerers with their combined armor.

  The reprieve would not last. Still, Faros understood something of spellcasters and had ordered spies to research the Titans for just such a possible confrontation. The spell that had been cast had been a powerful one and indicated more than a single foe. More important, such a spell must be taxing, which meant that the legions had a brief time to prepare for whatever came next.

  “Get the catapults ready!” he ordered other officers. “All ballistae too! We don’t wait! I want the oil wraps prepared for the catapults! We bombard the high territory!”

  As the officers moved to relay his orders, Faros rose. He saw with pride that the legionaries around him quickly were reforming ranks as others helped with the dead and dying.

  The first strike of the battle was over. Faros knew the next would follow soon. He had to trust to Golgren’s certainty that the Titan leader, one Safrag, would be too caught up in the Fire Rose to reckon the danger of a bunch of minotaurs.

  The minotaurs had to survive and trust the deposed Grand Khan. Well aware that Golgren was a hardy survivor, Faros had hope. However, in the end, it did not matter. The empire would have had to invade the ogre realm regardless, sooner or later. If they had waited, the Titans would have been the invaders, and it was always better to take the battle to the enemy.

  Faros again surveyed the damage done by the single spell and snorted angrily.

  Yes, the emperor thought as he turned to the catapults. It was always best to take the battle to the enemy, even if that meant death and defeat in the end.

  XI

  SIGN OF THE KRAKEN

  Golgren sensed the arrival of the messenger moments before the rider reached Sir Augustus’s tent. The half-breed sat up, certain that a moment of importance was upon him. The clatter of hooves made him briefly bare his teeth, although fortunately there was no one in the tent to see that instinctual reaction.

  The voices without muttered too quietly for him to make out what they said. The tone was neutral, which gave him no clue as to the decision of Sir Augustus’s superiors. Golgren stepped from the bedroll, taking up a place at the table. He poured himself a slight bit of wine and held the mug close to his lips. He did not drink, though, until he heard the clink of metal and the movement of the flap, marking the commander’s presence.

  “A reply’s arrived, though I expect you know that already, Grand Khan.”

  Golgren slowly swallowed the sip then turned toward Stefan’s uncle. “I had some inkling, yes.”

  Augustus chuckled darkly. “You’re everything I’ve heard, especially from my nephew.”

  Golgren smothered the slight frown that wanted to burst forth at mention of the last. “Your nephew is all I have heard a Knight of Solamnia should be.”

  “I believe you actually mean that,” the elder fighter returned. “Thank you. I think so, too.”

  “The reply. You have it with you?”

  “As you can see.” The knight held up his right hand, which gripped a small, leather pouch. Sir Augustus joined Golgren at the table, where he set down the pouch while he poured himself some wine.

  Golgren’s eyes grazed the pouch. It was of fine, strong leather and had been bound with thin, metal string that would prove much harder to cut quickly than any rope. In addition, there was a great wax seal across the flap. That the seal remained unbroken indicated that the commander had chosen to find out what
his superiors had decided, together with Golgren. The pouch had been sent with such haste that the half-breed’s sharp nose could still smell a hint of recently melted wax.

  “I made a vow of what I would do if they rejected your pact,” Augustus reminded him. “I stand by that vow on the life of my nephew.”

  Golgren said nothing. Taking that as a tacit acknowledgment, the knight broke the seal and removed the contents, a small slip of parchment.

  Sir Augustus frowned. “I expected a much longer missive. You’ll likely not find this to your taste.”

  “Please read.”

  Unfolding it, the commander looked over the answer. He grunted.

  “Well, it seems we’ve got an agreement after all.”

  He handed the brown parchment over to Golgren, who read the response of the high command. The answer was simple enough. The pact was accepted on a temporary basis. Augustus’s superiors believed that because of the threat of the Titans, Golgren should be assisted by a military advance into the ogre realm.

  That was essentially it. There were some marks at the bottom—scribbles to the uninformed eye—that the knight had not commented on but that the half-breed knew was a coded addendum to what the main message relayed. Augustus had other orders beyond those to which Golgren was to be privy. Like the Uruv Suurt, the Solamnics undoubtedly had plans to expand their interests in Golthuu whether or not Golgren succeeded.

  But all that was as he had expected. Not for a minute had Golgren believed the threat of Safrag and the Fire Rose would be enough for either the humans or Faros to endorse the pact. Both sides wanted to deter any potential ogre uprising in the future.

  He handed the parchment back to Sir Augustus. With a hint of a smile that emphasized the elf side of his features, Golgren said, “I am very pleased.”

  “News of the minotaurs’ advance in the southern regions was surely a deciding factor,” the Solamnic added. “I believe it helped to speed the reply and influenced the outcome.”

  That was no surprise to Golgren; indeed, he had counted on it. The Uruv Suurt and the knights of Solamnia were longtime rivals on the continent of Ansalon. When one was on the move, the other felt nervous and paid special attention.

  Then the commander added something that could only have been cited from part of the missive in code. “My superiors also agree to the free movement of all elf slaves from the ogre lands, though we will not permanently care for them. We’ll grant them a short respite, resupply them, and send them on to their exiled brethren, who can care for them more appropriately.”

  “Of course.” No one wanted the added burden of the refugees; in truth, not even some of the exiled elves. That would mean too many extra mouths to feed in an already-turbulent time. Still, the knights would not choose to leave the elves in ogre hands.

  Nor in the hands of the Titans.

  Augustus put the missive back in the pouch then thrust it into the belt that held his sheath. Finishing the last of his drink, the knight rose. Golgren rose also.

  “Your men, they must march soon,” the half-breed commented.

  “They’ll march tomorrow. We’ve been prepared to move for one reason or another since my nephew came.” The knight eyed him. “And you?”

  “I must leave now.”

  “Just as I expected. A horse has already been prepared for you with the rations I mentioned. It’s a sturdy animal, one of the largest. Should hold your tall frame just fine.”

  The horse would have been available whether or not Solamnia had agreed to the pact, but Golgren simply nodded his gratitude. Even with a swift steed, it would take him far longer than he desired to reach Garantha. He had intended to use Tyranos’s staff, but that was not possible.

  Augustus led him out. The half-breed noted a conspicuous lack of knights nearby. At some point the commander had evidently had the area cleared, with even tents and equipment positioned much farther away. The only other Solamnics nearby were Sir Augustus’s own guards and a lone, young Knight of the Crown who held the reins to a dark brown stallion already saddled and packed. The beast eyed Golgren as if it were as distrusting of him as the knights were.

  “I’ve a map you can use—” the commander began.

  “I have been here before. I know the land.”

  Sir Augustus’s brow furrowed. “Do you?”

  Golgren accepted the reins from the younger Solamnic. Although the latter’s expression was masked, his eyes reflected both uncertainty and determination. The combination was not contradictory, Golgren thought; Golgren had seen the same thing in the eyes of many a less-experienced warrior. That did not mean, though, that the young knight would not be able to fulfill his role on the field of battle. The better fighters were those who understood their mortality, as Golgren did.

  The tall half-breed mounted. Sir Augustus gave him a short nod, which Golgren returned.

  The deposed Grand Khan rode off, the dry ground raising a trail of dust in his wake.

  His way out of the encampment continued to be devoid of all but a few necessary sentries. Most kept their gazes on the path, but a couple could not help glancing up at the unusual rider in their midst. Golgren acted similarly, all but ignoring them, the half-breed keeping his eyes ahead at most times.

  The encampment vanished behind him, and the lost son was returned to the wilds of that part of Golthuu. Golgren urged the mount around a rise, aware of a rough road from years before that would give him a swifter route, at least for the day.

  The land was rugged, uneven, and typically arid, but Golgren had no doubts concerning either his or the Knighthood’s ability to traverse it. There were worse areas, where only magic might have been capable of covering the distances.

  Magic such as the Fire Rose contained …

  Would that I had the staff, Golgren bitterly thought. But it was not his. A slight intake of breath was all that signaled Golgren’s frustration. It must be that it indeed returned to Tyranos.

  A warmth touched his hand. He glanced down at the signet ring and frowned to realize that he had forgotten it until that moment. He also wondered why none of the Solamnics had taken it from him. It was not that he thought them thieves at heart, but surely they would have noticed its supernatural qualities.

  The ring … Golgren gazed at its fiery markings. Could it help him go where he was urgently needed?

  He concentrated on the capital, specifically, the palace. He put all of his energy, briefly, into the concentration.

  There came a brief moment, oddly, when the wizard’s staff formed in his thoughts. Golgren tried to shake off the image, but it was burned into his mind regardless of his desire.

  In the vision, the crystal atop the staff flared brightly.

  Golgren vanished from the saddle.

  Tyranos stood perplexed, clutching his staff, in the place where he had first set foot on Ansalon, not far from where he had discovered young Chasm some years after that time. For him it was the place in all the world of the most solace and peace.

  Fearsome waves crashed against the weathered shore as he attempted to refocus his thoughts. Seaweed blanketed much of the shoreline. What he had just experienced surely had to have a cause. But he couldn’t explain the staff’s odd behavior. After all, Tyranos had not commanded the staff to do anything.

  Island-bound Karthay, northeast of the continent, was far from the complicated dangers of Golthuu and had demanded much of Tyranos and the staff, but the wizard had not hesitated. There was something about the place that always soothed him.

  Perhaps … perhaps because it so reminded him of home.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he rumbled, referring to both the staff’s odd behavior and his former homelands. “Doesn’t matter.”

  For all his peace of mind, there was another reason, the most significant reason, he had come there. He would need all the magic that he could muster, and that meant using his other prize. It was the only means by which he could possibly prevent his most important spell from shattering.

 
From the eastern shore, the wizard cast himself to the midst of the snow-topped Worldscap Mountains. As he regained his mental balance, Tyranos peered down at the jungles far below that particular peak. There was no sign below of any of the local inhabitants, neither those bound to the ground nor the ones who flew the skies. It was safe to open the passage.

  He turned to what appeared to be a solid rock face and drew in yellow light a five-pointed shape. In the center of the rock face, Tyranos then magically etched the crude form of a key.

  The key drifted to the very center of the shape then turned on its left side.

  The gritty rock face melted away. A slight hint of sulfur rose into the air.

  Glancing over his shoulder, the hooded spellcaster quickly entered the portal. He did not plan to remain long on Karthay; the pause by the shore had been necessary, as had been the slumber that preceded it. However, time was of the essence. The empire was surely on the move, and if Tyranos knew Golgren, the Solamnics would within a day be doing the same.

  And that meant that the Titans would finally be where Tyranos desired them, the Titans and Golgren, naturally.

  The glow of the staff illuminated what had obviously once been an inhabited cave. The artwork, crafted with paint made from variously colored berries, indicated winged beings almost like men. A face had been carved out of one side of the cave, again, a mixture of avian and what might have been elf or human features.

  But the kyrie had long abandoned that place, sensing its magic and rightly being disturbed by it. Only someone such as Tyranos would find use for the cave, and even then for only brief moments.

  He reached the end of the cave. Small stalactites hung from the ceiling, and deep shadows loomed everywhere. What appeared to be a thick mass of webbing covered the back wall so thoroughly that details of what might lurk behind could not be discerned.

  “Da ithan!” the wizard called.

  The webbing turned a bright, cold blue. It then broke up into tiny crystals that flew away into the air and dissipated before dropping to the stone and earth floor.

  Tyranos smiled grimly. Before him stood that which he had sworn he would never use again. The irony was he felt certain it had been created either by some worshiper of Sirrion or the god himself. Perhaps it was, in its crude way, cousin to the Fire Rose.