It was not crystal. Rather, it was made of some liquid that was a blazing orange-red in color. Although the pattern had a beginning and an end, the liquid looked as if it flowed, but to where, Tyranos could not say. He had dubbed the thing the Soul of the Kraken, the latter part of the name coming from the creature he thought its outline most resembled. The kraken appeared to be stretching its tentacles skyward.
Tyranos had discovered its magic by error, as an exhausted outcast collapsed into sleep at the base of the pattern, after cursing his existence and wishing to change not only his life, but his very appearance too. He had awakened the next day to discover that his wish had come true … or so he had thought. The moment that Tyranos had started to leave the cave, he had reverted to his original state and his original form.
But upon reentering, the transformation had renewed itself. The wizard had been wily enough to understand the source and had, with magical effort, taken from the kraken symbol a living piece of it. Sure enough, combined with his own spellcasting, that had been enough to maintain the illusion that he was Tyranos, even hundreds of miles from that source. If he truly could not be as he desired, then at least he could seem to be.
The wizard touched his chest, and a glow appeared there. It matched the glow of the kraken. Tyranos had discovered long before that the piece he had taken slowly lost its power, but that by returning to that place, he could recharge it. He would need its fullest power if he hoped to succeed with his plans.
Reaching his other hand forward, Tyranos touched the kraken at the center of its “body.”
He let out a groan of surprise as his strength drained away from him. His body lurched. Gasping, Tyranos fell face-first against the pattern. He felt the warmth of it against his cheek.
Then the wizard felt nothing but cold rock.
Confused and anxious, a weary Tyranos pulled back.
The pattern seemed as dead as the rock in which it had been set.
“That can’t be.” Tyranos pressed his hand against the kraken, but there was no transfusion. “You can’t do this.”
The kraken did not respond.
The wizard banged his fist against it. Still nothing happened.
He finally touched his chest. There, he could feel the familiar warmth. At least the original spell cast upon him was still intact. However, that meant there was no coming back … ever. Tyranos either had to work out a new spell that did not rely on the secret source or had to find some other manner by which to make his transformation true and forever.
The Fire Rose could accomplish that, he reminded himself. That was in great part why you wanted it, wasn’t it?
The matter was settled then. Tyranos knew what he had to do, and to do it, he had to help Golgren in whatever way possible. Curiously, the wizard did not find the alternative as unpalatable as before. Golgren, he realized, offered a far better a fate for the ogres—and other races—than the Titans.
And other than Chasm, the half-breed was the nearest thing he had to a trusted friend, the wizard realized.
That last realization, though, made him snort loudly as he reached the mouth of the cave. Golgren … a trusted friend. It would have made his people laugh.
At the edge of the cave, Tyranos went down on one knee. He held the staff tightly and concentrated. What he had never informed Golgren of in the past was that if he exerted his will on the crystal, it was possible to send him directly to a person, not a place. It was how Tyranos had, in the past, come to stand before the half-breed no matter where he was. It was more troublesome than choosing a destination—why that was, the wizard did not exactly know—so the wizard always contrived to conceal the fact that he was slightly exhausted at first.
But as Tyranos imagined Golgren, he found the half-breed’s whereabouts harder to sense than they should have been. It was as if either Golgren were in more than one place at the same time or that his location kept changing very rapidly.
“The damned fool!” Tyranos growled, finally suspecting just where the deposed Grand Khan had to be. “The damned—”
The crystal flared, even though the spellcaster had not commanded it to do so.
Mouth agape, Tyranos disappeared.
From just a few steps behind where the wizard had knelt, an obviously pleased Sirrion chuckled. The god then burst into flames, which not only swiftly enveloped him, but spread rapidly into the cave. The entire interior was scorched black, all traces of ancient habitation and—especially—the kraken, banished.
As quickly as they had arisen, the flames died completely. Of Sirrion, naturally, there was no longer any trace.
The three robed Titans peered down at the approaching legionaries with nothing but contempt in their expressions for the empire’s haughty incursion. As far as they were concerned, the matter could have been finished up very quickly, save for settling the question of blame. One way or another, they looked forward to taking out their frustration over their leader’s recent decisions on the bull warriors. None of them said anything about it out loud, but all three, watching, understood.
The seniormost, Voran by name, began the groundwork for the next spell. As Faros had surmised, they were pooling their forces as much as possible to avoid draining themselves to the point where they would need to rejuvenate. A few of the other Titans near the southern border were already nearing the point of weakness, though none had dared mention that yet to Safrag. True, it was assumed he would help any in need, but everyone wanted someone else to be the first to make that petition.
“No assassination attempt this time,” Voran informed the others. “We sweep across their ranks where their fool emperor marches and take him out with hundreds of others quickly and simply.”
“The other spell should’ve worked,” sang that plan’s creator. “It should’ve …”
Voran and the third Titan present sneered at him. Unable to back up his claim and obviously weaker than the pair, the protester clamped his mouth shut and joined in the spellcasting.
There was a loud crack, like thunder, but it did not come from any spell that they or other Titans in the region had cast. The sound was already familiar to the blue-skinned sorcerers.
A moment later, a heavy, flaming boulder struck a ridge a quarter of a mile from where Voran and his two companions stood. The boulder cracked off a large chunk of rock that spilled back over the ridge.
Voran laughed harshly. “Hezroch and his band are going to have to move again. If anyone needs to beg Safrag for elixir, it’ll be them.”
“The damned Uruv Suurt have a good eye,” the third Titan muttered.
“Which is why we should finish our spell.”
The three stood facing one another. At Voran’s signal, they clasped hands together. It made for the better melding of their power and enabled Voran to better control the direction and outcome.
Voran sang the words of the spell. To the Titans, singing the spells sounded even more glorious than speaking in the Titan tongue. Perhaps it was because, in addition to their richness, the singing words were also filled with magic.
A tremendous cloud of blue energy formed over the trio. Voran uttered the final phrase of the spell.
With a crackle akin to a bolt of lightning, the cloud poured down over the legionaries and their emperor … and dissipated.
“What—?” was the only word Voran got out of his mouth before another familiar cracking sound echoed in the ears of all three.
The other two Titans instinctively vanished. Voran, as the focal point of the spellcasting, was still caught up in both the magic and its startling failure for a fatal breath longer.
Clearing his head, he finally noticed the flaming boulder just as it filled the sky above him.
Then he saw nothing more.
His warriors cheered as the latest boulder reached its mark with perfection that only minotaurs could achieve with their great wooden catapults. However, Faros—again on foot after having lost yet another steed—was not entirely pleased. First, the strike prob
ably hadn’t even dusted the sorcerers’ elegant robes. The catapults probably had done little except buy the advancing force a few more steps toward their prize.
And although it should have lightened his heart, Faros was also disturbed by the strange dissipation of the Titans’ spell. Not for the first time, the sorcerers’ handiwork had failed. The legionaries believed the cause was the inefficiency of a dishonorable weapon—magic—but Faros suspected the interference of gods.
“I ask no god to fight my wars for me!” he growled under his breath. “I say again to you, Kiri-Jolith, we win or die on our own merits!”
Even as he spoke, something on the ground ahead glittered. Drawn to the object, the emperor paused to pick it up.
It was a medallion, one he was certain had not been there moments earlier. One of the legionaries would have plucked it up, if not him, because its metal was valuable. It was made of steel.
It was a medallion bearing the likeness of a bison-headed god.
With a snort, Faros tossed it away.
Immediately, there came another glitter from the ground just ahead.
Bending, Faros discovered it a second medallion or, just as difficult to credit, the first again. With a defiant shake of his head, the former slave strode past it.
And, for a third time, his gaze was distracted by another glittering object in his path.
In frustration, Faros seized it up again. Although there was no such sign on the god’s image, the minotaur felt as if the visage mocked his efforts. He started to throw the medallion away—then, resignedly, finally thrust it beneath his breastplate.
“A shield I’ll accept,” Faros grudgingly muttered, keeping his voice low as another legionary trudged past him toward the front. “But only a shield. Nothing more.”
“Nothing more,” the other warrior agreed as he strode past, his back to the emperor.
Faros’s eyes widened. He rushed forward to catch up with the legionary, but somehow lost track of him and didn’t know who he was, even though there was no place for the other to have gone.
Thunder roiled, thunder without clouds. Faros glanced up, recognizing the start of another Titan attack.
This had better be for the best! he silently warned both the vanished god and the absent half-ogre who had talked him into that mess. This had better be for the best …
Letting out a shout, Faros urged his soldiers on.
XII
INTRUDER IN THE PALACE
The slavering meredrake hissed, tugging hard on its rusting iron chain and sending spittle flying everywhere as it tried to reach the figure that had suddenly materialized in front of it. The great, green and brown reptile snapped eagerly at the intruder, despite having been recently fed. Meredrakes were always ready to eat, for in the wild, one never knew where one’s next meal would come from or whether one would become the next meal of something even bigger.
A single gesture silenced the fearsome creature, a gesture only one person could make. Golgren eyed his pet, somewhat interested to see that it was still alive. Nothing remained of the palace that had stood for ages, much less his own brief reign, other than the lone meredrake. He pondered its continued presence in a place that Safrag had clearly remade to his own desires, pondered it and came up with only one answer: Wargroch.
Why his traitorous officer would have kept the meredrake was a question that could wait for later or even forever. If given the opportunity, Golgren would feed his pet the other ogre and Atolgus too. There was no possible redemption for either; they had willingly sided with, or been seduced by, the Titans, which in the end, meant the same thing: betrayal.
Golgren peered around. He recognized nothing about the chamber in which he stood save that the image of the Titan’s leader, Safrag’s image, was everywhere. His godlike image stretched across the iridescent pearl floor; it stood tall in each perfectly executed statue that doubled as a column. Wall-sized profiles of the sorcerer gazed toward an arched throne that looked as if it had risen out of the floor. It had been designed not for an ogre, though, but clearly a Titan. Atolgus and Wargroch might believe they would gain their own glory for bowing to the sorcerers, but it was clear who would rule from there.
Golgren sniffed the air. Other than the meredrake’s heady carnivore scent, there was nothing unusual. No one had been in the chamber for at least a day, assuming that it had even existed that long. It was a wonder that the lizard had not perished during all the many abrupt changes.
Golgren’s brow furrowed. He glanced at the beast again then realized his terrible mistake.
The meredrake stood on two legs. Its shape was more that of an ogre. The muzzle was as long and as fearsome as ever, perhaps even more fearsome, with a hint of something slightly ogre.
Safrag had not left the meredrake safe out of any interest in the huge lizard; he had arranged a trap for Golgren just on the off chance that the wily half-breed would escape his eternal prison.
And Golgren had obliged him.
He instinctively reached for a sword that was not there. Sir Augustus had not provided him with any weapons. If Golgren had carried a sword, one of the sentries might have challenged the half-breed before his departure. That meant that Golgren had only a paltry dagger which he knew would not penetrate the meredrake’s scaly hide.
No longer apparently recognizing its master, the transformed meredrake tugged forward. The thick, metal chain easily snapped.
Golgren had no choice but to retreat. He drew the dagger despite its questionable value and kept at least part of his gaze on the creature at all times.
The chain dangling from its throat, the meredrake trudged eagerly toward the smaller figure. Despite having just become half-ogre, the meredrake moved as if perfectly comfortable with its two-legged form.
Brandishing the dagger, Golgren let out a hiss that was one of the commands he had taught the reptile. The meredrake hesitated, its crimson-tinged orbs blinking twice.
Then, tongue darting out, the monster lunged.
Golgren leaped aside as the huge figure dropped. The meredrake crashed into the elaborate marble floor with such force that it cracked part of Safrag’s grand image.
The half-breed immediately jumped onto the meredrake’s back. However, before he could attempt to use the dagger, the beast shook him off.
The force of the creature’s movement sent Golgren tumbling across the chamber, where he collided with a towering column shaped into a beatific Safrag who seemed to be smiling down smugly on his rival. Golgren had barely time to recover from the collision, for the meredrake was already in pursuit.
The creature came closer to catching him. Golgren rolled under its grasping paws and menacing, long, sharp claws. The meredrake barreled through Safrag’s stone effigy, shattering it and sending large chunks flying everywhere.
Rising, Golgren sought the nearest escape. It was not that he feared the transformed reptile so much—although death was likely if he continued to combat it—but rather that the monster was a delay he could ill afford. The longer Golgren was forced to remain in that particular location, the greater the chance that others would come to see what the commotion was.
The half-breed raced toward a side corridor, but the meredrake, rising from the dust, whirled and followed. The corridor was narrow but not enough to truly impede the beast on his tail. Golgren sought to grab something to hurl at or slow his foe, but in creating anew the palace, Safrag had evidently “grown” everything out of the main body. There was nothing unattached. Everything—the statuary, the banners, furniture—was part of the whole structure. It was almost as if he were inside a living thing rather than any building.
The meredrake lunged, but its enthusiasm caused it to slide too far to the right. Its side crashed into the wall, buying Golgren a vital extra breath. He dared not slow his pace, though, for the reptile moved on its two legs and used its new arms.
Then Golgren spotted another passage that was just wide enough to admit two guards side by side. Without hesitation, he
dived toward it.
The meredrake mimicked him—only to find the fit was too snug for its huge form. The beast thrust itself forward as much as it could, but succeeded only in becoming stuck.
Furious, it snapped and hissed at the dwindling figure safely ahead. Golgren paid the meredrake no more attention. His mission was to find his way out of there and locate Safrag.
That he had as yet faced no guards did not surprise him. It was possible that they were too wary of the shifting form of the palace. It was also possible that Safrag had dismissed them and that he was patiently waiting for Golgren to reach him.
The hisses of the mutated meredrake echoed far behind Golgren. But he had to contend with a new threat, which while not immediately dangerous, had even more potential than the beast to turn his plans awry. Safrag’s palace had become a veritable maze of corridors, many of them without windows. Golgren had to rely on his innate sense of direction, which was being taxed to its limits. The longer he spent time running around in circles, the more confused and exhausted he was bound to become.
Finally he detected a voice far ahead. What it was saying, Golgren could not tell, but he went in that direction. He gripped the dagger tightly, aware that he was at a clear disadvantage; any guards would be wielding huge axes or long swords.
The voice grew louder and more familiar. For one of the few times in his life, Golgren felt a rage rise up in him that he was barely able to control. He knew that voice, and he had expected to hear it again eventually, but it was too soon.
“Go!” roared the speaker in Common. There was then the clatter of armored figures marching off at a rapid pace.
Golgren peered around the corner, saw that his quarry had his back to him, and thus, he was able to slip up behind the figure.
His dagger’s point pressed against the side of Wargroch’s thick throat.
The Gargoyle King Page 14