The gargoyle in charge of her captivity was not the most powerful of the vast flock. Indeed, it was one of the least, a sign of its master’s confidence that Idaria was at his mercy. The creature began gnawing on an old amalok bone-the fearsome herd animals being the winged creatures’ most common prey-and looked extremely bored. And why not? What hope could the prisoner have of escaping?
But there was hope. Dangling just out of sight under her garments was the pendant with the griffon symbol that Golgren had placed on her. At the time, Idaria had shown none of the deep revulsion she had felt instinctively, when Golgren had taken it from the ancient corpse and hung it around her neck.
Her hair hid the chain. There had been moments at the very beginning when she had feared that her captor might notice the upper edge of the pendant peeking out, but he had not.
Idaria might have given little thought to the pendant, if not for the gentle warmth radiating from it since her capture. She recalled some of Golgren’s experiences with the signet and wondered whether his chance decision to give the pendant to her had been mere chance after all.
With casual movements, she tried to draw the pendant out without the gargoyle noticing. But despite her attempts to do so, the winged creature noticed her activity almost immediately. With a warning grunt, it half hopped, half walked to her.
So close, the carnivore’s breath, enhanced by bits of rotting meat between its yellowed teeth, was potent. One paw grasped the hand holding the pendant. The artifact came loose, falling against her breast. As it touched her skin, the warmth increased, and to Idaria’s surprise, a faint, blue glow radiated from the griffon symbol.
However, instead of growing suspicious, the gargoyle cocked its head and stared in fascination at the pendant.
Idaria quickly seized on its reaction. “Is it not pretty? Do you like it?”
The gargoyle nodded.
“What is your name?”
The creature leaned back, looking not so much angry as frustrated. “No name.”
The voice was deep, definitely male. Often, because of their similar builds, it was impossible to tell if some gargoyles were male or female. The only sure way in such cases was to get much too close or listen to the timbre of the voice.
With the identification of the gargoyle’s gender, it became a he. That was to Idaria’s advantage.
“No name?” she innocently asked, aware of why a gargoyle would not have a name. It showed that one had a very low rank in the flock. Gargoyles were limited in their use of names. Only when one of the elder ones passed away was a name made available to those existing without one.“No name.”
She thought for a moment. Somewhere far in the past, the creatures had learned enough Common to take upon themselves names that reflected their primitive civilization. Chasm was an example, though in his case he had likely been named by Tyranos, who had raised him. Gargoyles that lived in the mountains most often chose names that indicated stone or geological features.
“I shall call you Stratum,” the elf slave finally decided. “It is what we call a layer of rock.” It was the first word that she could think of that might work for the gargoyle and that also was likely not to be already used among his kind.
“Sssstratumm … Stratum …”
She did not have to see how his eyes widened in pleasure, for his voice alone readily revealed how he felt about his christening. The gargoyle began to hop up and down, repeatedly calling out his new identity. Dust clouds rose with each hop as he crowed, “Stratum! Stratum is me! Me is Stratum!”
Before Idaria could prepare herself, the gargoyle wrapped her in his thick arms and hugged her. The elf struggled to breathe, pretending she felt no pain.
Stratum finally released her. Only then did Idaria realize that she had given him far more than she had even intended. It had been her hope that finding a name for the gargoyle would make him feel somewhat more friendly toward her. The elf saw that the thing almost felt like her slave, so grateful was he.
And all that for a single word, a marking of self, she thought.
Yet there was one threshold that Stratum might not cross. With as much delicacy as she could put into the question, Idaria asked, “Stratum, will you help me?”
His answer was without hesitation. The crooked beak bobbed up and down. “Stratum help friend!”
While his enthusiasm was encouraging, that did not necessarily mean he would betray his master for her. Idaria had to be cautious. She had always had an affinity for animals, even more so than many other elves. Some said she was favored by the Fisher King, known to the Solamnics as the god Habbakuk.
The pendant continued to glow slightly. She noted Stratum’s gaze constantly flicker back to it. “Would you like to touch it?”
Again, the beak bobbed up and down. There seemed no reason it would not be safe to let the gargoyle examine it closer. Idaria held it forth.
Stratum put two tentative digits on the face. A low sound that resembled the cooing of a dove escaped the brutish creature. It was like a purring of a child.
As the gargoyle marveled at the artifact, Idaria delicately murmured, “Would you help me see my other friend?”
He did not pull away, but his gaze narrowed. “Other is chained above. Master command so.”
Feeling somewhat guilty for tricking the simple creature-even if he did serve such a vile lord-Idaria implored, “Please. He is my friend too. I would just see him. Stratum …”
Cocking his head, the gargoyle mulled it over. “Come,” he finally said, turning toward the door.
For Idaria, the way out was locked by some magic spell, but for Stratum, that was apparently not the case. He swung open the ancient door, which stirred up more dust and squealed much too loudly for the elf’s tastes, then hopped out into the passage beyond.
Nearly unable to believe her quick success, Idaria followed.
The corridors through which they passed had all been carved from the mountain and still retained the rough texture of it. They were wide enough for two gargoyles to move with wings half extended. The halls were also lit, albeit just barely, by blue crystals embedded at even intervals in each wall.
They also passed other closed chambers, none of which concerned Idaria other than the potential threat behind their doors. However, despite the low grunting Stratum made as he hurried along, no one emerged from any of them to investigate.
At the end of the third corridor, they came to a spiral staircase that had at some point in the past collapsed. As a frustrated Idaria peered up, Stratum suddenly seized her with one arm and, revealing the astounding strength of which even the least of gargoyles was capable, easily bore her aloft.
They passed one level then another and another. Idaria, who had caught only glimpses of the outside from the vision the gargoyle’s lord had summoned, wondered if they were in one of the towers.
At the next level, Stratum suddenly veered to where a railed landing still precariously tipped over the fallen staircase. The winged creature landed on a solid area, where the blackened floor of another corridor gave them firmer footing.
The end of the corridor lay just ahead, its short length further indicating that they were likely in one of the towers. Idaria looked around for any guard but spied nothing.
Stratum hopped down the neglected path. The elf followed. At the other end, they came upon a rusted door akin to the one from her own cell. The faint and ironic outline of a rising sun etched into the door still remained.
With an almost casual show of strength, the gargoyle ripped open the door.
Immediately, a frustrated roar erupted from within. There came the rattling of chains, many chains, and the sounds of struggle.
Idaria’s companion let out a frustrated hiss and urged her inside. As she obeyed, she saw the source of all the unwelcome noise.
Chasm was larger and broader of shoulder than Stratum. He was nearly the size of a tall human and broader of build than either Golgren or Tyranos. His maw was less pronounced than Stratum�
��s, and he was a duskier gray. Under a thick brow ridge, blazing eyes that bespoke of intelligence stared at the newcomers. If the gargoyle beside Idaria was among the least of his kind, then surely Chasm was among the most powerful.
But as powerful as Tyranos’s servant and the elf’s friend might be, even Chasm could do nothing against the many chains in which he had been bound. The gargoyle was wrapped tightly from head to foot, with his legs folded into his torso and his arms tucked behind him to further add to his torture. His wings were folded around his shoulders and limbs. Increasing his misery, he hung from a single chain emerging from the ceiling, which kept the gargoyle roughly three feet off the ground. In such a state, Chasm could not even roll back and forth, seeking leverage.
The chamber was otherwise empty save for decaying refuse that indicated that some of the monstrous flock had in the past used it for living purposes. Arched windows well above were the only reason that it did not stink more than it already did.
Stratum hissed something to Chasm, who growled back as best as his bound jaws could manage. Idaria moved past the smaller gargoyle to let Chasm see her.
He quieted instantly. She sensed the hope and trust in his eyes. Idaria stroked Chasm’s head to soothe him then made certain not to forget Stratum. If she hoped to escape, she needed the smaller gargoyle’s help.
“Stratum, I thank you for bringing me to him, but please, can you not help me let him down?”
Stratum hissed uneasily. He scratched at his beaklike muzzle, his mind clearly conflicted. “Master not like,” he finally began. “But you give Stratum name, make Stratum be Stratum.”
The gargoyle suddenly took off, fluttering upward. As Idaria watched, Stratum seized the chain. With a heavy grunt, he tore at one of the thick, oval links.
The link tore. Before Chasm could strike the floor, Stratum held tight to the lower portion of the chain. With amazing care, he lowered the larger gargoyle safely down.
Idaria rushed to Chasm. As she fought with the chains, Stratum rejoined her. He slipped his jaws around one part and bit down.
The chain snapped in two. With a tremendous growl, Chasm flexed.
Other chains flew away, one barely missing Idaria. She fell back as Tyranos’s servant finished freeing himself.
The two gargoyles faced one another over the elf. The tension and distrust was palpable. Idaria moved to defuse the situation by stepping between them. “Chasm, Stratum helped you. Stratum, Chasm is also my friend and, therefore, your friend too.”
Neither appeared completely convinced, but they calmed. Idaria exhaled. She stood at the threshold of freedom.
There came from elsewhere within the citadel the cries of many angry gargoyles.
Hissing, Stratum hopped toward the door. He peered into the gloom beyond.
“Coming,” he warned her.
Chasm seized the elf and indicated the windows. “We go!”
She looked to the smaller gargoyle. “Come, Stratum! Come with!”
He started to hop toward her then paused. She could read by his actions what he planned to do, all for her having given him a name.
“No, Stratum! Come with!” Chasm gripped her tightly then lifted her from the floor. However, he did not leave but hovered, awaiting the smaller gargoyle.
Stratum hissed. “Go!”
With a grunt, Chasm took off with his struggling charge. The flapping of wings and the shrieking of animalistic voices encroached from the corridor.
Chasm carried Idaria to one of the open windows. As they neared, a lone gargoyle landed there. However, Chasm barreled into the other creature, releasing the hold of one paw long enough to use his claws on the throat of the would-be attacker. Blood spattered Idaria, who was staring at the lone figure standing below.
Gargoyles poured into the chamber. Stratum let out a hiss and threw himself at them.
The rending sounds that came as Chasm flew into the dark, open sky echoed monstrously in Idaria’s ears. The wind blew away her tears.
Chasm carried her away from the mountain citadel with more than a score of gargoyles already in hot pursuit.
The gray and black figure materialized in the chamber where Chasm had been held, causing the gargoyles there, including the ones that had ripped apart the hapless Stratum, to pause in their blood-soaked efforts. The leathery beasts bowed their heads low.
The white orbs surveyed the slaughtered Stratum, the bodies of the two larger gargoyles he had managed to slay, then the chains that had held Chasm prisoner. The eyes then looked up to the window through which the two escapees had flown.
Yes … came the amused voice in the heads of the assembled beasts. Go … go and serve me well again, my Idaria.
IV
SAFRAG’S SUGGESTION
The power of the Fire Rose surged to life again, the crystalline artifact filling Safrag’s sanctum with a glorious gold and crimson light. The leader of the Titans stood in the center of the wide, stone chamber, all his other long-collected artifacts shunted aside earlier by a single, indifferent spell. Nothing mattered more than the wondrous creation held tightly in his right hand, not even the fact that it burned his flesh as if truly made of flame.
The Fire Rose was just more than a foot in height and had earned its name in part due to its design. It had a thick base that halfway up suddenly broke into a dozen different-sized projections jutting at various angles though always aiming upward. There was a definite resemblance to a flower and, because of its fiery hue, it was a more stunning rose than any other.
Legend-and truth, so Safrag believed-said it had been created by the god Sirrion. The High Ogres had fallen out of favor with the gods, for their hubris had caused them to believe they were the greatest of all creatures on the face of the world called Krynn. They had gone from the creators of art, magical miracles, and high learning to sadistic, decadent overlords of all the younger races. Yet not all had fallen so far, and some thought that, if one god granted their appeal, the end might be prevented.
And Sirrion, the last deity they had expected, had answered. He was one of the neutral gods, those who let time and chance be the deciding factor of lives and souls. Neither good nor evil, but often choosing to ally with the former for the sake of saving the world from destruction, Sirrion and his kind generally had little personal contact with mortals, save for those who acted as their clerics.
But the god of fire and alchemy found much of interest in the words of the High Ogres. They sought something to reshape their terrible destiny and insisted they were worthy of retaking control over their existence. Give them the means by which to restore what they had once been, and they would prove that they were worthy of being Krynn’s first and most beloved people.
Sirrion did just that. He forged the Fire Rose from the deepest, most primitive energies, those with which the world and all beyond it had been created. Into his gift he poured the pure notion of alchemy, of ultimate change at the very root of existence and reality, and of the unique ability that would enable one person to wield that power.
The sorcerers to whom Sirrion had presented the Fire Rose were grateful bordering on tears. They immediately saw the potential of the artifact and how it could not only save their kind, but make them even greater.
However, Sirrion left them with one last message. Almost cheerfully, he said, “The choice is always yours as to how my gift is used-good or ill or doing nothing. What becomes of you and yours through it will be your decision.”
The High Ogres paid that message scant mind, for each was certain that he or she knew the right thing to do, and therein lay the foundation of their failure. None could agree which of them was the best candidate to set hand on the artifact and make their desires come to fruition. They began to war over Sirrion’s gift.
The Titan knew only fragments of what had occurred after that. Tales said that one hand or another briefly commanded the Fire Rose, only to have some treachery cause another to grab it. The original hope, to bring the race back to its glory, was lo
st. The degradation of the ogres ensued. From the most beautiful and intelligent, they had become the most horrific and brutal race.
And somewhere along the way, a pitiful handful of survivors had made the foolish decision to hide away the Fire Rose from all who came after.
However, Safrag held the precious artifact. He wielded it, for the sake of the Titan dream, naturally.
The Fire Rose continued to glow brightly. Safrag could not help but keep gazing in wonder, reflecting on all the betrayal it had caused, all the slaying by his hand. When he had first come into the ranks of the Titans, he had not thought to strive to be Dauroth’s apprentice, much less his eventual successor. Only a chance reading of an ancient scroll he had found among his master’s collection had stirred those desires. It had shocked him that Dauroth could know that such a miraculous thing existed and not want to find it. It had stunned him further to discover, when told by his master, that Dauroth possessed a tiny fragment of the Fire Rose and still resisted its glory.
That had been when the change had come over Safrag. Dauroth could not see the future as it was meant to be; he was blind to what had to be done. He was, therefore, lacking in the vital qualities that the Titans needed in a true leader.
And so Safrag had found the manner by which to destroy his fault-ridden master and his one rival to his cause, Dauroth’s senior apprentice, Hundjal. It had proven simple to trick Dauroth into believing that Hundjal was the one seeking the Fire Rose, a quest punishable by death. Once Dauroth had slain the other apprentice, the Titans’ founder had ensured his own demise. Dauroth had realized that in the end, but too late to prevent it.
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