The Gargoyle King ot-3

by Richard A. Knaak

  But instead of doing so, Safrag satisfied himself with merely reaching out and communicating with the other Titan. I hear you, loyal Falstoch. What would you have of your lord?

  The lesser spellcaster was not bothered by Safrag’s use of the title. Falstoch knew his place. My lord, Falstoch immediately responded. The Uruv Suurt press harder upon the south, and the Knights of Solamnia have encroached elsewhere! You asked to be informed when either crossed beyond the designated locations and both have, nearly simultaneously!

  Although Falstoch found that upsetting, Safrag did not; it only proved to him that the Fire Rose had granted its wielder infinite wisdom. So good of them, he said back to the other Titan. I will reward their timeliness, but I am less pleased with my children! I expected them to give more of themselves.

  They’re growing weak, my lord. Falstoch made it clear that he was not like the rest of them. But they try. Morgada holds them together as best as any other than your august self could, my lord.

  The flattery was shameless, but Safrag accepted it as also being the absolute truth. And the skies? They’re clear?

  Of all save our own spells, my lord! There are no storms on the horizon.

  Falstoch did not understand what Safrag was waiting for. It was not some mundane augury of weather that interested the lead Titan. No, he was anticipating the third invasion.

  He was waiting for the gargoyles.

  The palace remains yours to watch, my loyal Falstoch. I know I can entrust it into your hands.

  The distant Falstoch radiated gratitude and pleasure.

  Safrag cut the spell linking the two. Even that minor of a distraction had left him yearning for the seductive warmth of the Fire Rose.

  Command me; use me; let my power be unleashed. Safrag thought the artifact was saying to him repeatedly. They were one, he and the Fire Rose. It amazed him to realize just how incomplete he had been in his previous life, first as an ambitious ogre of a minor but still powerful clan, then as a supplicant seeking the eye of the powerful Dauroth, and last, as the one who removed the Titans’ faulty creator from supremacy and took his place. All that time, Safrag had been incomplete.

  But no more.

  I will remake Krynn as it should be, Safrag eagerly thought. And I will do so with the bodies of all my enemies cast as monuments to my victory.

  The Titan leader laughed aloud. In the Fire Rose, he saw many winged shapes, the symbol of the last of those foes. Although they were creations of his own imagination, he was certain the beasts were on their way by then. Their master would be compelled to strike and strike soon.

  Safrag stroked the Fire Rose.

  But whatever he or the half-breed hope to do, it will not be enough to separate us. No, it will not be enough.

  The artifact flared brightly as if in agreement.

  The vast flock descended from the skies, alighting among the gray mountains. They had not settled to rest, however, rather because it was where they had been told to wait. Garantha was not far away, and they waited where the power of their lord could keep them hidden from even the one who wielded the Fire Rose.

  The winged furies perched on high precipices, outcroppings, cave mouths; they were everywhere. They stretched long, leathery wings and groomed themselves. Despite their numbers and obvious eagerness, they made little noise as they waited.

  After several minutes, a small group of gargoyles rose from their perches and flew off to the south.

  Moments later, another batch of the winged beasts rose to the air, but that group headed northwest.

  Bred to be swift, neither of the flocks would be long in reaching their goals. The master’s plan was taking shape. When the signal came, the main flock would continue to Garantha.

  The Fire Rose would again belong to Xiryn.

  Morgada materialized before Safrag, her neutral demeanor revealing nothing of her duplicity. As was the case the last time she had come to the Titan leader-and the time before that-Safrag remained engrossed in the Fire Rose. Behind her facade of loyalty, the sorceress laughed to herself. Safrag acted just as Xiryn had predicted; everyone reacted as the High Ogre predicted.

  She went down on one knee. “My master, you summoned me?”

  Safrag forced his gaze away from the Fire Rose. “Yes, I wished to speak with you about the half-breed.”

  It was all Morgada could do to keep from showing a flicker of surprise. Of course, Safrag could not know that, at that very moment, Golgren was in the very palace the lead Titan had reconstructed in his own honor. Or could he?

  “What of that mongrel, great one?”

  Safrag rose and reluctantly turned from the artifact, which bespoke more willpower than Morgada would have expected of him at that point. “I think I should look into his escape from the tomb which I created for him, and I can trust no one more than you to accompany me.”

  “I am honored.”

  “As you should be.” Without looking at the artifact, Safrag reached for the Fire Rose. It slid across the marble table to his beckoning hand; whether at his command or of its own choice, it was impossible for Morgada to say. “Step to me, my loyal apprentice.”

  Despite some hidden reservations, Morgada joined Safrag. He gestured.

  Their surroundings changed, transforming into the chill, mountainous area where Safrag had said that he had banished Golgren to die. The wind shrieked as they appeared, almost as if decrying their appearance. A dust storm blew. Yet neither disturbed the Titans, who were protected by their magic and stood as if on a calm day.

  They peered around, but of the shell that Safrag had described to his fellow Titans, there was no sign, save for a few, half-buried fragments. The rest had either vanished or been destroyed in the mongrel’s mysterious escape.

  Clutching the Fire Rose close, Safrag bent to examine the area. A black glow radiated from his hand as he ran it over the dry ground.

  Symbols briefly reappeared, symbols that Golgren had angrily swept away. They were those that Sarth had inscribed for his reading.

  “Tell me, my dear Morgada, do these markings mean anything at all to you?”

  She leaned over, curious. “Nothing. What are they?”

  “Not drawn by the remaining hand of the mongrel,” the Titan leader commented. “And the emanations …”

  He straightened with such abruptness that Morgada stumbled back in surprise. Safrag looked to the mountains, next at his companion, then once more at where the images were just fading to oblivion again.

  “A fourth will not matter,” he murmured as though to himself, holding up the Fire Rose to admire. “A thousand enemies may come, but only one matters; only the half-breed matters.”

  Behind him, Morgada frowned. She quickly erased the frown then, in calm, confident tones, asked, “Have you finished here, great one?”

  “Oh, yes, my dear Morgada, I have.”

  With a casual sweep of the hand that held the Fire Rose, Safrag seared the ground, obliterating with black fire the area where he had left Golgren to perish. The sorcerer’s eyes blazed as dangerously as the magical flames he had unleashed with the artifact’s might.

  Then Safrag narrowed his eyes.

  “I would speak to you,” he demanded.

  Thinking Safrag meant her, Morgada opened her mouth to say something then shut it again as the flames darted high, swelling taller than either Titan, for Safrag was speaking to the very fire. The flames turned from black to brilliant red then formed a golden figure clad in long, sweeping robes of crimson: Sirrion.

  The fiery deity smiled benevolently at the pair, but his gaze was directed at Safrag. Sirrion extended his own hand.

  As if the entire region had been doused with oil, the flames suddenly coursed everywhere. They surrounded the two Titans, enveloping them. Morgada bit back an exclamation. For as far as the eye could see, fire devoured the land.

  Sirrion’s smile widened. He patted his stomach.

  The flames vanished, leaving nothing but charred ground. Anything that co
uld burn, had.

  “Your offering made for a tiny appetizer,” Sirrion remarked. “I made a better snack of it.”

  Safrag went down on one knee, holding the Fire Rose toward its creator. “Lord of the Flames, I thank you for your appearance here.”

  “You stirred my curiosity. You have my gift to Krynn; what more could you possibly want?”

  “I have proven myself able to master the Fire Rose, but there are those who would still take it from me if they could.” Safrag tried to meet the god’s gaze but finally looked to one side. To stare into Sirrion’s eyes was akin to staring directly into the burning sun. There was only blindness to be gained by doing do.

  Sirrion looked bored with Safrag’s statement. The god shrugged, his wild hair unleashing little flickers of fire that dropped on the blackened land and sizzled for a time. “This is not my concern. The one who proves himself most worthy is the one who in the end has triumphed over the rest. Only that one truly has the chance to master my gift.”

  “But I have outwitted all of them! The only reason that any of them survive is through trickery, not of mortal means.”

  “You refer to Kiri-Jolith.”

  The simple naming of the other god made Safrag stiffen. Morgada, too, could not hide her surprise. “The bison warrior is a part of this?”

  Waving her off, the lead Titan growled, “Help me defeat him, and I will raise monuments as high as mountains to you!”

  “A pleasing offer,” replied Sirrion, “but one which has been made to me before. Others, too, promised to worship me then failed. Besides, I have no quarrel with Kiri-Jolith. We have even fought the dark ones side by side. He only makes the game more amusing.”

  “‘Game’?” Unlike the god, Safrag did not look amused.

  Sirrion spread his arms like a great cleric preaching to his acolytes. “But that is how the true victor will be decided! It’s always by the game, and this time, all of Krynn is in play!”

  Safrag stood. “I don’t understand!”

  Morgada watched both in wonder.

  “Because you are mortal and you are not me!” Sirrion grinned. “But if it will ease your mind, if you are the victor, the Fire Rose will be yours to shape all with!”

  “But Kiri-Jolith-?” persisted Safrag.

  An abrupt fury spread over the god’s countenance. Morgada retreated. “You try my patience, and I am not known for having much, mortal!” As quickly as the fury rose, it settled. “In the end, Kiri-Jolith is only another player, and he must abide by my rules where this is concerned; that is the law between his and mine.”

  “Kiri-Jolith must abide by the rules,” the lead Titan mused. He bowed his head to the god. “Great is Sirrion and great is his wisdom.”

  “Yes, I am glorious, am I not?” Sirrion patted his stomach. “That was not nearly enough to even come close to satisfying me for a time.” He peered around at the ruined landscape. “There looks to be something left to eat here.”

  Safrag raised his hand to cast a spell. Morgada, recognizing what was coming, seized hold of his arm.

  Flames erupted around Sirrion. They spread from the god with ferocious appetite. Even though the area appeared bereft of anything left to burn, burn it did and well.

  And burned also would have been the Titans, if not for their swift action. Safrag and Morgada returned to his lair, the scent of scorched ground following them.

  Morgada took a deep breath. Safrag stepped away from her, shrugging as though his dramatic encounter with the deity were long forgotten. Once again, all that mattered was the Fire Rose.

  “It is mine, Morgada. Did you hear him? He promised it would remain mine, for who else could be victor if even the other god must abide by the same demands as my rivals? It matters not who freed the mongrel or who the master of the gargoyles is. The Fire Rose will remain mine! I will be the winner, and Krynn will be my prize.”

  “Great is my honor to have witnessed this,” Morgada wisely responded, “and greater is my honor to be in your presence.”

  Safrag gave her words an absent nod as he fixed on the forces dancing within the crystalline structure. “You are dismissed, my dear Morgada.”

  She did not hesitate. The female Titan bowed low then vanished.

  But when she reappeared, it was neither in her chamber in the original sanctum nor in the one in the palace where she kept Golgren and his human companion. Rather, she appeared in the most unlikely place for a Titan.

  You were not expected, the figure on the throne coldly rebuked her.

  Around the sorceress, figures in the shadows shifted forward. Morgada ignored them, seeing the shambling forms as only extensions of Xiryn.

  “I’ve just come from Safrag,” she answered defiantly. “And I think you might wish to listen to my report.”

  XV

  DISCOVERY

  Wargroch had informed no one about Golgren’s presence. He prayed that his former lord’s wizard companion had had the sense enough to take the half-breed far, far away from Garantha. Only death awaited Golgren in the capital.

  The Blodian was uncertain how to proceed. His own drive for vengeance had faded with the cold realization that the Titans represented a danger to his people. He had watched Atolgus become more and more monstrous even by ogre standards, and he understood that it was likely to be his fate as well. That went against the fearsome, independent spirit of his kind. Golgren, on the other hand, had always encouraged individual spirit, cultivating the best to become his officers. The Titans desired nothing but puppets, acting as extensions of their will.

  If Golgren were slain, there would be no hope of preventing the Titans’ desires.

  Wargroch owed the deposed Grand Khan a blood debt. That was how the ogre viewed things. For his many betrayals, Wargroch had to make amends, even at the cost of his own life.

  There came shouts from one of the lower corridors. Wargroch drew his sword-Atolgus’s sword-and rushed toward the noise.

  The ogre expected to find Golgren battling the guards, but he beheld a different sight, something he could not have imagined ripping into the hapless ogres trying to fend it off. It was almost an ogre, yet a creature also distinctly reptilian.

  And it was quickly disposing of more than half a dozen warriors.

  Wargroch plunged into the fray. He saw no reason not to. A beast such as that one could not be part of any ploy by Golgren; it had the stink of Titan spellcasting around it. Safrag was probably experimenting again without regard for his own people.

  The fiendish monster had seized an already-wounded guard by the arm and was dragging him close. Great, toothy jaws already dripping with blood opened then snapped shut over the guard’s head. There was the gruesome sound of bone cracking and sinew tearing.

  With a hiss, the beast pulled back from its prey. The headless body quivered. The powerful jaws crunched down twice. Then, swallowing its grisly morsel, the creature released the body and turned toward the next foe. The headless corpse wobbled a few steps in what was almost a comical dance then collapsed.

  Wargroch let out a roar and lunged under the monster’s paws. His blade sliced against the scaled torso, leaving a scratch from one side to the other but didn’t penetrate.

  The reptilian fiend slashed at the ogre, but Wargroch had been expecting its attack. He literally slid on his belly past the reach of his horrific foe, letting momentum take him out of range of even its long, dangerous tail.

  As Wargroch turned, he saw that, from the rear, the creature’s resemblance to a meredrake was unmistakable. That verified his suspicion that the sorcerers were to blame for the foul creation. Wargroch added that to his list of failures. More ogres were perishing because he had enabled it to happen.

  The transformed meredrake climbed over a lifeless ogre as it lunged toward the remaining guards. As it did, the huge monster slipped on the mangled corpse, momentarily falling forward.

  Seeing his chance, Wargroch charged. As he reached the beast, he jumped for its shoulders.

 
The brawny ogre landed atop the creature’s back. With a roar, the meredrake twisted around. Great talons raked the nearby, well-stained walls, but the monster could not quite grab Wargroch.

  However, the ogre was faring poorly. Although Wargroch managed to hold on, he could not do much else. The meredrake slammed him against one wall then the other, trying to dislodge or crush him. It was all Wargroch could do to maintain a grip on his sword, much less wield it with any efficacy.

  His daring attack had at least drawn attention away from the beleaguered guards. Some withdrew to bind their wounds while others regrouped. Two more guards arrived, axes at the ready.

  The newcomers drew the meredrake’s attention. The monster ceased battering Wargroch.

  The Blodian immediately slashed as best he could at the back of the meredrake’s neck. In the old days, before Golgren, it was likely that his sword would have been so rusty that it would have snapped in two upon striking such a hard surface. The meredrake’s scales were far thicker than before, however, another of Safrag’s “improvements.” The polished blade left only a shallow, red line that could not possibly have injured the lizard, but at least Wargroch had recaptured its focus.

  The meredrake once more sought to grasp his burden or smash it against a wall. As that happened, the guards moved in again.

  “The throat!” Wargroch shouted, staying with the Common tongue even in the midst of the struggle. Other than the inside of the mouth itself-an almost impossible target-the throat was surely the most vulnerable place to strike.

  But the meredrake, although taller than the ogres, kept its head bent low as it snapped angrily at its adversaries.

  Still, the guards did their best to stab at the creature’s face. One dived in eagerly, his axe grazing the lower part of the throat.

  The meredrake let loose with a fierce roar. It slashed with its claws across the ogre’s chest. More blood splattered the combatants. The warrior’s innards spilled out, and the corpse tumbled into the monster, who almost casually shoved it aside.