The Gargoyle King ot-3

by Richard A. Knaak

  If he thought his explanation would urge her on, the Solamnic was sorely mistaken. Instead, Idaria felt conflicted, and her eyes widened as she quickly peered over her shoulder in the direction of Golgren’s continuing struggle.

  “It will only bring danger to them!” she suddenly cried, referring to the elves. “Xiryn will hunt them down once he is done here! There will be no escape anywhere!”

  She pulled free of Stefan’s hold.

  The knight faltered. “My lady … Idaria … what’re you doing?”

  “Freeing all of us,” the elf solemnly responded. “Freeing Golgren.”

  Idaria ran back the way they had come.

  Despite Golgren’s nearly successful attack, Xiryn laughed out loud as he saw the elf turn back in his direction. Golgren, frowning, also spotted Idaria and wondered why she wasn’t escaping when she had the chance. The gargoyle king gestured at the scene, his servants swarming toward the elf and Solamnic.

  You see? Even fate and chance are my servants! Remember my warning and my offer, child of my ambition! Her life for your surrender! I expect no more defiance from you, merely acceptance of what I intend to make of you… and me.

  The half-breed sneered, his gaze darting from the macabre figure to where Idaria stood, trapped at the edge by the ancient High Ogres. Farther back, the gargoyles harassed Stefan.

  I was much weakened by the act of your creation, ensuring that you would be viable, the shrouded figure mocked Golgren. It added to my… physical deterioration, and I was forced not only to mostly observe, but to take on fools as my servants, ever dispensable fools like the Titaness Morgada, who did her part and then died for her greed, as to be expected.

  By then Xiryn had recovered from Golgren’s attack. He reached again to grab the half-breed and Safrag. Golgren grunted as the ancient sorcerer’s power flowed through him and his pain surged.

  We will become one, Xiryn proclaimed once more. The power of the Fire Rose will bloom for me.

  The awful visage of the gargoyle king filled Golgren’s view. Golgren managed to tear his gaze from the withered, decaying face, though not out of any fear of Xiryn. Instead, his attention was drawn to a particular rooftop.

  And his eyes widened at what was taking place there.

  “Idaria!” Stefan called back. “You can do nothing for him! Make your way back to me!”

  The elf ignored the Solamnic. She could see Golgren far below-the conqueror of both ogre realms, the Grand Khan, the master planner in part to be faulted for her people’s situation and yet, through fate, their only hope. He was bent in certain defeat.

  “May the gods forgive me if I am wrong,” Idaria whispered as she reached the edge with the grotesque figures trying to grab her despite the pendant. “And may Golgren forgive me if I am right.”

  One of the ghouls snagged her shoulder, but a deft twist by the lithe elf enabled her to pull free. Eyes moist, Idaria smiled.

  She dived headfirst off the building.

  Behind her, Idaria heard Stefan shout out her name. She had a brief glimpse of Golgren’s shocked, staring face before the angle of her swift descent turned him from her sight.

  A winged form caught up to her. Even without a proper view, the elf knew it was not Chasm. Whether or not it had been, she would have chosen to do what she did, undulating in midair to avoid being seized by the creature at the last minute.

  The ground was nearly upon her. Idaria braced herself, murmuring one last word, one last name: “Golgren …”

  Idaria vanished from Golgren’s sight, but the last sight of her remained burned in his mind. He bared his teeth, and his flashing eyes radiated only a hint of the rage building up inside.

  That rage, that elemental anger, poured into the Fire Rose. It easily overwhelmed Xiryn’s control and even shook Safrag from the Titan’s obsession. Wordlessly, Golgren offered the Titan one choice: Join in his rage or be swept up in it.

  Safrag wisely chose to join.

  But Xiryn was offered no such option. Instead, Golgren ripped away the power that the gargoyle king had already usurped through him and turned it to his advantage. He pressed the shrouded figure with the forces of the Fire Rose and felt for the first time fright emanating from his adversary.

  However, Xiryn’s many servants were not about to let their master be undone, for his defeat would be theirs also. Those who had been resurrected joined with those still decaying to add their own sorcery to the effort to stop Golgren. Moreover, gargoyles swarmed above, ready to pounce if the opportunity arose.

  Golgren looked to Safrag. The Titan nodded and made suggestions, and the half-breed welcomed his efforts. Between the pair, the Fire Rose burned as it never had before.

  Guided by the pair, its forces swept over Xiryn’s minions. They had desired a new Golden Age, so gold was what they were granted … or rather, became. Whether resurrected or still wearing the semblance of undeath, the High Ogres’ doom was the same. Their bodies suddenly gleamed like the sun, the transformation so immediate, few likely had the chance to suffer it.

  A searing wind then cut through their ranks, and as it did, the gold that once had been the High Ogres became a storm of dust that blew through Garantha, making the city sparkle as if it had been transformed into the shining city in the vision shared at one time or another by Dauroth, Safrag, and Golgren.

  The gargoyles fared no better. Some did try to turn and flee at the sight of the High Ogres’ demise, but the Fire Rose’s power was great, and its reach was long. Few reached farther than the capital’s outer walls. There was no dramatic display for their ends as there had been for Xiryn’s fellow sorcerers; Golgren and Safrag turned the gargoyles into pure vapor and let the same wind carry off that vapor to the four corners of Krynn.

  Indeed, not only did the gargoyles in Garantha perish thusly, but so did those that hovered over the areas where the minotaurs and Solamnics marched. The Fire Rose knew no boundaries; wherever the creatures who had served Xiryn flew, perched, or hid, the artifact’s magic sought them without mercy.

  It was an exhaustive feat, and therein lay its only danger. Though he had focused on the Fire Rose for barely the length of a single breath, in that time Golgren had neglected to concentrate on Xiryn. The High Ogre instantly seized upon that moment to regain his hold upon the pair and the Fire Rose.

  It is mine! the gargoyle king roared in Golgren’s mind. We are one! It is destined! I will have it no other way!

  Golgren steeled himself. With very little effort, he again tore mastery of the artifact from Xiryn.

  “You made me to control what you could not,” he reminded the High Ogre. “I am the impossible-and ultimate-wielder of the Fire Rose.”

  Xiryn’s already-hideous countenance contorted horribly. You were created to make the Fire Rose and me one! You were created to serve no other purpose!

  “Very well,” Golgren darkly answered. “You and it shall be one.”

  At Golgren’s mere thought, the petals of the Fire Rose opened. From them erupted a terrible golden flame. It shot high then, despite no wind in that direction, twisted toward Xiryn.

  Too late did the High Ogre sense what Golgren intended. Xiryn reached for the half-breed, perhaps with some ill spell in mind, only to be engulfed by the golden flame. The shrouded figure silently screamed as his desiccated body easily burned.

  Although Xiryn burned well, he was not reduced to ash. Rather, he merely continued to suffer, his face and form blackening.

  “So there, the Rose is yours and you are the Rose’s,” Golgren concluded bitterly. “You are welcome to each other … forever.”

  As Xiryn continued to shriek, the golden flame bore him up. The gargoyle king shrank but not because he was being burned away. He shrank so he could be fitted between the petals. No more than the size of a blade of grass-and then smaller and smaller yet-the High Ogre was dragged into the artifact. Xiryn was plunged deep into its bowels, the ancient sorcerer screaming all the while.

  He vanished into the eternal flam
es within. Golgren willed the petals to seal again, which they did.

  Only then could Xiryn’s cries no longer be heard on the mortal plane, though at Golgren’s command, they did continue and would continue for all time.

  “But it is still not enough,” the half-breed finally muttered.

  Just then an intense force struck him from behind. As he fell, it was all he could do to maintain even a modicum of control over the Fire Rose. An odd pounding in his head began, as though trying to break what remained of his concentration.

  As Golgren struggled to regain his senses, the half-breed heard Safrag say, “A fascinating and informative spectacle! One from which I have learned much, mongrel, such as not to underestimate you, anymore! Hence the spell-last moment, I admit-robbing your focus.”

  Groaning, Golgren clutched himself at the waist as he rolled onto his side and away from Safrag. The Titan, the Fire Rose in his hand, loomed over the stricken half-breed.

  “There is only one little thing I need from you, mongrel, and then I gladly will reunite you with your dead slave! I’d like my prize to be whole again. The fragment, if you please.” The gigantic sorcerer extended his taloned hand. “With it, I will create of the ogres an entire new race of Titans! I can see the vision clearly now, the golden city with all its golden population! Can you not see it too?”

  “I … see only … your death,” Golgren gasped, his face still pressed against the stone.

  “You are mistaken. It is your own death that you see. Now give me the fragment if you wish your fate less terrible than the one we granted that fool of a High Ogre.”

  “I will … not.”

  The Fire Rose flared. Golgren cried out as it sought to remake him, but then, after a moment, the spell abruptly failed. The half-breed lay still, in pain, but alive.

  “The fragment cannot save you forever!” growled Safrag. “It only delays the inevitable! Give it to me!”

  Golgren managed to turn his head enough to face his rival. “No, Safrag. You … must take it from … me.”

  The Titan’s sharp teeth clashed together. His golden orbs flared almost as brightly as the Fire Rose.

  The towering sorcerer gripped the artifact tightly in both hands. Its sudden increase in radiance presaged his dire intentions. “Very well, have it your way, mongrel. I will take it from what little there is left of you.”

  Safrag muttered. Golgren’s hand shook. He struggled to keep that hand close to his waist, but the effort clearly took its toll.

  “Like calls to like, mongrel! I am master of the main artifact! The spell I cast will not give you what you need to keep the fragment yours much longer!” Safrag raised the Fire Rose above his head. “Surrender to the inevitable! You have no choice.”

  Golgren’s hand began to pull away. With a groan, the half-breed made one final effort.

  The fragment slipped through his fingers. He made a halfhearted try to retrieve it but was moving too slowly. Instead, his hand slapped against his waist, but without the valuable prize.

  The fragment flew to a victorious Safrag.

  XXV

  THE FIRE ROSE

  Eyes gleaming, Safrag reached for the floating shard. With the swiftness of a ji-baraki, Golgren rolled onto his feet. His hand left his waist, but he held a dagger identical to the one that he had earlier tossed at the Titan.

  It was the second dagger, which he had located in his mother’s tomb.

  The half-breed lunged.

  Safrag didn’t notice until the last moment, surprise vying with contempt. “You cannot-”

  Golgren seized the fragment with his teeth before the Titan could grasp it. The piece flared as he thrust the dagger toward the sorcerer’s stomach.

  The Fire Rose glowed, but the abrupt shock in Safrag’s face revealed that he was no longer the one wielding its power.

  “No!” the Titan began. “I hold it! I hold-”

  The dagger, with the energies of the Fire Rose surrounding it, sank deep.

  “But I control it,” Golgren returned through clenched teeth.

  Safrag howled. No blood spilled from the wound, only the same fiery energy as that which had embraced the dagger. Safrag had no more blood; he had long become like the second hand that Golgren had gained through the artifact: a shell of what was real, a false miracle, the truth of Sirrion’s gift.

  Keeping his teeth clenched and ignoring the shard’s own powerful energies, Golgren twisted the dagger. His will flowed into the Fire Rose and, therefore, into the blade. As he turned the weapon, Safrag, still howling, turned with it.

  The half-breed gave the dagger a final twist back.

  Like a puzzle, Safrag tore into jagged pieces that went flying in all directions. His desperate cry continued for a moment after his dissolution. The still-living shreds flew beyond the walls of Garantha before they at last burned to ash then scattered.

  The Fire Rose floated by itself for a few seconds then dropped. Golgren released the dagger before deftly catching Sirrion’s creation.

  The blade clattered harmlessly, the energies fading. The ancient weapon was blackened from hilt to point, and the smell of melting metal was everywhere.

  Breathing raggedly, Golgren stared at the Fire Rose. The blazing forces within churned wildly, enticingly.

  “You do me proud!” declared a maddeningly cheerful voice that made the half-breed grit his teeth. “I expected it to be you, but there were enough variables that made the game so very interesting!”

  Golgren spit the fragment out. It paused in the air then flew unerringly to the artifact. Like a child clinging to its mother, the piece adhered to the Fire Rose, the two melding together.

  The half-breed looked up. Sirrion smiled benevolently at him. Bright flickers of flame constantly escaped his wild mane of hair.

  “You expected it to be me?” Golgren rasped.

  “Oh, yes, although the others would have made for some interesting outcomes should they have succeeded!” He waved the thought off. “But enough of that! You have earned the honor of gaining my great gift! You will be the herald, the catalyst, of the new age, during which the ogres will look to me as their chief patron!”

  Straightening, Golgren looked up at the lord of fire and alchemy. “You … our god?”

  Sirrion spread his hands. “And what better herald could I ask? The impossible child! You truly are what the Fire Rose-and thus, I-am about! How droll! How very appropriate this is! You will create a most fitting kingdom to honor me, oh yes.”

  Golgren wordlessly stepped past the god. He went to the edge of the roof. Midway there, the half-breed took note of the still-floating populace.

  Expressionless, Golgren held forth the artifact. The Fire Rose flared.

  The ogres began drifting safely to the ground.

  With a curt nod, Golgren reached the edge, leaned over, and peered down.

  Idaria lay sprawled on the stone walkway below. Her arms and legs were bent at angles that made it seem as though the elf were boneless. Her face was turned skyward and she looked as if she were sleeping … if one did not immediately notice the pool of blood that was staining her long, silver hair and shredded gown.

  A clink of armor foreshadowed the appearance of Stefan Rennert next to her body. Panting from exertion, the human bent over her. He muttered something that sounded like a prayer.

  Golgren suddenly looked over his shoulder at Sirrion, who stood smiling at the outcome. “Can this bring her back to life?”

  The smile not in the least fading, the deity casually remarked, “The elf has already moved on. No matter, though. You can use the Fire Rose to give another her semblance if you like!”

  “It will not be her.”

  The smile faltered, a hint of impatience arising in Sirrion. “No, her spirit is gone! I’ve told you that already! What does that matter? You can create a better Idaria.”

  Turning to face him, Golgren flatly replied, “Yes, if I chose to keep this thing.” He stretched the Fire Rose toward its maker. “I wa
nt nothing of it. To restore her life is the only use I have for it. If that is beyond its feeble powers, you may take it back and then leave and never return.”

  “Take… it… back?” Sirrion burst into flames. He was a living elemental, pure fire. “Take it back?” he repeated, his voice growing more strident, more painful to hear.

  YOU REFUSE THE GREATEST GIFT EVER GRANTED A MORTAL?

  His voice was as Golgren and Idaria had first heard it, a terrible thundering in one’s head that made Xiryn’s a pale whisper by comparison. Yet Golgren did not press his hand to his head, nor did he stagger under the mental onslaught. He calmly stood there, the Fire Rose still extended to Sirrion.

  Intense heat washed over the half-breed; then it enveloped the entire city. Below, cries of panic ensued as many ogres who had witnessed the arrival of the god no doubt assumed that he was about to raze Garantha. Sirrion stalked toward Golgren; the deity was taller and more menacing than any Titan.

  AND YOU REFUSE TO WORSHIP ME? ME?

  Sweat poured down Golgren’s body, but none of it due to fright, only the searing heat. Golgren cocked his head. “I do.”

  More than four times the mortal’s height, the being of flame transformed into the faceless golden sentinel.

  YOU CANNOT! NOT WITH ALL I OFFER, ALL THAT YOU FEAR I CAN DO.

  A circle of flames surrounded Golgren. It would have been simple to deal with them using the Fire Rose, but he was aware that was what Sirrion desired of him. The more the artifact was used, the more the Fire Rose’s ability to seduce increased. Even Golgren, molded-not created-to wield it would eventually succumb to its power. Like a moth drawn to flame, he would immerse himself in the Fire Rose until it burned him out.

  WITH MY GIFT, YOU CAN RULE ALL.

  “No.” Golgren took a step toward the ring. As he suspected, the flames shrank from him regardless of whether he was using the Fire Rose. Sirrion desired his servitude too much.

  “No,” Golgren repeated as he closed on the elemental giant. “This is not how I desire to rule, for, in truth, it would be the Rose that rules, not me.” He paused just within reach of Sirrion. “The ogres will always honor and fear you, Lord of Fire, but I–I, Golgren-will foist no god upon my people. Not you. Not Sargonnas. Not Kiri-Jolith. When we fell, no god smiled upon us then. Through centuries, we were used and used again, and no god came to truly help us. We survived without any of you, and therefore, we do not need you now.”