The griffon roared.
Golgren lunged. The beast’s talons tore at the air just above his head, and its beak scored the shoulder of his maimed arm. The ogre leader aimed for the creature’s chest, which was covered in both feathers and fur.
His blade made a nick there. A thin stream of blood dribbled out.
Golgren withdrew. He studied the tip of his weapon, which was all but clean.
The Grand Khan stared at the furious, squawking beast. He observed the grabbing talons and judged the distance between him and its snapping beak.
And again, he lunged.
One talon cut across his cheek, but Golgren avoided having his entire face torn off by rolling underneath the attack. The griffon twisted. The chain not only slowed its movements however, but made the creature stumble.
Golgren’s blade came up. Its tip cut more deeply into the beast’s chest. Golgren could have shoved the sword in deep, but instead he quickly withdrew the blade and threw himself to the side.
The griffon pursued, but before it could reach its tiny assailant, the Grand Khan had moved beyond the chain’s length.
The crowd and the assembled warriors cheered.
Golgren raised his sword for all to see. Its top was red, and a thin streak of blood ran down to the hilt.
“The spirit of Garantha gives victory to its people!” he shouted.
Khleeg and Wargroch came to their lord’s side. The two officers raised their swords so that the tips of their weapons touched Golgren’s. Streaks of blood spread to their swords.
In the background, the griffon roared and roared. Its wound was a superficial one, exactly as intended. Had Golgren killed the creature during the ceremony, it would have meant that the spirits would forecast misfortune for any battle to come. On the other hand, had the griffon maimed or slain him by some chance, it would have meant that the patron spirits had decided a new ruler was needed for the sake of the ogre race.
Instead, by proving his courage, cunning, and skill, the Grand Khan had shown that those spirits still proclaimed him true master of his people and victor against all foes.
Golgren let his two officers share a bit more blood from his sword. By doing so, he symbolically extended the griffon’s protection to those he most trusted. The warriors who followed Khleeg would see him as an extension of the Grand Khan, just as those under Wargroch’s authority in Garantha would understand that he spoke with the voice, the wisdom, of their leader.
The horn sounded again. Golgren brandished his sword toward the warriors, and the onlookers. Finally, without cleaning his weapon, he sheathed it and returned to his steed.
As he and the pair mounted, the assembled ogres continued their barking cheers. The griffon’s handlers moved in to calm and control the wounded winged hunter.
Golgren beat his fist on his breastplate. Wargroch and Khleeg returned the salute. The younger officer started to separate himself from the other two, but Khleeg chose that moment to whisper, “My lord, but how will Wargroch handle the Titans?”
Wargroch did not look pleased with the clear questioning of his abilities. Golgren stilled Wargroch with a dark look and answered, “The Titans will do nothing but obey me.”
He said it with such certainty they had no trouble believing him, although it was obvious they were curious as to the reasons for his confidence. Golgren did not elaborate, however.
The younger officer saluted. “Grand Khan, my life is yours.”
“Yes.” Golgren dismissed Wargroch. The younger ogre rode to where the city guard awaited. As Wargroch neared, they snapped to attention as if he were Golgren himself.
The Grand Khan looked to Khleeg. “Give the signal to depart.”
Khleeg gestured to the trumpeter, who sounded the march. The hand methodically turned in the direction of Ben-ihm, some two days north. Golgren and his second took up the lead.
A blinding glint of light from the direction of the city caused Golgren to glance back. The sun did not lie that way, but with so many armored warriors on the high walls, or standing among the rest of the populace, he assumed it was some kind of momentary reflection.
But it was not the sun that glinted off of the new, shining breastplates of his proud warriors.
It was a faceless, golden figure, his bright, unsettling form reflected strong in hundreds of pieces of armor. Yet when Golgren sought out the source, he could not find the true watcher anywhere in the skies above.
And when Golgren glanced back at the hundreds of breastplates, he was not at all surprised to find that the reflections of the faceless figure had vanished there, as well.
Wargroch reentered the palace with a swagger that made it appear as if he, not Golgren, ruled. He grinned at the guards, who banged their fists on their chests in acknowledgment of his supremacy.
But the ogre had little true interest in the guards at the moment. Another, more delightful distraction stood hidden by the doors to the Grand Khan’s chambers. Since his arrival in Garantha, the Blödian had secretly become enchanted with Idaria. It had started simply enough: her exotic looks and the fact that she was Golgren’s favored had attracted his attention. Wargroch had considered her unapproachable until circumstances had worked to separate her from her master. The sudden rush of knowing that he was master of the capital—however temporary—proved too much for his buried lusts. Wargroch thought that the exotic elf slave might prove susceptible to the one who, for all practical purposes, acted as the Grand Khan.
The guards at the door saluted him and did not argue when Wargroch signaled the pair to depart. For all they knew, his authority required him to enter. Most ogres, Wargroch had often thought, were not nearly as clever as him. Not even Khleeg.
Not even his long-dead brothers.
With growing anticipation, Wargroch pushed his way inside. Immediately, he smelled the elf scents that he associated more with the exotic Idaria than her master.
“Ga ni ifalkuni dura duri,” he rumbled as he surveyed the chamber. The bed was huge and lush, and like nothing Wargroch had ever seen. On one side, the soft outline of a shape could be seen.
“Ga ni ifalkuni dura duri. Come play with me, dryad,” Wargroch called.
When she did not appear, he grew impatient and began searching for her. Where could she have gone? After all, the chambers were high above the ground, and elves did not fly.
But a thorough search left Wargroch empty-handed. The Blödian officer went from room to room within the Grand Khan’s personal quarters, and Idaria was nowhere to be found. Yet the presence of the guards had indicated that she had been within, and the bed had verified that she had been sleeping there not long before.
Wargroch growled. There had to be a secret passage somewhere in the Grand Khan’s quarters, and the slave had slipped out. His desire began to fade as he considered what might have happened between them had she actually been in the quarters. Golgren could return without notice; the Grand Khan was unpredictable. Besides, Wargroch had to measure up to his new duties. Garantha was an imposing responsibility.
He glanced ruefully at the bed one last time, where the loose impression of a smaller, feminine form was still visible. Wargroch grunted and the next moment fled the chambers.
But even after several minutes had passed since his departure, Golgren’s personal quarters remained empty.
Safrag entered what had once been a part of his master Dauroth’s personal libraries, but had since been made very much Safrag’s own domain. The rounded chamber had walls lined with bookshelves made of silver that had been built into the stone, helping secure the magic of the scrolls and other items in the chamber.
Glancing back at the door, Safrag belatedly sealed the entrance. He wanted no one to intrude at that precious moment.
Standing next to the wide, rectangular table, he summoned a glowing sphere of a similarly colored light and sent it adrift above him. The glow revealed inlaid silver in the walls that also had to do with the tomes and other papers lining the shelves.
&
nbsp; Surely, it would not do any harm to test the Fire Rose again. Unlike Dauroth, Safrag was not afraid to wield the fragment under cautious conditions. As for the legend that each use of the Fire Rose made the desire to use it again and again more irresistible, Safrag knew well the strength of his will. He would not fall prey to such paltry fears.
At the center set of shelves, Safrag reached toward the middle one and gently touched a red stone inlaid there.
The stone shimmered, and the entire wall rippled as though suddenly formed of water.
“Falstoch, Falstoch! I would have a word with you, Abomination.”
From behind the rippling wall, there came a mournful sound like nothing uttered by a mortal soul. It seemed but a wail. Yet if one listened close, words could be heard.
IIIIII cooooooommmmmmme …
IIIIII coooooommmmmmmeee …
Slowly, a dreadful sloshing noise became evident, as if something that was not quite flesh, not quite liquid, approached from whatever dank realm existed behind the wall. There was an agonized hint to each shudder, and the same two words repeated over and over. The voice was reminiscent of someone drowning.
A vague shape appeared behind the shelves, a shape sometimes seeming almost ogreish in form, sometimes almost that of a Titan. And most often, something macabre.
A hand suddenly thrust out of the wall. It bore four digits, five, three, and five again. Its flesh dripped to the floor, sizzled, and vanished, yet the hand looked no less whole. A thumb melted into the hand, only to thrust out at a different angle.
With the greatest of strain, the dripping hand stretched forward. Behind it came a thick limb that also dripped. Pustules formed, swelled, and popped. Dwarf limbs, some even with hands, briefly sprouted, and melted back into the main arm.
Safrag casually stepped back, remaining out of reach of the grotesque apparition. In an almost clinical manner, he studied the monstrous changes constantly assailing the one he called Falstoch.
A face thrust through the wall, a face that made even the deformities of a Titan without elixir seem beautiful by comparison.
The Abomination—Dauroth’s name for the accursed thing—had no eyes, one, and three … and none of them exactly where eyes should be. A mouth formed, but sideways. It melted into the waxy, dripping flesh, and was replaced near the forehead by another mouth that lasted only a single breath before vanishing. The same constant transformations occurred for every other aspect of the body, be it the ears, the nose, or growths that had no identifiable function. Coarse black hair sprouted in random patches, shriveled, and fell off. Like all else that peeled away from the constantly melting form, the hair sizzled on contact with the stone floor before fading away.
The rest of Falstoch shoved its way through. If there were legs, they were lost in the bloated shape that moved like a snail and left a trail of slime worse than any such creature. Other arms and perhaps what were feet and legs continued to erupt from random areas. Nothing ever lasted long, and nothing—not even the head—was permanent. One head sank into the bubbling mass, and rose again from the right side. What eyes it had stared at the Titan from a very crooked angle.
Sssssaaffffragggggg … it intoned, its voice coming from all around the chamber. Haaasssss Daaauroth forrrgivvvven usssssss?
“Dauroth is dead. I am master of the Black Talon and all other Titans.”
His words caused an ever-so-brief hesitation in the horrific shifting of the Abomination’s shape. Falstoch and those like him were Titans who had transgressed against Dauroth, and for their “crimes” had been condemned by the late master to this sad fate. They were abject lessons to the rest.
Deeeeeeadddd … There was a hint of grim pleasure in the ghoulish voice, perhaps the only pleasure that Falstoch had experienced since Dauroth had transformed him. Falstoch’s crime had been to experiment on a possible elixir that would have freed him from relying on Dauroth’s good will. The experiment had not gone far, but since it had not been sanctioned by the Titans’ creator—and since Dauroth wanted no one else to have the secret—Falstoch had paid the ultimate price.
The other Abominations had been condemned for similar transgressions, all seeking to circumvent Dauroth’s will.
Safrag extended his palm toward Falstoch. The tiny fragment of the Fire Rose materialized in it.
The Abomination’s reaction was immediate. Leeeeggeendd! Rrrrrroooossssseeee!
“Speak truly, Falstoch. Did Dauroth use it when he cast you into your hellish state?”
Nooooooo!
That surprised the former apprentice. He had spent many hours of many days perusing Dauroth’s secrets, determined that none would be lost to him. Yet he had failed in that particular one. Even in death, Dauroth could still surprise his treacherous servant.
None of that truly mattered given that Safrag had the fragment. He knew that of all the Abominations, Falstoch had always had the most knowledge of the artifact’s legends.
However, speaking with such a disgusting blob did not suit Safrag.
“Sera issura alayva etoi,” the Titan sang in words that were as close to that of the ancient High Ogre language as anything else Dauroth had created. As he uttered the spell, Safrag also drew a triangular pattern over the piece.
The tiny fragment of the Fire Rose blazed crimson and orange. Tendrils of fiery smoke wafted up from the fragment. Yet Safrag felt only a very comforting warmth on his palm.
The tendrils twisted around one another. As the lead Titan continued to sing, they began to create a shape that made Safrag’s eyebrow arch in surprise. It was a dancing shape with arms and legs. The moment it formed, it moved with excited abandon.
And before Safrag’s eyes, it leapt into Falstoch.
A shuddering cry erupted from more than a dozen spontaneously created mouths. As they sank into the body, a dozen more formed, joining the cry. After them came only one, but that actually formed where a mouth should be.
Indeed, above the mouth was a nose not that different from Safrag’s. Above that nose and to each side of it, eyes of gold emerged from flesh that had taken on a slight azure hue.
Falstoch’s cry altered. It was no longer agonized, but full of primal pleasure. In great globs, the putrid flesh fell away and burned to nothingness. Behind was left a more defined and growing shape, one as tall as the observing Titan. Two distinct legs suddenly appeared, followed swiftly by a pair of sleek, muscular arms that developed sharp hooks at the elbows, and hands with long, tapering fingers ending in deadly, black nails.
Falstoch’s ecstatic cry echoed throughout the library, although Safrag’s magic had assured that it would not be heard. A satisfied smile revealing both rows of sharp teeth grazed the Titan leader’s face as the last vestiges of Falstoch’s torture faded away and a handsome Titan stood with arms outstretched to the ceiling.
“I am whole again!” Falstoch roared, flexing his fingers. He was naked, but in wonder at the transformation. “I am whole again …” He fell down on one knee before Safrag. Falstoch had a distinctive arch to his nose and his chin was narrower, but otherwise his face could have been the other sorcerer’s twin.
“Safrag! My life is yours! Command me, and I obey!” he sang.
Safrag’s smile did not fade, but in cold tones, he replied, “I would not be of such great cheer, Falstoch. It seems as if your redemption is to be short-lived. Observe your right hand.”
Falstoch glanced down at his hand. Where before there had been perfect, blue skin, a small area of deathly white had began to spread. “No!”
“Be not so disturbed by the briefness of it,” Safrag went on, as Falstoch discovered the same blemish stretching over the back of his other hand and on his chest. “It shows that the potential is there. Dauroth’s spell was incredible and likely the work of the High Ogres—”
“Safrag! I beg of you—do something!” Falstoch’s fine mane of hair—only recently sprouted—began to fall off. His form was bloating.
“You know the Fire Rose as well as Dauroth
did. Quickly! Did you ever come across a reference to the Vale of Vipers?”
The other Titan’s body began to quiver as if ready to explode. One leg began to tremble, as if the bones within had turned to jelly.
“Vale … Vale … Yesss!”
The last traces of Falstoch the Titan dwindled away, replaced by the nightmarish thing that had first emerged from the wall.
Safrag eyed the Abomination without pity. “Thank you, Falstoch. What would you do for the chance to be whole again? For that, the Fire Rose itself must be mine.”
Aaannnnything. The voice that came from all around pleaded.
“And your fellow sufferers? Them too?”
Yyyyessss.
The Titan smiled, displaying his teeth. “Let us speak with them. I will tell all of you what you must do to redeem yourselves.”
VII
THE DARKENED VALE
The hand reached Ben-ihm without interruption. The settlement had been an important way station during the height of the High Ogre civilization, but had since been virtually abandoned. Only when Golgren had become Grand Lord had the territory been repopulated at his command and resumed some importance.
Ben-ihm was surrounded by a gray stone wall built by the first of those sent by the Grand Lord to settle the region. Mountains to the west protected it from the worst of the winds, but the river that had flowed centuries ago had long ago dried up. Water had to come from the mountains, originally an arduous daily job until Golgren had borrowed from the engineering ingenuity of the minotaurs to bring water to the faraway settlement. Channels dug over the years—first by ogres, slaves, and later by ogres again—enabled the water that gathered in the cold heights to run down to where one stream would meet with another and another, until they formed a river that met another river, until all rushed along one of the greater channels that finally reached Ben-ihm.
The diversion of the valuable water supply from the mountaintops was one of the Grand Khan’s most under-appreciated successes. True, the inhabitants of Ben-ihm knew they could not live as well as they did without those channels, but the rest of the ogre realm considered such engineering feats as nothing compared to victories over a strong enemy.
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