In the center of the bowl was the even more obvious reason for it being called Sirrion’s Eye: a wide, onyx outgrowth that almost did resemble a staring pupil. Sarth walked alone to the outgrowth before turning in the direction from which he had come.
Among the assembled males, a towering warrior with a face savage even by ogre standards stepped forward. He carried in his meaty hands a brown cloth in which squirmed the child to be honored that day.
As the father entered the bowl, the other warriors congregated around the edge and began beating the tops of their clubs, the heads of their axes, or the tips of their swords and spears against the rocky soil, grunting in unison with the drums.
“Carn i f’dar iBraagi jusuun,” called Sarth to the father, making a sign from the sire to the infant. “Husoch i iBraagi tu d’lach?”
The father nodded. He did not wear the face of a proud warrior who carried a son by his seed. Rather, he looked as if he wished he could hand the bundle to anyone else.
“Husoch i tu sadi d’lach.” He held up the squirming bundle, which was, to the eyes of all there, puny in comparison to what an ogre infant generally weighed at birth. “D’lach i iGuyviri”
There were startled grunts from the other males. The drumming ceased in mid-beat. The shaman, clad only in an old, dirt covered loincloth, bared his teeth—a rare showing of consternation on the shaman’s scarred and wrinkled visage.
But when he responded, Sarth spoke calm and strong. “Bya d’lach iGuyviri.”
The drumming renewed. Sarth indicated for the father, Braag, to join him in the center of the bowl.
As Braag lowered the child toward the elder ogre, he revealed three jagged crimson bolts tattooed on his lower torso. They were one of the symbols marking him as chieftain of the tribe. That made the tininess of the infant even more significant, for a chief’s son should be great and strong from birth. Yet there was not even a lusty cry from the child, merely writhing movement and silence.
Sarth drew the symbol of the sun in the air and gestured at a crooked gap in the onyx outgrowth.
Without preamble, Braag placed the cloth-covered infant on the jagged surface. The figure inside squirmed more, but only when Sarth gently removed the top of the cloth was the son of Braag revealed.
Premature births—generally stillborns—were all too common among ogres, who struggled day to day for survival. The infant son of Braag looked very much like the result of a premature birth, not only in size, but in the stunted features of the face and the softness of the oddly pale skin.
The eyes opened … eyes that were not ogre at all, but more like that of the hated elves. Almond-shaped they were, and of an emerald green reminiscent of the distant forests of Silvanost. Small wonder, since the baby’s mother was an elf herself, a slave with whom the chieftain was so obsessed he had made her his mate. He even accepted the son she had birthed, a son who, by all rights, should not have been possible. No crossbreeding between the two races was known before. Neither would have wanted such a birth either. But it had come.
And a son, even one as puny and as likely to die quickly as Braag believed he would, was better than nothing at all. To the chieftain, it was a way of binding the mother to him more, a desire far greater in his heart than to see the infant live. Only for her did he treat the wriggling mass like his own blood.
“Tun i f’da oGuyviri, oGuyviri,” Sarth muttered to the baby.
The eyes stared at the shaman as if understanding. Sarth grunted, and produced a rusty dagger seemingly from nowhere.
With expert precision, he drew a tiny red line across the infant’s chest. The child—called Guyvir by his father—squirmed but did not otherwise react, which caused both the shaman and Braag to hesitate for a moment. Sarth finally gave the chieftain an impressed grunt, which made Braag nod approvingly. Small and pale the chieftain’s son might be, but the baby handled pain better than most ogre children. That in itself was a trait in which the father might take some pride.
Sarth took the blade to Braag’s chest, where, with the bloody point, he drew a similar line. Thus the tie between father and child was acknowledged. The strength of the elder would feed the younger, while the potential greatness of the younger would make immortal the elder.
Assuming the younger lived.
The sun had risen enough that the bowl was almost blinding. Even with the thin strips of cloth to protect his eyes, Braag needed to shield them with one hand. Sarth appeared to pay the increasing brightness no mind, and neither, it seemed, did the child. Guyvir did nothing but continue to stare at the elder shaman, or perhaps through him. Sarth could not help but look up over his bent shoulder. Yet there was nothing to see.
Returning the dagger to the infant, the elder ogre let the oddly soft mouth touch the blade’s tip. Guyvir instinctively sought to suckle the tip, resulting in him lapping up a drop or two of the mingled blood.
The assembled males barked. The drummers doubled the beat.
Sarth set the dagger down next to the baby. The onyx outgrowth glowed with the power of the great fireball in the sky. The Burning was well underway. The shaman hurried with the ceremony. Not even a tiny child like that could be risked if there was any chance he would serve the tribe and the clan. Ogres were harsh and hardy, but not mad.
The elder ogre threw a pinch of gray powder at the staring child. Next to him, Braag let out a sound of mild surprise; the dust had seemingly come from Sarth’s very fingertips. There was no pouch at his waist, no cup at his side.
Guyvir sniffed at the dust, but did not even sneeze. For a child of any age, he seemed extremely calm, patient. Sarth’s brow grew more wrinkled.
“Idun tu i iGuyviri zadi tun—”
A shadow passed over Sirrion’s Eye. The drummers faltered, and all looked to the sky, including the shaman.
And all were immediately blinded by the fierce fireball that was the sun.
There was an intake of breath from Sarth as he turned his gaze back to the infant. Again, it seemed as if the baby Guyvir were staring past him.
Braag suddenly seized his son, a shocking break in the ceremony. Sarth put a warning hand on the chieftain’s arm, but Braag angrily shook it off.
“Gya i f’huu di iGuyviri tun jakabari ul!” Braag almost spat. His red-tinted eyes swept over his son with open loathing. Braag had taken the inexplicable shadowing of the sun as a sign his offspring was cursed.
Sarth shook his head, but Braag stalked away from the site, his warriors already gathering behind him. The shaman shook his head again; the father risked a curse if he didn’t let the ceremony finish.
“Dya i f’huu di iGuyviri o iBraagi daruun,” the shaman murmured, glancing not at the retreating form of the chieftain, but rather up at the bright sky again. He nodded to himself. Turning to face empty air, he suddenly said in Common, “The fire is your destiny, Guyvir.”
And, at that moment, Golgren stirred. His first impulse was to look around him, yet there were no signs of Sarth, his father, or wretched Aur nu iSirriti. Even so, Golgren felt as if the event which he had dreamed had only just taken place, despite the fact he had been the infant in the dream.
He could not, of course, recall something so far back in his life as his birth ceremony, and he had never heard anyone talk about that event in his life. And yet … He recalled an odd look on his father’s ugly countenance whenever they had taken part in similar ceremonies, a look of uncertainty, as if Braag wondered if he had made some dreadful mistake.
But had that mistake been to take his child from Sirrion’s Eye, or simply to let Golgren live at all?
The half-breed stood. He had no idea where he was, save that he was underground in a wide chamber that looked to have been formed by nature. A vast number of narrow, long stalactites hung over him, while in various places on the floor shorter, thicker stalagmites thrust up as if miniature mountains.
Golgren registered one very unnatural element to the chamber: He could see almost as if the sun shone down upon it. There was no d
iscernible source of illumination, yet he could see twenty strides in every direction. In one of those directions was a gap that led away from the chamber.
The symbol carved in the rock by what he assumed was High Ogre magic had sent him here, that much was obvious. But exactly how far he was from Idaria and his last location was impossible to know. He’d prefer to assume he was still in the mountains leading to the Vale of Vipers, but it was also possible that he was somewhere else in old Blöde, if even in old Blöde at all.
The Grand Khan glanced around again. No, there was no sign of Idaria. He did find his weapon, though, which he quickly retrieved. Whatever had conspired to cast him to the cave had evidently wanted him armed … unless that was just accidental.
Golgren eyed the signet. It was all innocence, a purely decorative piece of jewelry. He pointed it in every direction, but it stayed silent.
His choices seemed few. Golgren headed to the gap at the far end. Perhaps it led to a way out … or, better yet, to the artifact he hunted.
The dream returned to his thoughts, for the Grand Khan had no doubt it depicted events that had truly played out in his life. Golgren would have liked to question Sarth about the dream. Indeed, he would have liked to question Sarth about other matters, as well. How old the shaman was, for instance. Older than any ogre of whom Golgren knew. Only High Ogres and Titans lived as long, or so Golgren’s assumption had always been.
A slight sound—a hint of breathing—caught his attention. Instantly the Grand Khan thought of Idaria.
His pace quickened. Golgren reached the dark gap and, without pause, entered a tunnel. It suddenly illuminated, and Golgren caught the signet doing its work. There had been a very brief glowing of the symbols just before the tunnel brightened.
But something tore his attention from the signet and the tunnel, a movement just at the end of the illuminated area. Again Golgren hurried forward, fairly certain that it must be Idaria. If it wasn’t the slave, surely it was wise for him to catch up with the person nonetheless.
As he reached the next darkened area, it lit up too. Golgren came to an abrupt halt as a long, rocky corridor met his wary view. There was no physical means by which anyone could have fled so fast as to escape being seen, yet the corridor was empty.
No, not entirely empty. There was something etched into the wall to the right.
It was not, however, another one of the fiery symbols from the encampment, but rather a fresh marking which he did not recognize. Two lines came together at the bottom of a symbol, with what looked like a down-turned dagger hovering over both. Golgren was certain of one thing: it was a mark of the High Ogres. The style of it was akin to what he had already seen.
The half-breed briefly bared his teeth at the mark. From behind him arose a slight, moist sound, as if a tiny pool of water had suddenly rippled.
But there had been no hint of water anywhere. Golgren turned, his sword ready.
Too late did he sense something peel off the ceiling above him.
It dropped upon the Grand Khan as if both liquid and solid, and astoundingly alive. As it covered Golgren, he felt it seize his wrist and envelop his lone hand.
He thrust the end of his maimed limb into the central portion of the mass and felt some substance. The dripping fiend twisted, giving Golgren just enough space to breathe.
Whether it was better to fight the thing in the light or the dark was debatable. Golgren grimaced as he beheld a constantly shifting mockery of a face that might have been that of an ogre, an elf, or something entirely unknown to him. Worse, the features kept melting away, growing anew. It was impossible to imagine such transformations were not painful. Surely the monster used that pain to fuel its awful strength.
Perhaps its terrible stench was useful as a weapon too, for it was all the half-breed—who had suffered many terrible odors in his time, including the decay of battlefield dead—could do to breathe. Golgren struggled to push the monster away from him, but the creature had an insatiable grip, largely on his hand. In fact, Golgren realized it took exceptional interest in his remaining hand. Or perhaps what really interested the monster was what the Grand Khan wore on one finger.
He had no intention of surrendering the signet even to that powerful, macabre creature. Golgren forced one knee under the dripping mass and did not falter even when that knee sank halfway into the deathly pale torso.
Halfway, but not all the way. With great satisfaction, Golgren shoved hard.
His leverage—which he, a shorter, slighter warrior among so many ungainly giants, always took into account—served him well. The slobbering menace went falling back, losing its hold on his hand.
Golgren pushed himself up and slashed deep with his sword into the attacker’s chest. The sharp blade cut into the pale mass without hindrance.
But the blow appeared entirely ineffective as the cut sealed immediately. Golgren nearly lost the sword as the creature’s body sealed around the tip. Only a last-second tug freed it, the point coming out with a disturbing, moist whoosh.
The thing sloshed toward him. Moving on what passed for two legs, it was much slower than Golgren, so much so that the Grand Khan felt a surge of confidence. What did he have to fear of such a shambling creature, even if his sword was apparently impotent against it? With a savage grin, he backed away from its outstretched paws.
Straight into another pair of horrific limbs that seized him from behind.
Golgren quickly gasped for air as he all but sank into the second fiend’s soft, smothering body. The foul-smelling flesh enveloped his head; he had to shut his mouth tight and try to keep his nose free. He felt the insidious creature’s oddly laborious breathing. Through half-obscured eyes, the Grand Khan beheld the first monster closing on him.
Mustering his will, the half-breed turned the sword toward himself. He let out a quick, savage roar and drove it upward.
The blade sank into the head of his second assailant. The monstrosity let out a sickening squealing sound. It released him and stumbled back, unfortunately taking his sword with it.
Golgren had no time to concern himself with having lost his weapon. At least it appeared he had finally found something vulnerable about the monster. However, all he had left was his fist.
That left only retreat, a tactic that Golgren never favored but understood all too well. He pressed himself against the tunnel wall, narrowly avoiding the grasping appendages. Quickly peering at the second of his attackers, the half-breed watched with some frustration as it became evident that, even though the thing was clearly in agonizing pain, the sword stuck deep in its head could not kill the monster. It simply stumbled around heavily as its ever-shifting fingers sought for the hilt.
Moving past the creature, Golgren growled as the shadows ahead suddenly vanished, the ring once more causing the path beyond to illuminate. It was too bad. Golgren desired darkness, but he suspected that the only way he could make that happen was to dispose of the signet.
As he registered the scene ahead, Golgren stopped short. The tunnel ended before a huge relief carved into the stone. Golgren caught glimpses of at least six robed High Ogres—more likely eight, if the vision were to make any sense.
The exact number and what the figures were doing remained a mystery, however, because two more of the horrific creatures stood there, blocking the rest of the relief from view. Yet unlike the first pair, those two were intently studying the ancient carving.
He had made too much noise, and the pair turned. One of them pointed a melting finger at Golgren, and a disquieting voice bubbled in his head, The mongrel!
As they started toward him, the Grand Khan raised the signet. Nothing happened. Silently cursing the inconsistency of the artifact, Golgren looked around desperately.
To his astonishment, Idaria suddenly materialized, leaping past Golgren and moving like the wind, as though the heavy bracelets of her severed shackles did not exist. In one hand she held a dagger that the half-breed recognized as his.
As Idaria closed o
n the nearest monster, she plunged the blade Golgren feared was insignificant into the ever-shifting form.
The fiend let out a mournful wail. It twisted and turned, its body so fluid that surely there could be no bones within. Bits of its awful form spilled on the ground and dissipated as the creature rapidly shriveled in size. Not only did it appear to be melting, but a noxious cloud arose over its ebbing form, as though its very essence was escaping into the air.
As Idaria withdrew the dagger, she was struck hard across the jaw by the remaining monstrosity. Golgren sprang and caught the elf before her head could strike the rock floor. As he used his maimed arm to set her down as gently as possible, he seized the dagger, which the slave had somehow managed to hold in her grip.
The blade was covered not only in some thick, putrid liquid, but also traces of a more familiar sight.
Blood. Blood that Golgren guessed came from a thin stripe of a wound running along Idaria’s other arm. Somehow she had turned her own life fluids into death for the horrors.
Even as he took all of it in, mulling its significance, the remaining creature loomed over them. Leaning over Idaria, Golgren drove the dagger into the beast. He hoped that enough of her blood remained on the blade to kill it and save the pair.
The howl that escaped the creature was terrible. Gobbets of flesh dropped from the area of the wound, but, unlike its predecessor, the creature did not fall back and die. It was clearly badly wounded, but whatever the elf had done to make herself poison to the other fiend was no longer as strong.
With a sudden swiftness that none of the awful figures had shown before, an oozing hand stretched out and grabbed at Golgren, enveloping his wrist and the blade he was holding.
Another howl escaped the Grand Khan’s attacker. The oozing hand pulled away, ripping the dagger free. The weapon went flying to the side.
The thing shambled away from Golgren. As it did, the magical illumination began to fade.
The Fire Rose Page 16