The Fire Rose

by Richard A. Knaak

  “Give me that.” Golgren coldly whispered.

  The Titan cocked his head. “It may be that I no longer need you, Grand Khan. You would do best not to test that supposition. Remain compliant and you live, at least for the moment. Oh, and I might let her live too, of course.”

  Golgren did not glance at Idaria. He eyed the Titan for a moment more, before retreating a step.

  “That’s better.” Safrag turned the mummified hand toward himself, and placed the ring on one of its curled fingers with deliberation. The sorcerer summoned the obsidian blade once more, which caused the elf to start. “Rest easy, slave. Your blood is not needed yet. There looks to be enough remaining on the blade for what I need. If not, I have the signet itself.”

  He touched the dagger’s tip to the hand. As he did, Golgren’s gaze narrowed.

  The hand clenched.

  “Excellent.” Safrag released it. The hand did not drop to the ground, but rather it floated as if weighing nothing. It opened and clenched again, repeating the dread sight over and over until the Titan waved his palm over it.

  The disembodied hand hovered silently. The wrinkled skin smoothed, and a sheen of freshness spread over the appendage. Indeed, it appeared to have been newly severed.

  And as the hand changed, the signet began to glow—faintly, but it glowed.

  “Not enough.” Safrag looked from Idaria to Golgren. “You will suit better. Come, mongrel.”

  The Grand Khan’s feet thrust him forward despite all his resistance. His maimed arm rose up toward the towering spellcaster.

  Safrag brought down the blade. Golgren remained emotionless as the Titan jabbed the half-breed’s forearm.

  “There,” Safrag said mockingly. “That didn’t hurt too much, did it?”

  With a curt gesture, he sent Golgren back, releasing him from the spell. Safrag took the newly blooded blade and touched it not to the signet, but rather to the severed hand.

  The fingers stretched. The hand looked even more alive.

  More important, the signet glowed very bright.

  “Lead us,” commanded Safrag to the hand and the ring. “Show us.”

  A great plume of fire erupted from the signet and whirled to gather behind the hand. As Golgren and the others watched, the fire formed a shape very familiar to the Grand Khan … the golden figure.

  In an astounding change from what Golgren had witnessed before, it wore his hand as if it were its own. As the arm of the figure fused with the appendage, Golgren’s lost hand burned golden.

  The gleaming figure strode forward, a blaze of flame trailing in the wake of each drifting step. It did not walk upon the ground, but rather floated a few inches above it. Indeed, it almost seemed to be gliding on the wind instead of walking.

  In that manner it moved down the corridor. Golgren watched it dwindle from sight before glancing at Safrag.

  “After you, oh great and glorious Grand Khan,” the gigantic spellcaster declared with a slight chuckle. “After you, of course.”

  His countenance expressionless, the half-breed slowly followed after the shining figure. Idaria paced him, and Safrag, with a hungry smile, took up the rear.

  Twice the gargoyles had passed the cave since that first time, and twice they had failed to notice it, or the two within.

  Tyranos knew something of gargoyles, especially that some breeds could sense the use of magic. Certainly, Chasm could, and he was tied close enough to the foul creatures that they should have had the ability to note strangers in their midst too.

  “The abilities granted to me by my patron differ from the magic of wizards,” the knight commented as he finished cooking a small lizard he had caught earlier. “They are more subtle, and thus beyond the senses of the creatures.”

  With a growl, the wizard turned on him. “Will you stop doing that?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Reading my thoughts!”

  The Solamnian smiled kindly. “I can’t read thoughts.”

  “Yet you just happen to know what I’m thinking?” Stefan touched the medallion. “My patron’s given me insight into the actions of others, into their movements and, thus, I suppose, what those actions mean. You were gazing at the cave mouth with your fist clenched, and the gargoyles passed but a few minutes ago. I made a guess from that.”

  “You should play cards. Or is that above a cleric?”

  The other chuckled. “For entertainment, no. For anything else—” Stefan suddenly stiffened. He set down their meal. Staring off, he quietly asked, “Are you fit enough to move?”

  “I’ve been fit enough to move for the past day at least. Why?”

  The knight rose. “We need to be elsewhere and quickly.”

  Tyranos snorted. “Did your patron tell you that?”

  Stefan did not reply, instead reaching for his sword. Belting the sheath, he looked to the wizard. “Be wary. They have the chance to smell us the moment we depart from the cave.”

  “I may have a few tricks for that.”

  With the Solamnian leading the way, the duo stepped up to the mouth of the cave. Stefan paused to touch the medallion. “Thank you, lord of just cause. May you continue to guide us in what we must do—”

  “Whatever that is,” Tyranos added with some sarcasm.

  Lowering the pendant, Stefan stepped out.

  The wind immediately struck him like a slap across the face, but the knight did not flinch. The wizard joined him, brushing aside the golden brown hair that flew into his face as he surveyed the area for signs of the gargoyles.

  “Looks to be clear. No sign of them, and certainly no stench.”

  “As they could not sense us, we might not necessarily be able to sense them until it’s too late.”

  The spellcaster had a clever retort ready, but thought better of saying anything. It was true that when he had smelled the gathering of the winged creatures, it had turned out to be part of a trap set by their mysterious master—the “king,” as the cleric had referred to him. Perhaps, as Stefan had warned, next time there would be no hint of any danger.

  “So, which way?” he asked.

  Stefan looked left, where the mountains stood most imposing. “That way.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  The knight gave him a grim smile and moved on. The wizard glanced around, shrugged, and followed.

  The howling wind accompanied them each step of the way, more than once making them think something was coming. Tyranos kept his staff ready, although whether to do battle or whisk himself away from the scene, he did not say. Nor did he know himself.

  Tyranos gripped the staff tighter.

  They were on the hunt for Golgren, which was as much as the wizard knew. Stefan swore he knew little more than that. Kiri-Jolith evidently was as tight-lipped a god as any of the others.

  “Blasted deity,” Tyranos muttered. “Blast all of them.”

  “You’ve little love for much in the world, don’t you? Life has made you that bitter?”

  “There’s little to love, cleric, and that’s all I’ll say about it. Find the ogre, and let’s be done!”

  His sword drawn, Stefan kept his eyes on the rocky path ahead. “And how do you want to be done with it? The Fire Rose in your hands, and the world at your command?”

  He received a derisive snort in return. “Wouldn’t be the worse thing for Krynn, me calling the shots, cleric! I’ve lived, and I’ve suffered! I’ve been tricked! I’ve been led around by the nose and condemned for it! I am not my mentor, damn him!” Tyranos spat. “Would I make the worst master of the world? I think not!”

  “Others have said the same before.”

  Tyranos suddenly walked past him, the tall wizard’s strides well matched to the knight’s trained ones. “If we’re going to go somewhere, let us go there and quit babbling.”

  Stefan watched his companion from the back, smiling sadly. He picked up his own pace and regained the lead. Tyranos said nothing, but fell a step back, aware he did not truly know the
ir path.

  They wended their way deeper and deeper into the mountains, never pausing. They made good time, which Stefan attributed to his patron.

  To that observation, Tyranos remarked, “It’s only good time if we actually get to where we’re going. Do you know where we are headed?”

  “There will be a sign.”

  “Of course! There’s always a sign! Perhaps even right around that upcoming turn—”

  The spellcaster swore. For right there, visible to them on the rocky base of the nearest mountain, was an ancient symbol etched into the rock. Tyranos could not read it, but he knew the writing of the High Ogres. A sign it was, indeed.

  Stefan said nothing, but merely stepped up to the marking and studied it closely.

  “Aren’t you going to praise your patron?” grunted Tyranos with a fierce look. “He led you straight to it, just as you thought that he would.”

  “But I know nothing of that particular sign,” the knight murmured. He almost put his hand to the markings, a pair of arched lines like wings, with what looked like a line of mountains standing under them. “We’ve farther to go. I don’t know what it is.”

  Tyranos suddenly looked around at their surroundings, noting that there were many shadows lurking in the vicinity. “I do believe you’re right, Solamnian. Unfortunately …”

  The beating of wings filled the air.

  The gargoyles dropped from every direction.

  Stefan slid into a battle stance, and his blade sliced cleanly through the paw of the first creature to near him. Tyranos planted his back to the knight and battered another gargoyle with the crystal head of his staff. Despite the crystal’s fragile appearance, the gargoyle’s bones cracked loudly. The injured creature went tumbling to the ground and crawled away.

  The knight pulled free a dagger, which he waved in tandem with his sword. He slashed through the wings of another attacker, causing it to collide with another one close by. The Solamnian moved with a speed and accuracy so startling that the wizard watched him with fascination.

  “By the Kraken! How can you move like that?”

  “I am the vessel of my patron,” Stefan quietly responded, piercing another gargoyle through the chest before its claws could scrape away his face. “My gifts are from him.”

  The wizard snorted. He muttered a word, and his staff grew three sharp talons of steel where the crystal and the base met. With those sharp talons, he put an end to another beast. Yet for all those he and the Solamnian had slain or injured, the numbers seeking to reach them appeared to be endless.

  Through the mass of wings and gray bodies, Tyranos spotted a figure that was not a gargoyle. The gray and black, shadowy form stared back at him with its icy, white eyes. Eyes that hinted, at least to Tyranos, of amusement.

  With a thundering roar, the wizard broke from Stefan. He thrust the staff forward.

  “Tyranos! Come back!”

  “Tivak!” called the wizard.

  As they had previously, strands of silver energy shot forth from the crystal. The gargoyles in Tyranos’s way scattered. He had a clear path to the sinister figure.

  “No!” called Stefan. His hand seized the wizard by the cowl and, despite Tyranos’s mighty size, he threw the spell-caster to the side.

  A fiery light surrounded the Solamnian, a light that exploded into true hot flames. Stefan cried out.

  Tyranos pushed himself to his feet. He looked quickly not at the knight, but to where he had last seen the icy-eyed figure. As with the last time the two had met, the gargoyle’s master had again vanished.

  “May the Maelstrom take you!” the spellcaster swore at his absent foe. He turned his attention back to the Solamnian, certain the human was dead. But Stefan was still alive. Indeed, although clearly in pain, the cleric—down on both knees—looked almost untouched by the fiery blast, even though the ground all around him was scorched black.

  With a groan, the Solamnian fell face down.

  The gargoyles had retreated the moment before their master’s attack, but they swooped down again. Tyranos tightened his hold on the staff and opened his mouth. With a curl of his lip, he dove toward the knight’s still figure. He wrapped one thick arm under Stefan’s breastplate.

  The gargoyles fell upon them. Tyranos beat back the first few before concentrating on the staff.

  He and Stefan vanished.

  The moment the pair disappeared, the winged furies settled down. The vast flock perched upon the rocks, or simply alighted on the ground. They sat silent, not even beating their wings.

  At the very place where Stefan had taken the brunt of the spell cast against Tyranos, the ghostly figure materialized. As one, the gargoyles lowered their heads and emitted low hisses with a respectful tone.

  The icy-eyed form ignored the gargoyles, instead reaching down and thrusting out a thin, bony hand as starkly white as the orbs that gazed at the scorched area. With its index finger, the figure drew a circle around the area, a circle that momentarily burst into flames and became a band of gold light.

  A slight laugh escaped the hidden mouth. As the figure straightened, the gold band faded away.

  The gargoyles’ lord looked to the right, the east.

  To the Vale of Vipers.

  XV

  AT THE WALLS OF SADURAK

  The horns from the quarry had been heard by sentries, who had reported them to their officers in Sadurak. Their commander had reported them to Jod’s officer in charge. The officer knew of no reason why anyone would be attacking Sadurak, but he was an ogre, and an ogre must always be ready for battle.

  Jod had learned the new discipline and methods well from Golgren, and he had passed on his knowledge to his subcommanders. Thus, the officer in charge not only prepared a force to go out to meet the intruders, but also set the city’s defenses into motion.

  When the enemy did show itself, it was not one that any of the defenders expected. The ogres were clad just as they were, and many recognized the hand to which the attackers belonged. But if there had been any question as to whether their fellows were a threat or not, that was answered by the Uruv Suurt marching among their ranks. Ogres and minotaurs did not march together unless one was the slave of the other, or both served the same taskmaster. The only time they had ever joined forces before had been due to Golgren himself, and that alliance was long dead.

  But someone else had evidently forged a new one. The ogres did not march as servants of the horned ones, nor did the legionaries look at all ill at ease in the company of their former masters.

  “Pikes!” growled the officer in charge, sending up ranks of warriors to the forefront. Like Jod, he had fought against and alongside the Uruv Suurt in the past. But his ogre fighters would form ranks as neat as any human knight or Uruv Suurt legionary. Behind the pike wielders formed ranks bearing swords, axes, and clubs; and behind them, archers—more archers than had ever been counted among an organized force of ogres. Jod had absorbed Golgren’s teachings as if they came from the gods. Archers had slain more ogres than any other enemy tactic. Ogres, therefore, needed to train at archery. They were not as skilled as Uruv Suurt, but they were competent.

  There were not only a surprising number of archers among those massing to meet the enemy, but they dotted the walls of Sadurak too. There were also catapults—a device “borrowed” from the Uruv Suurt—lined up at the walls above. Jod had spent many hours training their users until he felt they were able to fire with the utmost accuracy.

  Huge forms suddenly strode over the horizon. That the enemy had brought mastarks was no surprise. The defenders had mastarks, too, at least as many, and they were as well trained as mastarks could be.

  The warriors were ready. The enemy was nearly in position. But Jod’s officer had no intention of leading his fighters out to confront them. Golgren had taught his followers to bide their time and let the prey come to them, just as a good predator did. The easiest victim was the one who believed there was nothing to fear. They were the ones who stepped into t
he jaws of the meredrake.

  And the newcomers appeared to be over eager. The blood of the traitors and their Uruv Suurt allies would soon drench the parched soil.

  Surprisingly, the enemy began spreading out, creating a great wide arc that thinned their ranks in such a manner that the archers’ volleys would surely be less effective. However, the defenders were not yet concerned. Many would still perish, and those on the ground would deal with the rest as they battered themselves against the defenses of the city.

  Among the enemy, a horn suddenly blared. The first lines started forward.

  They were close enough. The senior officer raised his fist. Atop the walls, one of the trumpeters sounded the signal.

  The archers aimed. A breath later, a second, longer blast sounded.

  The ogre archers fired. The air filled with a shrill whistling sound as hundreds of arrows rose up and descended toward the oncoming traitors and invaders.

  Suddenly there arose a burst of wind so wild and furious that it raised a dust storm blinding the defenders. The ogres on the walls coughed harshly as their lungs filled with dust.

  And the coughs suddenly turned into pained cries as arrows pierced many throats, many chests. Warriors on the walls fell dead, and several in other areas perished.

  They had been slain by their own arrows. The wind had been no sudden fluke. Several of the defenders growled anxiously. They knew magic and its insidious potential. The surviving officers immediately roared orders to the milling ranks, seeking to herd them together into an organized body. They beat the warriors on the heads in order to make certain that their fear of disobeying orders outweighed their fear of anything else.

  Even as the defenders reorganized, a great roar was heard from the enemy, one that those protecting Sadurak readily recognized. The attackers had signaled their charge.

  The officer in command gestured for another volley of arrows. He had no choice under the circumstances.

  A less cohesive flight of arrows shot out among the oncoming fighters. Several of the defenders bared their teeth as the bolts neared the enemy. No wind arose. Not that time.