The Fire Rose

by Richard A. Knaak

  His prayers were cut off by something astounding he glimpsed just beyond the mountains of the dark castle. The horizon blazed with fire, and there were more gargoyles there. They seemed obsessed with reaching one location just out of sight.

  The cleric’s eyes widened, and he heard Chasm grunt in surprise. For a moment it had looked as though another peak had suddenly sprouted into existence.

  But that was not possible … Was it?

  The hisses and screeches of the gargoyles behind them reminded Stefan that he had more immediate concerns. “To the north!” he shouted, glancing up at his rescuer. Stefan pointed to his left. “Veer around the mountain!”

  To Stefan’s relief, the gargoyle quickly obeyed. The great wings beat hard, thrusting them forward.

  They reached the peak. Chasm banked. Stefan could not tell whether what he heard was the echo of Chasm’s wings, or the onrushing sound of the many attackers surely close behind them.

  The gargoyle slowed, suddenly diving toward the mountain with such velocity that the human was certain they were going to die. At the last moment, Chasm turned toward the mouth of a cave, and the two dropped into it.

  The moment that Chasm released his hold, Stefan rolled around and sprang up with his sword ready. He ran to the entrance and peered out.

  Although he saw the gargoyles who had been trailing them, he was pleased to see they had lost track of their prey and were joining the others above in the fiery sky.

  “We’re safe,” he said to Chasm, who grunted agreement. Stefan looked around at their surroundings. “Relatively safe. Thank you for helping me.”

  “Must help master,” the gargoyle grunted.

  “Of course I’ll help Tyranos.”

  “Good!” Shambling on all fours, Chasm peeked out of the cave. “All gone.”

  “Yes, there must be something their master wants elsewhere. It might even be Golgren. Perhaps we should follow them.”

  His winged companion hissed. “Must help master!”

  As Chasm was the only one who could fly, Stefan wasn’t about to go somewhere without him. But the Solamnian felt torn. His patron had sent him on a mission that involved the ogre leader, not the wizard. As fascinating as Tyranos was—at least from what little knowledge Kiri-Jolith had granted his new cleric—the safety of the spellcaster was secondary to that of Golgren and the Fire Rose.

  Clutching his pendant, the knight contemplated his options. The answer became as obvious as it was insane.

  “I think I may have some idea where we can find out about Tyranos.”

  Chasm looked suspicious.

  Undaunted, Stefan explained, “You saw the castle on the mountain. It must belong to the gargoyles’ lord. The thing that took Tyranos must be his work. I saw what happened. I do not think it likely that your master is dead. He must be a prisoner. And the best way to find and free him is to search the castle. The magic may have even brought Tyranos there!”

  The winged behemoth grunted and gently flapped his wings, thinking. The gargoyle glanced at the cave mouth.

  “Come,” he rumbled.

  Sheathing his sword, Stefan joined Chasm at the entrance. He looked out and glanced at the gargoyle. Chasm shoved him out.

  Stefan fell. He opened his mouth to scream, and Chasm’s thick paws seized him as they had before. The gargoyle carried him from the mountain.

  The cleric recovered his breath just as the side of the mountain where the citadel stood came into view. Stefan could feel the ancient age of the place, not to mention the latent magical energies surrounding it. No one was supposed to find the mountain and especially not the castle.

  But Stefan knew that Kiri-Jolith had intervened, partly to help his new cleric, but also because of Tyranos, who had lost the faith he had once had in that particular god.

  Yes, Kiri-Jolith had intervened. That was clear. The rest was up to them, and especially to Stefan.

  Chasm neared the sinister sanctum, a place that chilled the knight. Stefan had been on many dangerous missions for his homeland, but none of those missions had ever brought him to such a place. The rough-hewn walls almost reminded him of skin, as if the castle itself were a living, breathing thing.

  The gargoyle let out an inquisitive grunt. Stefan understood what he wanted.

  “That window there! The one in the right tower!” He had picked it mainly because it was the closest, but also because he had a hunch that it was the safest. The cleric prayed he was correct.

  Banking again, Chasm flew directly for the window. The opening was large enough for either the gargoyle or the human, but not for both together at the same time. Stefan felt Chasm adjust his grip. The gargoyle intended to set him down first.

  There were spells around the citadel, but thus far Stefan had not sensed anything active. Perhaps it had grown complacent.

  Still. “Be wary, Chasm.”

  The winged creature responded with a snort. A gargoyle did not survive very long in life if he did not remain wary.

  They reached the window unimpeded. Chasm held Stefan before the opening while the knight maneuvered his legs inside. Grabbing the sides, Stefan slipped through.

  He immediately drew his sword and crouched. As Stefan took a step farther inside, Chasm entered behind him. The gargoyle folded his wings and followed on his hind legs and four paws.

  The cleric could see nothing. He held the medallion up in front of him and muttered a prayer.

  A faint light shone from the medallion. Stefan would have liked to have had more illumination, but he didn’t want to alert anyone of their presence, and it was enough to light his way.

  Shapes coalesced. Statues without faces, but clad in robes or armor or other garments. The style of carving varied from figure to figure, as if they had been done by a variety of artisans. Some looked older than others, even to the point where parts were cracked. All the statues lined marble walls bearing veins that Stefan associated with great age.

  Chasm snuffled. Stefan had already stifled a few sneezes. There was a tremendous amount of dust in the room, as if no one had been in it for years. Peering closer at the statues, the Solamnian saw they were so covered with dust that he had not even realized they were also painted.

  The other end of the chamber ended at a door that looked like iron but when cautiously opened turned out to be as light as wood. It was completely unadorned save for a handle.

  With Chasm at his heels, Stefan stepped out to find himself at the top of a long flight of stairs. The dust covered stone steps wound down as far as he could see.

  The knight and gargoyle descended. Chasm was especially uncomfortable during the descent, the winding steps giving him no room to spread his wings. Both showed visible relief when they reached the bottom.

  A metal door identical to the previous one greeted them. Stefan took more caution opening it, but once more they were greeted by no menace.

  Beyond the door, a heavy scent prompted Chasm to emit a low, warning growl. The Solamnian also knew the smell. It was a place where the great flock of gargoyles gathered.

  In the limited light of the pendant, Stefan saw nothing. He looked to his companion, who sniffed the pungent air. After a moment, Chasm gave a grunt and moved forward. Stefan followed.

  “Gods,” the cleric murmured. Even a few steps farther into the room brought a much, much heavier wave of the stench. It was not simply a matter of how many gargoyles nested in the room, but how many generations of them had done so.

  The vast chamber had the look of once having been a ballroom perhaps, or at least a place for a gathering of beings other than gargoyles. There was a mosaic pattern on the marble floor, but between the darkness and the disarray of the creatures living in the room, Stefan could not make out what it was.

  Large patches of dried shrubs, branches, and other vegetable matter had been gathered to make countless sleeping places for the flock. Bits of food—unidentifiable meat, pieces of fur, various plants—lay scattered. There were many bones, some quite large. Stefan p
eered at a skull, grateful to see it was not human or some other intelligent race.

  “No young,” he muttered to Chasm.

  “Hidden to keep alive.”

  “Why?”

  “Males fight,” the gargoyle replied with a tone that indicated Stefan should know that. “Young not quick.”

  “You were raised by Tyranos. How do you know—”

  “All know.”

  “But—” The cleric hesitated. Amid the many smaller nests making up the huge one he spotted a single, dark form. The Solamnian gripped his sword tighter. Chasm, responding to his sudden tenseness, crouched in preparation for a leap.

  The form remained still. Stefan closed on the nest. Unlike the gargoyles he had seen, the beast apparently had some whiteness or silver to it. He wondered if it had been dead a while.

  At last, the light of the pendant washed over the unmoving figure.

  The knight nearly dropped his weapon. Chasm let out a low rumble of nervousness. The gargoyle was as stunned as the human, for although they both recognized the unconscious figure, it was not anyone they had expected to find.

  It was Idaria.

  Setting down his sword, Stefan rushed to the elf slave’s side. She looked bruised, but otherwise whole. The cleric’s brow furrowed as he carefully raised her head up. The elf looked peaceful, as if she were just taking a nap.

  Her eyes fluttered open. She shook her head. “Sir S-Stefan? No, you cannot be.” Idaria pulled away. “You—You must be him! You must be—”

  The elf fell back, trying to swallow air. The cleric fumbled for a water sack he belatedly recalled he had lost long before.

  “Lady Idaria, it is me! It is Stefan Rennert—”

  “No!” Her eyes widening, she tried to scuttle away from him. “The Solamnian is dead. You cannot fool me with his semblance! You are no more him than you were the Nerakan!”

  “Nerakan? Lady Idaria, what are you talking about?” The elf hesitated. In a small voice she asked, “Sir Stefan, is it you? Is it truly you?”

  “I swear it.”

  Her eyes growing both hopeful and determined, Idaria took hold of his arm. “Sir Stefan! We must help him. The Titan fights with him. But worse, there is the—”

  She stopped in mid-breath, suddenly staring with cold eyes past him. At the same time, Chasm let out a warning cry.

  Stefan whirled around to discover several shadowed forms converging on the trio. He had not even heard or sensed them, yet they were so near that Chasm had to leap back to avoid being grabbed. The gargoyle took to the air—

  —and was tackled by a bony form. Two others quickly joined the tangle, the three monstrous creatures bringing Chasm down as quickly as he had risen.

  They were gargoyles, but gargoyles long, long dead. Only scraps of hide still clung to their skeletal forms.

  Stefan had his own predicament, for other figures surrounded Idaria and him. In the pale light of Kiri-Jolith’s medallion, their aspects were awful. Like the gargoyles who had just attacked Chasm, the figures were long dead. Scraps of clothing and rusting armor remained to mark what the horrors had once been.

  They were all taller than Stefan, more the height of Golgren. As they stretched fleshless hands toward the knight, he noted some still wore adornments and had bits of long, flowing hair. Stefan would have taken them for elves, but they were not. They were something quite different.

  Tugging Idaria behind him, the Solamnian slashed at the first corpse, severing its bony hands and chopping off its head. He hurled the still-standing figure into the one closest to it and tried to drive two others back.

  “Sir Stefan! You cannot—”

  The rest of what the elf was saying was lost as Chasm let out a terrible hiss of frustration. The gargoyle’s horrific counterparts had him pinned to the floor.

  Chasm’s fate was up to him. Stefan was already hard pressed. More and more skeletal hands grasped for him and the elf, and it was all he could do to get away. They were suddenly everywhere. The cleric struck down two more before realizing from their garments that they were the first two he had faced.

  The dead were rebuilding themselves.

  Uttering a prayer to Kiri-Jolith, the cleric redoubled his efforts. The undead were thrown back slightly. Stefan saw an opening.

  “My lady!” he shouted. “That—”

  His sword arm was seized. Two undead ripped the blade from his grip. Three more brought the Solamnian to his knees.

  He heard a cry from Idaria and another desperate hiss from Chasm. Looking for the elf, Stefan forced his head up.

  A bony hand wielding the knight’s own sword thrust the weapon at Stefan’s chest. The armor should have stopped the point, but the monstrous figure shoved the sword with inhuman strength. The blade sank through not only metal, but flesh and bone. It plunged until it reached the Solamnian’s heart, though Stefan knew before that the wound was fatal.

  Sir Stefan Rennert fell lifeless, his last thought only that he had failed his mission, and his companions.

  It said much for the Fire Rose’s seductive powers that even though Golgren was sorely wounded, he still managed to stretch his shaking hand forward and seize hold of its stem. Nothing mattered more than keeping a grip on the artifact.

  Safrag sought to stab him again, but the landscape went through yet another upheaval. Flames erupted around the duo, and where once the Titan had stood, a ravine formed.

  The abrupt change caught Safrag so off guard he could not keep himself from falling. His hand slipped free of the artifact.

  But as the sorcerer vanished from his sight, Golgren’s will failed. He tumbled over and, in doing so, sent the Fire Rose flying.

  Sirrion’s creation went bouncing along the churning earth, fiery sparks marking each time it struck something solid. Yet its crystalline form was not marred in the least.

  Golgren dragged himself after the artifact. The Fire Rose had come to rest against a fair sized rock, with the area stable once more.

  His breathing ragged, the half-breed pulled himself toward the artifact one hand at time. The furious glitter of the Fire Rose ensnared his gaze much as Sirrion’s eyes had done earlier. All that mattered was to reach it, hold it, possess it.

  It will put everything right, a voice in the Grand Khan’s head whispered enticingly. It will heal everything.

  A shadow passed over him.

  With a determined grunt, Golgren catapulted himself toward the Fire Rose. He sensed the gargoyle descending just as he grabbed the magical piece. Golgren rolled on his back, clutching the Fire Rose, and watched with disbelief as his winged attacker suddenly writhed in the air.

  The gargoyle spun around, clawing at its own body. Fire burst from within it, breaking through the many cracks developing in the gray hide. The creature hissed as flames engulfed it.

  But, as the last vestiges of the gargoyle became sheer fire, the fire in turn transformed into another figure.

  Sirrion shook a few straggling flames away from his body and beheld the bleeding half-breed.

  “I’m hungry. Do you have anything for me to eat?” the god blithely asked. When Golgren only stared, Sirrion reached down and plucked up a rock. As he held it up, the rock became an apple.

  The lord of alchemy and fire did not bring the apple to his mouth, however. Instead, Sirrion ignited the apple in his palm, burning it away in a matter of two or three breaths.

  “A small tidbit, but it’ll have to do,” Sirrion commented drily. He cocked his head as he surveyed the half-breed’s injuries and wounds. “You look to be dying. Why do you mortals always look to be dying? I barely speak to one of you, and you die. They were the same, you know, the ones who begged for my flower. They asked for it, were given it, and they died.”

  He glided over to Golgren, a stream of fire beneath his booted feet. Golgren tried to talk, to say something, to plead, but the effort was too much for him.

  “I was curious about something,” the god continued. “Something I hadn’t noticed before.”
He raised a hand over the half-breed.

  Golgren felt a hotness stir within him. He expected to die as the gargoyle had, but instead, the brief fire faded.

  “There it is. I wondered. Good and ill, the balance had to be there.”

  Steeling himself, the Grand Khan rasped, “Show me … Show me how it, it does everything.”

  “But you know already. And the choice is yours, not mine. I’ve always left it up to those who most want my flower. Yet they die so quickly!”

  Sirrion’s body burst into flames. He nodded to Golgren as he turned. Yet the god of fire did not even complete his turn before the flames appeared to consume him as they had the gargoyle.

  By the time Golgren drew another ragged breath, Sirrion had vanished. Only a few lingering licks of extinguishing fire marked his departure.

  Despite the agony coursing through him, Golgren wondered about the deity, who seemed to have returned for no reason other than to chide him. What reason could there have been for Sirrion’s short and puzzling visitation? What had he meant about not noticing something earlier about the half-breed?

  New, sharp pain wracked Golgren. Despite the heat of the Fire Rose, he suddenly felt cold.

  The ogre leader turned on his stomach again. He dragged himself farther from the site of the struggle despite each movement sending renewed jolts of agony through his body.

  You have brought it to me at last, came a chilling voice in his head. It was the same voice he had heard but moments before.

  Another shadow crossed Golgren, a shadow cast by nothing. There was no gargoyle; nor was it Safrag.

  There was only the shadow. The moving shadow.

  Sirrion’s Gift. Our Folly. The words ended in a deep chuckle.

  And suddenly, a black and gray figure that was as much shadow as it was something more raised Golgren up effortlessly with one white, bone-thin finger. Eyes of ice studied the half-breed with far more interest than Sirrion’s had.

  So long a wait, but so delicious a victory! You are everything I promised myself, everything you could be.

  Golgren tried to strike at the black-gray figure, but his hand came up far short. The veiled figure chuckled.