The Fire Rose

by Richard A. Knaak

  The pattern altered. Some of the locations became other places. The constellations shifted positions. Several of the geometric designs realigned themselves and, as they did, Tyranos felt the magic of the pattern as a whole take on a new significance.

  He cocked his head. There was something about the entire creation—

  With his head high, Tyranos strode forward. He braced himself as he reached the shimmering pattern and breathed a deep sigh of relief when he emerged on the other side untouched.

  “By the kraken!” the wizard rasped. He turned around to see the final traces of the pattern vanish. “So not so concerned about someone who’s not bound to any High Ogre, eh?”

  Tyranos had studied much about the ancient race since first hearing about the Fire Rose. He had learned about their ways and about rivalries between their different factions. The pattern was designed to keep out anyone of a certain group—or possibly one particular individual. It had also been created to sense anyone who in any way served that group or individual, a piece of complicated spellcasting that truly impressed him.

  “But why so precise?” Tyranos asked the vanished pattern. “Why worry so much about one type of intruder and not so much about others? Did you think the other traps sufficient?”

  Still puzzled, he turned back to face the interior of the chamber. He hesitated. There, before him, was a wall filled with the flowing, beautiful script of the High Ogres.

  And nothing else.

  “That can’t be right. Let’s just see if we can decipher what you’re saying. ‘The way to freedom’ or something?”

  Stepping up to the writing, he studied the text, one line after another. Tyranos mouthed it out syllable by syllable, sometimes learning a word by deciphering those around it.

  Gradually, what had been written became known, and what became known made the wizard frown.

  “Sirrion, you trickster,” he muttered. “And I think I understand you a little better, oh master of gargoyles. A little better, definitely.” Tyranos growled. “And what I understand, I do not like, no.”

  The undead were extremely disciplined in their task, Idaria noted bitterly as she watched the body of Sir Stefan lifted up and carried away. Chasm, meanwhile, was bound up in rusting but serviceable chains. She remained unchained, but she expected that to be remedied shortly. In the meantime, two undead held her arms with viselike grips.

  She mourned Stefan’s loss and was concerned for both Chasm and herself, of course. But it was Golgren whose fate Idaria anguished over in her mind. The quest had been his above all. Something had not merely desired him to find the Fire Rose; it had needed him to do so. She had realized that too late.

  And that something had not been Safrag, she also realized belatedly. Even so, the Titan leader might well be the victor, for he had seized the artifact from Golgren.

  The skeletal guardians let Stefan’s corpse drop unceremoniously to the dust-covered floor at the far end of the chamber. The body bounced hard on the stone floor before settling in the corner, face up. In death, the knight’s expression looked resigned.

  She muttered a short, elf prayer for his spirit. As slight as her whisper was, it still caused the undead to turn toward her.

  There was something about the ghoulish figures that disturbed Idaria, even more than the army of skeletons that had marched on Garantha. There was something not right about them, something terribly not right.

  The elf caught a tiny glimpse of light within the empty eye sockets of one of the undead. She looked at another and noted the same. There was no reason why she should have recognized it for what it was, but nevertheless she did.

  The creatures were alive. Not in the sense that she or Chasm were alive, and not in the mocking sense of the f’hanos who had attacked the capital. Those had merely been animated, with no true recollection of what they had been when living. The magic had made them mimic their former lives, but they didn’t live and breathe. Even the two skeletons of Stefan’s comrades had not been like the things surrounding her, for those had been the spirits of the pair given brief resurrection in order to pass on the gift of a god to a worthy warrior.

  No, the creatures were not truly undead; they were something worse, unimaginable. They were living creatures who, despite the decay of their bodies, had not ever actually died.

  Some shambled toward her, while others were vanishing into the shadows again. Their hollow sockets filled her view as they came closer, intrigued by their captive. Their intense stare—made all the more eerie by the absence of eyelids to blink—intensified the feeling that they were inspecting her.

  Tales of what the Titans did with their elf prisoners stirred fear in Idaria. The ghoulish forms finally turned and followed the rest away, leaving only the pair gripping her arms.

  A rumbling sound originating from without filled the vast chamber. The rumbling grew louder, more insistent. Idaria peered high up, where one of the vast windows was located.

  And through that window poured more gargoyles than she had could have imagined existed. The elf had witnessed many, many perish already. The vast flock looked renewed, undiminished.

  They came in many shapes and sizes, some similar to Chasm, others with more pronounced beaks and slimmer bodies. Idaria could not see the colors of all their hides, but assumed most of them were gray or dusky brown like the ones she had previously encountered. Some had wings that stretched for many yards, and all fluttered with the ease of birds despite their great size.

  The rumbling she had heard was the flapping of so many wings accompanied by the hisses and growls of the gargoyles. Those that entered the ancient edifice circled around twice and began to alight on any solid perch, be it a stone staircase rail, a statue, or even a cracked wall. Others filled the nesting areas. The rest took their places based not only upon what niches remained, but on which among them was strongest and fastest. Some made brief shows of dominance, the captive elf noted, but none went farther than hisses and the occasional swat.

  More and more of the strange, hideous creatures poured into the citadel, filling it up to the ceiling and beyond. Additional hisses and flapping could be heard outside the one in which she was imprisoned.

  Many of the gargoyles, once they settled down, peered expectantly in the elf’s direction, but not exactly at her.

  At last the flow ceased. The smell of the gargoyles had grown pungent and was made worse by the slow beating of wings that seemed determined to push the stench in her direction.

  The beating of wings stopped. The gargoyles grew silent. Their gazes were fixed just beyond Idaria, who suddenly felt the heat of eyes that stared at her from that direction as well.

  Her monstrous guards slowly turned her that way. She beheld a high-backed chair that she was certain had not been there moments before. Made of stone, it had two jutting points at the top that were identical to the two points of the castle.

  And in that chair—that throne—there emerged a shadowed figure with nearly fleshless white hands and long, oval orbs that glowed a deathly white. Those eyes were all that could be seen of the head or face; the rest was covered by a hood and bound by a tight, golden cloth over its features.

  As the figure finished materializing, the gargoyles let out a long, slow hiss. They bowed their heads low and turned their necks in a recognizable act of submission.

  Idaria’s two guards also bowed their heads. The elf had no intention of imitating the bows, but her gaze was caught by that of the figure, and suddenly she found herself bending too.

  A raspy chuckle filled her head and sent every nerve shivering.

  I trust you are better, said a voice.

  Somehow, she found her own voice. “Who are you?”

  I am master here. The pale hands gestured at the many gargoyles. It is my domain. Those are my subjects. Again came the chuckle. As you have also been.

  “I am not your slave. I do not serve you.”

  But you already have for so long, came the reply in a voice that, although it was s
till in her head, sounded exactly like the Nerakan officer whose name she could not remember. And before that even, and just as you will continue to serve me.

  “Never,” she responded coolly.

  Several of the gargoyles hissed at her affront, but a single raised finger silenced them. Although there was no visible hint, the elf sensed amusement in the voice.

  You will continue to serve me, as so many have served me in my desire throughout time, until it is mine. The shadowed form rose, standing at least as tall as Golgren or the wizard Tyranos. You will all continue to serve me until the Fire Rose is finally back in my hands, and the world is set right, my Idaria.

  XXIII

  THE FIRE WITHIN

  A silence hung over Garantha the morning after the attack on Khleeg and his warriors. The populace was used to violent changes in leadership, for it was a part of ogre tradition. Yet the new Grand Khan had not announced himself and, in fact, had been seen by very few.

  If his face was unknown, his name had already become widespread: Atolgus. Whispered from one ogre to the next, stories blossomed around the name that had little to do with fact, yet were hardly as fantastic as the truth. Atolgus had been a warrior raised by mountain spirits, was the unknown son of Zharang, was even the half-brother of Golgren, and so on and so on.

  Atolgus’s warriors had already secured all military elements of the capital and brought any suspected sympathizers of his half-breed predecessor to the cells beneath the Jaka Hwunar, so that they could be properly and publicly executed if deemed fit. The cells were packed to overflowing, with so many in each that no one could sit, much less lie down. More so than the Dragon That Is Zharang, Golgren had proved to have far more warriors willing to die rather than to swear oaths to another. That, though, did not seem to matter to the new Grand Khan. If the Jaka Hwunar had to be filled with a fresh sea of blood, it would be.

  No one questioned how the coup could have been so quickly organized and undertaken. Such things were beyond most ogres. If a warlord managed to seize power, that was all that mattered.

  And no one other than a few officers either imprisoned, already dead, or, as with Wargroch, willing collaborators, knew that much of it had been done with the aid of powerful magic.

  Titan magic.

  At the second hour past dawn, trumpeters blew a summoning call from the walls of the palace. Generations of habit brought the populace out in throngs to the open areas. The assumption was that the new Grand Khan would be presenting himself. There would be a great display at the arena some time later—for that was the normal way of such things—but the presentation of the new Grand Khan would be the opportunity to mark Atolgus as lord of the palace and thus of all else. Only Golgren had done some ceremonies differently from the past. But he had been Golgren.

  At the third hour, with the streets filled with tall, hairy bodies already sweating from the heat, a procession of armored guards emerged from the palace. Holding swords and axes high, they marched toward the people. At the end of the procession, two helmed officers strode along bearing long wooden poles upon which fluttered the standard of the new ruler.

  That was of interest to the onlookers. Heads craned as ogres by the hundreds sought their first glimpse of the new emblem of the next regime. Already, they could see that the field was a deep blue, a contrast to the plainer brown one that had surrounded the severed hand and bloody dagger of the half-breed. The chosen symbol was unclear at first though, due to the angle at which the wind twisted both standards.

  At an opportune moment, the wind shifted abruptly—almost magically—and the standard of the warlord Atolgus unveiled itself.

  It was black, and from a distance could have been mistaken for yet another hand, albeit one bent at a crooked angle. But as it was carried closer, all semblance of a hand faded. It was, instead, a set of avian claws.

  Talons.

  Behind that standard emerged the warlord himself. Many ogres in the crowd roared or barked their obedience to the new leader. Atolgus was indeed impressive to behold. Even compared to before—when Wargroch, who followed a step behind him, had met with him—Atolgus was a little taller, a little more commanding.

  A little less ogre.

  His eyes bore a golden tint visible even from yards away. Whenever Atolgus turned those eyes on someone in the crowd, the individual felt compelled to fall to their knees in homage. None of the ogres questioned the overwhelming sensation.

  The young warrior raised his hands, a sword in one and the other formed into a fist. The warriors on duty at the walls shouted out his name: Atolgus! Atolgus!

  He made a sweeping motion with his fist.

  The crowd stilled.

  “The past is dead!” Atolgus shouted in perfect Common. “Des rida f’han vos!”

  His warriors cheered. The crowd picked up the cheer, some within the throng slower to do so than others.

  Atolgus demanded silence again. He slashed with the sword and cried, “The day of the severed hand is over!”

  He did not repeat the words in the Ogre tongue, but most understood immediately. “Severed hand” referred to only one thing, one person.

  Again, Atolgus’s warriors cheered lustily. Wargroch pumped his fist in the air as he shouted out his warlord’s name.

  The throng also joined in, and if there were more who were hesitant than before, they were still drowned out by those aware that survival meant life, whereas loyalty meant joining those awaiting their fates in the arena.

  In an act that confused the crowd, Atolgus turned to look back at the palace as if waiting for someone else to walk through its doors.

  He went down on one knee, his sword held forward in presentation as if to be handed from a servant to a master.

  Black flames erupted on the open marble path, flames with no discernible source. They rose high, twice and three times the height of the tallest ogre there.

  As quickly as they had arisen, the flames died down, vanishing as if they had never been.

  In their wake, three towering Titans appeared, surveying the crowd. Morgada stood at the fore, with Kulgrath and Draug just behind her. She smiled at the assembled ogres and bent down just enough to take the proffered sword from Atolgus. Lowering his arms, he remained in a subservient pose before the sorcerers.

  Wargroch knelt to the Titans too. As he did, the warriors in the column performed an about-face so that they, like the rest, faced the trio of Titans. As one, all the guards imitated Atolgus and Wargroch.

  At that point, everyone in the crowd knelt. Even those standing so far back that they could not truly see the Titans knelt, for anyone that could make all those in front show their deference had to be very, very powerful, indeed.

  Morgada peered around. When it was clear only the Titans were standing, she spoke. Her voice projected throughout all Garantha, ensuring that no one could later claim not to have heard her momentous words.

  “The Golden Age is coming!” the female Titan sang. Although she did so in the wondrous speech created by the late Dauroth, even the lowliest ogre understood her as if born to that tongue. So had been the dictates of Safrag for the historic occasion. “The Golden Age is upon us!”

  And behind her, the aged palace of the Grand Khans, and the High Ogre rulers preceding them, shook. Huge, crimson flames exploded throughout the great edifice, causing even the bravest ogres to suddenly leap up in preparation to flee before the massive conflagration that threatened to spread. In mere moments, one of the greatest surviving monuments to the ogres’ vanished past was consumed. And yet the fires rose higher. They stretched to the skies, doubling in size, but still not spreading beyond the original length and breadth of the lost palace.

  Atolgus did not so much as flinch in fear for his life, nor did Wargroch, nor any of the guards. Indeed, they looked more eager than anything else. The ogres thinking of fleeing fought down their fear, and they and the rest of the crowd watched in amazement as the flames finally died away to reveal something new standing where the palace h
ad been rooted.

  It stood like a giant, with sharp, glittering angles and five magnificent towers topped by arched roofs. It was as wide and as deep as the old palace, but twice the height. In the light of the glaring sun, it was at times nearly blinding, for instead of marble, it was made of a sleek substance that shone more than a thousand polished breastplates. Its greenish blue hue was like no color ever seen by the ogres, and more than one among the hushed crowd let escape a sound of awe.

  There were six great columns at the front, each carved to resemble the same handsome Titan. Each took a different pose: a warrior with a sword, a teacher with a staff, another holding a lush basket of fruit, and more. But each with the same face, one soon to be recognized by all assembled.

  Two great bronze doors marked the entrance, doors bearing the talon symbol. They were immense doors, surely needing three or four muscular guards to open each, yet they swung open by themselves.

  And through them glided the leader of the Titans. His visage was quickly recognizable as the one on each of the column figures. He smiled benevolently at the vast crowd, at Morgada, at Atolgus and Wargroch. With one hand he greeted the thronged ogres, and in the other, the sorcerer held up the Fire Rose.

  “The Golden Age is upon us!” he sang in the Titan language. Once again, even the most ignorant ogre understood perfectly—understood and envied the ability to speak such a perfect tongue. The Common that Golgren had insisted all learn was rough and unworthy compared to that beautiful language.

  “The Golden Age is upon us!” Safrag repeated. “Not the Age of the High Ogres, though, for that is past! The dead shall remain dead; the living shall live anew!”