There had been another prisoner among them, the Solamnic Knight Stefan Rennert, but for him Idaria could only mourn. He lay dead in the citadel, slain foully as he had come to her defense; and then he had been disposed of like so much refuse.
Moving like a wisp of wind, the gaunt figure rose from the time-scarred throne. He appeared more ghost than living, his gray and black robes drifting as if the lower half of his form were nonexistent. A deep hood covered most of his head, and a golden cloth was wrapped tightly across the face, obscuring all but the two long, oval eyes as white as ice … or death.
My Idaria … came his words in her mind, his tone mocking, as he aped the endearment of Golgren. Have you enjoyed the little spectacle? Do you draw any conclusions from it?
She did not reply. During the short time of her captivity, the elf had already seen that her captor had a propensity for twisting matters to satisfy his desires. Whatever her words, they would come back to haunt her somehow.
The hooded form drifted nearer. A pale, almost fleshless hand stretched out to stroke her long, silver tresses. Idaria looked as if she had only recently come into womanhood, but looks deceived where elves were concerned. She was much older in mortal terms, being more than twice the age of the Grand Lord Golgren. That had made her think herself the wiser one when she had entered his life. What a fool she was, Idaria had discovered.
He is thoroughly under your spell… continued the gargoyles’ master. And perhaps you a bit under his.
She said nothing, continuing to stare at the scene of many winged forms desperately scouring the area for the half-breed. However, knowing Tyranos as she did, Idaria was certain that they were far from the vicinity.
And far away from her.
The hand moved from her hair to cup her chin.
So well I chose, finding the perfect ivory skin, the slight nose and red lips and crystalline blue eyes to mask the blind obsession within.
Idaria wanted to pull away, but could only stand there, frozen in the remnants of her low-cut green gown—Golgren’s favored garment for his slave—as though she were one of the statues or worse. She had only the ability to speak and move her eyes.
Yet while Idaria had nothing to say to her captor, she spoke volumes to herself, silently berating herself. She had truly been that creature’s pawn, falling prey to his guise as a Nerakan officer, a leader among the black knights whose hostile domain bordered part of the ogre realms. So determined had the elf been to free her people, no matter what the cost might be to her, that she had agreed to volunteer for slavery and degradation. In return for acting as a spy for Neraka, she had been promised that the knights would guide the elf slaves to freedom once they gained the advantage to seize the ogre capital.
In retrospect, Idaria had recognized many flaws in the plan, flaws that from the very beginning she should have understood. But the elf knew in hindsight that she had been played, just as Golgren had been played. She had been chosen to make the half-breed malleable for the fiend’s plots, and she had performed exactly as her puppet master wished.
She sensed other forms shuffling behind her. One crept into the edge of her vision. The ghoulish figure stood taller than she, though not quite as tall as Golgren. It was clad in the time-ravaged remnants of a once-regal robe whose original color could not be identified because it was so faded. Bits of decorative and possibly magical jewelry still adorned the skeletal hands and the barely shrouded chest. Straggled pieces of hair hung limply from the skull. There was only a veneer of parchment skin covering the face. The scent of death was well upon the cadaverous creature.
Yet it was not dead.
Idaria had believed otherwise when she, Stefan Rennert, and Tyranos’s gargoyle servant had been attacked. The knight’s sword had shattered some, even; but the bones merely pulled back together, as had happened with the army of skeletons—f’hanos—that had attacked the ogre capital some time back. She had looked into the eye sockets of those who seized her and realized the awful truth. Those beings did indeed live, if by a definition of that term that Idaria had never before imagined.
Their presence nearby chilled her, although it was not as bad as that of their leader. She had suspicions concerning exactly what the strange creatures were, yet she could not fathom how they could have come to such a monstrous state. Clearly, though, her captor had been deeply involved in their creation.
And there were plenty of genuine undead around her too. Several rotting gargoyles kept watch on her from a staircase nearby. Even in death, the creatures were subservient to the masked form. The undead who had attacked Garantha likewise must have been part of the plot of the gargoyles’ lord.
Only recently had Idaria come to understand what he was after. Like the Titans and Golgren, he sought the glistening crystalline artifact whose shape and burning energies gave it the name of Fire Rose. He had told the macabre throng of living corpses that, with the help of that artifact, he would “set the world right.” What he might do with the Fire Rose, the elf could only guess, and those guesses filled her with great fear. She had witnessed the Fire Rose transform landscapes, change the shapes of creatures, play tricks with time, and much more.
That it had such abilities was not so surprising, though. It was the creation of Sirrion, god of fire and alchemy, and the artifact embodied attributes of both those elements. Legend said that the Fire Rose had been given to the last of the High Ogres when they had pleaded for something to help them save their kind from its descent into the beasts that they were. Yet in the end, its magic had done far more harm than good, and the powerful artifact had been hidden away by a few stalwart survivors, keepers of its secrets but no longer.
As the icy eyes of her worst nightmare stared unblinkingly at her, suddenly Idaria wondered if her captor had been reading every thought she had just formed. The elf forced her gaze away, which only brought another chuckle from the shadowy figure.
The pale hand pulled back into the recesses of his robe. The gargoyles’ master looked to the image again, where his pets continued to seek Golgren, continued seeking in vain.
Return, he commanded and the gargoyles suddenly swooped upward. As many as were manifest in the vision, Idaria knew that countless more awaited the master’s every command.
But she took heart in the fact that, despite so many weapons at his command, her captor had failed to capture Golgren. There was hope yet.
Do you think so? the hooded form suddenly asked in her head, verifying that he did share her thoughts. All goes as it should, my Idaria.
He chuckled again, clearly enjoying her distaste at those two words. My Idaria. Each time he called her so, it sounded exactly like Golgren. The Grand Khan always spoke of her possessively, but he also gave those words a rare devotion.
The gargoyle king made a slight but mocking bow. So deep emotions still stir within you. Fret not, for soon you will be reunited with your precious master. It is the least I can do for one who has served me so excellently.
Idaria struggled to move, but again to no avail. Her fury at herself surged; she had unwittingly helped manipulate Golgren for that beast. If not for her—
If not for you, there would have been other ways, my Idaria. You were simply the most desired tool, and your manipulation was merely the culmination of a lifetime—his lifetime! You still do not understand it, do you?
More and more of the ghastly, living corpses collected around the shrouded figure. They clearly hung on his every word, as if those words were what gave them their mockery of existence.
He gestured at the vision, which revealed only the empty mountainside. There is nothing about the half-breed that is not the result of my manipulation! the shadowed form declared with more vehemence and triumph. From even before birth, from before his very conception, he was mine! How many elf and ogre breedings do you know of, my Idaria? How many?
She knew of only one, of course, only Golgren.
At that moment, if Idaria could have gasped, she would have shown her amazement.
>
He chuckled again to hear her thoughts, and even worse, she could sense amusement flowing through his monstrous entourage. There was surely little that gave those strange beings pleasure, but her sudden realization of what should have been obvious, of what she should have guessed long before, did amuse them.
Yes, my Idaria, the gargoyle king verified in her head. He is mine even more than yours. He has been mine since before his birth. There would be no Grand Khan Golgren but for me, for it is I who made possible the impossible.
II
PUPPETS OF THE TITANS
Wargroch was having second thoughts. The brawny warrior from the dry hill region of Blöde, the southernmost of the two ogre realms, had journeyed from his distant village to Garantha, capital of the half-breed’s land of Kern, to serve the same master attended by his two brothers in times past.
But those two brothers, Nagroch and Belgroch, had died for their loyalty. One, Wargroch had discovered, because he had failed to sufficiently serve his master in a certain task. Golgren himself had struck the blow that killed Nagroch. Belgroch had also perished under mysterious circumstances that had convinced the youngest brother that he, too, had been wronged by his master.
Much of that he had learned from the Titan Safrag, who had come to report to him personally. Safrag had not been leader of the sorcerers then; he was merely second apprentice to the Titans’ founder, Dauroth. He spoke of his visit to the Blödian as part of Dauroth’s campaign to see justice done—and justice in ogre terms meant the death of the guilty party. Wargroch had easily fallen into line and, being clever for an ogre, had proven himself in the eventual downfall of the half-breed.
Looking back, Wargroch was not so certain that had been the right course.
The grim ogre marched through the palace with anxiety. He was concerned that Safrag might follow another whim and transform the great edifice yet again. Such wholesale alterations strained the courage of even the most hardy warriors.
With a toadlike face and a round, stocky form, Wargroch did not resemble the Kernian ogre guards, who were taller by a few inches, had flatter features, and were more gaunt. For generation upon generation, the two realms had been at war, but the larger guards stood at attention as though Wargroch were Grand Khan himself. Indeed, for a short time, he had been master of Garantha—or rather Dai Ushran—in the name of the Titans and their puppet warlord, Atolgus.
Wargroch could not hold back a disturbed grunt. Like him, Atolgus—once a young nomadic chieftain who had been an ardent supporter of Golgren’s—had participated in the half-breed’s downfall. However, where Wargroch had harbored a desire for vengeance from the beginning, Atolgus had been seduced into his traitorousness by the female Titan, Morgada. She could make him do anything she desired, including slaughter his unsuspecting family and followers in their sleep as proof of his adoration for her.
For his reward, Atolgus not only served as the sorcerers’ hound, but he had already become kindred to them. He did not wield spells yet, but he had grown taller and more handsome in the manner of the Titans. His skin even had a hint of blue to it. All that was part of a gradual change that Safrag appeared to be causing as part of a personal experiment meant more to amuse the Titan leader than because it bore any ultimate purpose.
Such a transformation should not have bothered Wargroch since the Titans had promised that all ogres would become part of the new, beautiful, and powerful race, yet seeing Atolgus and what he was becoming made the Blödian question whether such a future was desirable. Atolgus was a fanatical servant of those who considered themselves above the rest of their kind. Not for a moment did Wargroch believe that would change, ever. The Titans would always be the supreme masters, and with the artifact they wielded, those like Wargroch would exist only to obey.
A savage hiss and a burst of hot breath stirred him from his darkening thoughts. A chained meredrake snapped at the ogre commander as he passed. The brooding guard who controlled the huge lizard eyed Wargroch with less respect than his predecessors.
Wargroch realized he had reached his destination, the throne room. He straightened and stared the guard in the eyes.
After a moment, the other ogre tugged hard on the chain, forcing the massive beast back. The meredrake was sandy brown with hints of green here and there, and the creature was approximately the height of a newborn foal. The adult reptiles tended to grow to the size of a mature horse. Ogres used the beasts for guard duty and battle.
Despite being brought under tight control, the meredrake still made one half-hearted snap at Wargroch. With teeth already as long as his small finger and claws three times that size, the creature could have ripped him apart with ease. Wargroch was thankful that neither the Titans nor their puppet knew of his ruminations.
He hesitated. Perhaps that was why he had been summoned to the warlord.
His expression revealing nothing as he stepped up to the two golden doors that, after the latest transformation, led to the throne room. On each of the arched doors was posed a magnificent, robed figure with arms upraised, wearing an expression like that of some beatific god. It was a Titan, naturally, and Safrag in particular. That was the one constant thus far in the series of unsettling renovations of the capital. Safrag always reminded his people that he was the hand that actually held the power. Even the other sorcerers bowed to him.
The guard with the meredrake made no move to open the way for him. With a grunt, Wargroch reached for one of the doors.
Both swung inward with no sign of anyone pulling them from the other side.
The Blödian paused again. Despite all the magic and sorcery he had witnessed, as an ogre, he had an inherent distrust of even minor spells. The fact that such forces were bestowed on a lone guard was an intimidating reminder of the power of the new masters.
Wargroch’s misgivings mounted but there was no turning back. During the final takeover of Garantha, he had betrayed and assassinated Khleeg, Golgren’s second-in-command, and that alone meant he was bound to the Titans. Khleeg’s stunned face, resembling his own since both were Blödians, haunted Wargroch at night.
The chamber was lined by curling columns that resembled flowing water. The room itself was golden, with crimson accents at the edges. An unearthly glow illuminated Wargroch’s surroundings, yet one with no discernible source. Rather than the smell of sweating ogres and hungry meredrakes, the soft scent of some herb wafted through the air. Titans did not tolerate the inherent odors of their people.
Five guards flanked the chamber. The colors and illumination played off their shining breastplates, giving the armed ogres a supernatural aura.
“Welcome, Wargroch,” said a voice speaking not Ogre, but perfect Common, the language used among the other, more “civilized” races for most dealings.
He went down on one knee. “Atolgus summons! Wargroch comes!”
Intent as he had been on other things, including the protection of his own hide, the Blödian had not yet looked directly at Atolgus. It was far more important to show homage by gazing at the floor as he bent down onto his knee.
Wargroch looked and gasped.
Atolgus was taller yet, a good foot taller than just the other day. Moreover, his features had become less ogre and more Titan. However, that was not the most startling development.
His eyes were not only gold, but they were without pupils.
There was no trace of the old Atolgus anymore. His face looked like that of some unique elf. He did not yet resemble a Titan, but surely that was only a matter of time.
The Titans’ warlord sat upon a throne that resembled a great, taloned hand thrusting out from the floor. The “fingers” were spread out as if grasping at the occupant.
Atolgus grinned. When he did so, his resemblance to an elf faded and the Titan in him grew pronounced, for his teeth were nearly as sharp as those of the sorcerers.
“I am growing more like her every day!” he declared gleefully to the Blödian. “Soon we will be equals.”
The fo
rmer chieftain’s obsession with Morgada had grown with his constant physical change. Atolgus, though, could not see what was obvious to Wargroch: that he would never be more than a pawn to her.
So the Blödian said nothing. He desired to keep his head on his shoulders at all costs, and saying anything unpleasant to Atolgus or disagreeing with the warlord would not be prudent.
“The gifts of the Titans are truly astounding,” Wargroch finally uttered, for he knew that Atolgus expected his agreement. He knew Common as well as Atolgus did, for both had been granted that ability by the sorcerers. However, in Wargroch’s case, the Blödian had already achieved a fair grasp of the language before Safrag’s rise to power because it was widely known that Golgren favored those who could better speak the language. Safrag had merely enhanced the warrior’s skill.
Common was used instead of Ogre for a different reason than the one initially decreed by the half-breed, however. The Titans cared even less for the barking, grunting language of their people, a poor shade of the elegant communication skills of ancient times. Better to hear Common than that babble. Besides, when all were transformed into the new race, it would be the glorious tongue of the Titans they spoke … or rather sang.
Wargroch grunted. Perhaps that was why he had been summoned. Perhaps the time was finally approaching.
Instead, Atolgus said, “The Shok G’Ran. The Titans would know of them.”
It was all that the Blödian could do to maintain an indifferent expression. “What would they know from Wargroch?”
Atolgus rose. He still wore the cloth, metal-tipped kilt of a warrior, but he had disposed of the shining breastplate first given to him in service to Golgren. It simply no longer fit. Wargroch wore his full uniform plus a helmet clamped on his squat head.
The warlord reached to his left side and drew a long, well-crafted sword with gems in the hilt. The weapon had once belonged to Golgren, who had gifted it to Wargroch after the warrior had proven his loyalty to the half-breed. Wargroch, in turn, had given it to Atolgus upon the triumph of the capital’s takeover. In fact, the blade that the Blödian wore at his side had been awarded to him in exchange by the imposing Atolgus.
The Gargoyle King Page 3
