The Gargoyle King

by Richard A. Knaak

  “They would know from the general of my armies if he would choose to be warlord of Solamnia.”

  The suggestion was so unexpected that Wargroch could only gape. Warlord of Solamnia?

  Golgren’s sword was extended upward in Atolgus’s hands. Wargroch slowly moved forward. Yet it was not death that Atolgus offered to him; it was a role as astounding to Wargroch as the power Safrag wielded in the crystalline artifact.

  “We are to eclipse our ancestors, the High Ogres, Wargroch. We are to offer the golden age not to merely our own kind, but to also the lesser races.”

  “To all?” Wargroch managed to gasp as he knelt again, that time under the raised weapon.

  The warlord cut the air just above the Blödian’s head then brought the tip to Wargroch’s left cheek, touching just enough to draw a single drop of blood from the flesh. It was an ancient ogre anointing ritual. Wargroch had just been promoted, his loyalty to Atolgus and the Titans marked by the drop of blood.

  “It will be offered to all—humans, dwarves, Uruv Suurt, and even elves. They will know the great wonder of Titan rule.”

  Titan rule. Not ogre or High Ogre rule. Wargroch noted that distinction.

  “And they will all be made new?”

  “As she and Safrag see fit.” Atolgus lowered the tip of the crimson-touched blade to Wargroch’s mouth.

  Wargroch kissed the bloodied area, the traditional gesture of acceptance and gratitude for the tremendous honor his superior had granted him. Atolgus then sheathed the sword. He reached out and seized the other ogre by the shoulders, raising Wargroch up again.

  And as Atolgus’s fingers clutched him, the Blödian felt the coarse fur on his body tremble and spark as though some terrible lightning storm swept through the chamber.

  “This is the first of many rewards, loyal Wargroch. She promises that.”

  Atolgus’s Titan eyes glowed.

  To his credit, Wargroch did not flinch, buth rather steeled himself. When Atolgus released him, the Blödian did not even exhale in relief. He pounded his fist against his chest in formal salute.

  “How soon?” he rumbled, referring to the action he was supposed to take against Solamnia.

  “Very soon,” was all Atolgus would reply.

  The future warlord nodded. Keeping his head low and his fist on his chest, he backed out of the chamber. Under his thick brow, his gaze remained on Atolgus. The warlord had once more seated himself with a gaze of longing and devotion. If there was nothing physically left of the chieftain he once knew, Wargroch saw that there was also very little remaining of that which had been Atolgus’s old spirit. What sat on the throne was entirely subservient to the desires of the female Titan.

  The doors shut of their own accord again. Wargroch straightened. He gave the guard handling the meredrake a sharp look, and the other ogre showed more respect. With the doors open, the guard had heard of Wargroch’s impending glory. Like Atolgus, Wargroch was clearly favored by the Titans.

  Paying the guard no further mind, the Blödian strode on as if headed to another important meeting. Instead, though, his mind raced. Two things bothered Wargroch, indeed warred within him. One was the honor the sorcerers had bestowed upon him through the changed and changing Atolgus. He was to be ruler of all Solamnia. He was to have a rank almost as great as Atolgus himself.

  The hardened warrior finally shivered. An image of himself as Atolgus, as Atolgus had become, disturbed him and would not leave his thoughts.

  But while the possible promise of his own transformation set Wargroch ill at ease, it was further compounded by a second concern, concern over a pouch delivered by messenger to Golgren just prior to the seizure of Garantha. Golgren had been absent, so Wargroch, left to guard the capital, had naturally taken the message from the ogre courier.

  And though it would have made sense for Wargroch to turn the pouch over to Atolgus or the Titans, he had, for some inexplicable reason, kept it to himself, burying it in a safe place just beyond the city walls. Considering the Titans’ constant alteration of the capital, that choice was fortunate.

  The only other soul who knew of its existence—the original courier—would not betray him. Wargroch had taken it upon himself to kill that ogre. He had decided to keep the pouch’s existence a secret. At the time, he had not known why he had acted so out of character, merely that he felt impelled.

  It was a decision that, if discovered, would mean an awful fate for him. Wargroch had fought bravely in many a battle and slain many a foe, but he had placed his fate in the contents of a pouch that had, though he had not realized it immediately, planted the first seed of the doubts that assailed him constantly.

  It was a pouch with Solamnic markings.

  III

  MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD

  The moment that he felt solid ground beneath his feet, Golgren tore himself free from Tyranos.

  “Return me to the citadel,” he demanded of the wizard in a low growl.

  “That doesn’t seem like a good idea to me just now,” Tyranos returned with equal vehemence. He glanced around, also furious, but for another reason. “We’re still in the damned mountains! We should be beyond them!”

  “Good.”

  The brawny spellcaster snorted. “Oh, not good at all! His power’s strong here, and if he seizes you, he’ll be stronger yet!”

  His comment briefly distracted Golgren from his own ire. “Speak more plainly … if you can.”

  Tyranos did not look at all willing to give explanations. “First we leave; then we talk.”

  The crystal on the staff glowed. Tyranos reached for the half-breed.

  Golgren dodged him. The deposed Grand Khan readied himself to fight hand to hand with the human, aware that Tyranos was one person who might be wily and strong enough to defeat him.

  “This is hardly the place for this foolery!” the hooded wizard snapped. He pointed the crystal at Golgren.

  The half-breed started to move but halted as he caught sight of a figure who had materialized beyond Tyranos. The armor alone, with its silver sheen and intricate sword symbol on the breastplate, would have been enough to identify the newcomer even if the face of the figure were not somehow visible despite the gloom. The proud face with the short beard running around the chin and jaws was uncommon among Solamnics, who tended toward thick mustaches. There was only one Knight of Solamnia whom Golgren knew who wore his facial hair in that fashion.

  “Sir Stefan Rennert?” he whispered.

  Tyranos faltered. He spun around and looked where his reluctant companion was staring. “Rennert?”

  But there was no one standing there. Golgren’s eyes narrowed.

  “That was a juvenile trick, well beneath you, oh Grand Khan,” the wizard began as he slowly turned back. However, upon noting Golgren’s bewildered expression, Tyranos paused. “Or was it?”

  Golgren stepped past Tyranos to better see where the knight had supposedly been standing. However, it was exceedingly obvious that no one was there.

  “You’re not one to imagine things,” the spellcaster went on. “And that cleric does have a tendency to pop up when least expected.”

  “Cleric?”

  “Ah, that’s right! You don’t know. Our friend became a cleric of the bison-headed one.”

  That made Golgren’s eyes narrow further. “Kiri-Jolith?”

  The robed figure chuckled. “I see we share one thing in common, a particular distaste for meddling gods.” Tyranos paused. “Speaking of which, have you come across a more fiery one of late?”

  “I have.”

  The bluntness of the statement caused Tyranos to grimace. “Then it more than ever behooves us to leave this wretched place—”

  “No.”

  “Golgren—”

  Suddenly the half-breed darted past the wizard. Golgren recognized enough shadowy landmarks to know in which direction the citadel lay.

  Tyranos materialized in front of him. The spellcaster sounded exhausted but determined. “We are leaving.�
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  The two grappled.

  The staff flared.

  “What by the Kraken?” Tyranos barked, involuntarily letting Golgren know that it was no action of his.

  The pair vanished again and materialized a breath later in a place that the half-breed had never expected to see again.

  The eight desiccated figures sat around the long, wide table in the exact same poses in which Golgren had last observed them. Standing, each would have been about the height of the half-breed. They were evenly divided between male and female, not that the differences mattered much anymore, not after so many centuries dead. All were clad in dust-covered rags merely hinting at the rich green and blue that they once were.

  But the faded color of the ancients’ robes meant little in comparison to the obvious glint of gold remaining on the dried skin still wrapped tightly about their skulls. Golgren already knew who the eight were—what they had been long past—but for Tyranos their appearance was a shocking revelation.

  “High Ogres!” the wizard gasped, forgetting the half-breed. He pushed past Golgren to approach two of the corpses. Placing one hand on the iridescent pearl table, he leaned close to a male figure whose face still bore the remnants of a star tattoo under its right eye.

  “The lost nine.”

  “Except there are eight,” Golgren pointed out.

  “There should be nine,” the leonine Tyranos insisted. He studied the parchment skin, stared into the empty sockets. “The writing said the nine who fled …”

  Golgren momentarily lost interest in the citadel. He knew that place, that sanctum buried deep in a mountain of the chain that led to the Vale of Vipers. With Idaria, he had discovered it through an artifact—a signet ring—that Tyranos himself had bequeathed to the Grand Khan through the elf. The ring had led them along a trail through the mountains and beyond more than one magical portal to that very spot. Unfortunately at the time, they had also been pursued by dripping monstrosities and Safrag.

  “The signet brought me to this place once,” Golgren informed his companion without recounting the rest of the events involved.

  Tyranos looked up at him. “Did it now?” He frowned. “I brought it from the tomb of another of these.”

  “The ninth, perhaps?”

  “No. The death of that one came before then, but of course they must be bound in some manner to the tomb’s occupant. I remember an image of a beautiful female.”

  The wizard quickly glanced at the other corpse closest to him. After a moment, he impatiently shook his head and went to the next.

  At the long end of the table, Tyranos came to a halt. He stared at a withered figure. It was a female, and it still had long, flowing hair that when viewed close seemed to fluctuate between gold and silver. The long tresses draped well over her shoulders. Even after centuries, there was enough of her small nose, the curve of her cheekbones, to give some hint of what had once been an astoundingly beautiful face.

  “This was her. I know it though I could never recall her beauty perfectly. Yet this was her. She was their leader.”

  The half-breed’s brow furrowed. He indicated the male seated at the other end. Seven of the figures, including the female of whom Tyranos had been speaking, sat almost peaceably, as though they had simply passed away in their sleep.

  The same could not be said of the male, however. His expression was contorted, enraged, and a bit fearful.

  “What of him? Is he not the leader?”

  “Ogre prejudices against female rulers aside, while he was likely second among them, she would have been first.” Tyranos gazed off into the empty air. “I know her. I’ve seen her.”

  That information only slightly clouded Golgren’s previously conceived notions about the eight bodies. “It’s obvious he suffered his death differently than the others.”

  “And he’s also facing the direction from which I would guess someone might enter this place. Am I correct?” When Golgren nodded, Tyranos explained, “He saw their doom coming. The others perished utterly ignorant of it. A simple reasoning.”

  “Yet he knew who it was who brought their deaths,” the half-ogre added.

  “Hmm? How do you mean?”

  “It is in his face. He knew who was coming to slay and the betrayal involved.”

  Tyranos moved over to the High Ogre and peered at the macabre expression on the dead one’s face. “Be damned if I can see that, but it makes some sense, I suppose.” He rubbed his square jaw. “The ninth, perhaps?”

  While the wizard’s suggestion also made sense, Golgren shook his head. “I do not think so.”

  “Oh? And what makes you say that?”

  Golgren only shrugged, not as fascinated by the subject as Tyranos. He surveyed the chamber, eyeing the runes upon the wall, the arched ceiling. All was the same as he had last left it.

  Circling the table of the dead to reach Golgren, the wizard remarked, “I’ve never been here, but you have. Therefore, this has to do with you, as so much else does.”

  “You speak in many riddles, wizard,” Golgren returned. “So much else, you say? Enlighten me, please.”

  The sound of movement made both suddenly turn back to the table. The pair eyed the sinister tableau, but the cause of the sound did not reveal itself.

  Pointing the staff in the general direction of the table, the spellcaster growled, “I’ll say again, oh Grand Khan, that it’s by your doing somehow that we’re here! You may not be cognizant of how you are involved, but it’s true, nevertheless!”

  “I do not disagree about that.” Golgren frowned slightly. Something was different about the eight figures, he realized. Some very minor—yet it must be major—change.

  He focused on the male at the one end. When Golgren had last been there, that figure was wearing a talisman adorned by the griffon symbol. Golgren had removed the talisman, putting the object in Idaria’s care. He had not been certain if the piece was valuable but thought it best not to leave it behind. When he removed the talisman, the corpse had pitched forward, the top half of its broken body sprawling on the table.

  Only moments later, however, when Golgren had happened to look back at it, the figure had returned to its upright position.

  It remained that way, unchanged since that incident. Yet something about it burned in Golgren’s memory.

  “Just what are you doing now?”

  Ignoring the wizard, Golgren took a step closer to the male corpse, studying it intently.

  He realized what was different. One hand was pointing toward the opposite end of the table. That had not been the case before.

  And at that end sat the female whom Tyranos had spoken of as the true leader of that desperate pack of ancient spellcasters.

  There was something different in her pose, too, Golgren noticed as he stared at her. But he could not place it. He wended his way over to the second corpse, while Tyranos impatiently but silently watched.

  Golgren had not paid as much mind to the female corpse as he had the male, and so it was more difficult to decide what had altered. As the wizard offered no advice or comment, Golgren knew that Tyranos had not noticed anything amiss.

  He leaned with his one hand on the shimmering table as he peered closely at the face. He could see that she had been outwardly beautiful, far more so than an ogre and, yes, even Idaria.

  Then something flickered in the High Ogre’s eyes.

  A startled grunt escaped Golgren before he realized that he had imagined it. The eye sockets were as empty as those of her companions. Only darkness stared out from them. Only—

  A beautiful pair of eyes the color of the sun met his own. They were different than those of the Titans, for in them there resided life, love, and hope, not utter arrogance and domination.

  It happened so quickly and without warning that the half-breed instinctively pulled back—or tried to. Something secured his hand to the table, anchoring it there no matter how hard he tried to pull it free.

  A hand barely covered in cracking skin clutc
hed his own—her hand.

  Golgren looked back into the dead one’s eyes only to discover that the sockets were dark and lifeless again.

  The pressure on his hand ceased. He glanced down and discovered that the High Ogre’s hand again rested on the table, where it had been earlier.

  “What happened?” Tyranos broke in from behind him. “Did you see something?”

  The questions clearly indicated that the wizard had not experienced the same startling thing. Golgren bared his teeth at the mysterious corpse, and only then did he notice that there was something beneath his palm. He scooped it up.

  It was a signet ring. The very same signet ring that the half-breed had last witnessed sinking into the earth during his struggles with Safrag over the Fire Rose, in the chamber where the dead High Ogres had secreted it.

  There could be no mistaking the artifact. It was circular, with a rune resembling a double-bladed sword with the point down at the center. Above the weapon arced a half-circle, and below the sharp point lay a symbol that reminded Golgren of flames. However, the design alone did not tell him that was the very same signet. No, that was a sense, a feeling, that coursed through him as he gripped it. Yes, to be sure, it was the lost artifact returned to him.

  To him. As Golgren savored that thought, he sensed the spellcaster approaching.

  With great dexterity, Golgren manipulated the ring onto his finger just as Tyranos reached for it.

  “You’ve no need of that, anymore.”

  Golgren nodded toward the female High Ogre. “She believes otherwise, wizard.”

  Tyranos snorted. “That thing nearly cost you your life before!”

  “And saved it many times over.” The half-breed pretended to admire the artifact’s beauty. “It is a gift I will accept.”

  The two stood frozen at the edge of struggle. Tyranos had the staff pointed at his supposed ally. Golgren kept the signet facing the robed figure.