The Fire Rose ot-2

by Richard A. Knaak

  Chasm eagerly nodded agreement. Stefan looked with fresh eyes upon the tall mage. “You are more and more surprising to me,” he said to Tyranos, adding, “For one of your kind to take on-”

  The staff was suddenly thrust under the Solamnian’s nose. From where he squatted, Chasm gave a threatening hiss at the knight as the mage spoke between clenched teeth.

  “I am my own. I do what I do. We’ll speak no more of ‘my kind,’ right?”

  “Not until you wish to speak of it, no.”

  With some frustration, Tyranos snapped, “I’ll never wish to speak about it with you, damned cleric-” He broke off, staring past Stefan at the gargoyle. “What the devil’s the matter with you?”

  Chasm was shaking his head as if trying to rid it of some inner noise or pain. The winged creature snorted, leaned forward, and all but rubbed his forehead against the ground.

  “Stop that!” commanded the wizard. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Head hurts! Feels … Feels strange …”

  Thrusting his staff forward, Tyranos studied the area just beyond and surrounding the gargoyle. A grin spread across his face. He tapped the crystal tip on Chasm’s head. The gargoyle flashed bright for a moment, and the creature’s face calmed.

  “What is it, Tyranos?”

  “As you already know, gargoyles can often sense the presence of magic. Not all flocks, but some. Trust me, I’ve made a very thorough study. Chasm is more sensitive than most. And I do believe he’s found the area we’ve been seeking.”

  The cleric looked around at the nearby landscape. “So we just have to find a passage.” Stefan added, “Odd that the master of so many gargoyles couldn’t also find it so readily.”

  “As I said, Chasm is more sensitive. Unique, actually. That’s why I was forced to shield his mind a little.”

  The Solamnian said nothing further, but continued to look around intently as the trio slowly moved along, deeper into the mysterious mountain terrain. Chasm hopped ahead, sometimes on all fours, other times just on his legs. The gargoyle sniffed the air, whether for the presence of more magic or others of his ilk, Stefan had no idea; the mage did not deign to illuminate him.

  “You’ve been following the trail for a long time,” the cleric said to the mage in a low voice, as they climbed steadily.

  “I thought we’d already agreed on that. What of it?”

  The knight shrugged. “I was merely curious what you hoped to do with the Fire Rose.”

  “And you’ll remain that way: curious. Your patron chose to have you help me. As a cleric, you shouldn’t need to ask more.”

  The answer did not aggravate Stefan, but rather made him chuckle. That, in turn, caused Tyranos to glance at his companion in irritation.

  Suddenly Chasm stopped. The gargoyle hissed and began running in a circle.

  Tyranos ordered him to stop, and stepped into the center of what had been his servant’s circle of running. To his right began the gradual rise of another peak. To the left and ahead, a narrowing path led to a jagged gap between high rocks.

  “You see or sense anything, cleric?”

  “Nothing.”

  The wizard snorted. “By our reasoning, we should almost be on top of whatever is supposed to lead us to the Grand Khan and the artifact.” He held the staff forward. “Tivak!”

  The strands of silver energy crackled above them and about the area. Tyranos quickly whirled, scanning the vicinity with the aid of his staff.

  A moment later, he dismissed the magic, however. Turning to Stefan, he growled, “As you say, nothing! Absolutely-”

  A golden bubble swept up out of the ground, passing through the hard earth like a phantom. It rose high, swelling in volume at the same time.

  It also swallowed up Tyranos.

  “No!” Stefan shouted, reaching to grab for the wizard. But the cleric had been too slow to react. As fast as the bubble materialized, it sank back down into the ground and vanished, taking the unsuspecting spellcaster wherever it went.

  And leaving Stefan and Chasm.

  The gargoyle immediately pounced on the spot, scrabbling desperately, trying to dig through the hard rock with his thick claws. The cleric stepped up next to him, thinking furiously.

  From the direction of the shadowed castle came the sound of flapping wings. Many flapping wings.

  The knight turned in that direction. He readied his sword.

  Powerful paws grabbed him under his arms. Before Stefan knew what was happening, Chasm had lifted him up and was carrying the fully armored human through the air. Tyranos’s winged servant veered away from the rising sound of a monstrous flock.

  And as the gargoyle bore him away, all Stefan could do was stare at the ground below, where the spellcaster had disappeared.

  Stare and pray to his patron.

  The guards wasted no time rushing to the palace, with fear as much as duty pressing them urgently. At their head ran the captain on duty, an ogre warrior certain that he was about to lose his head, or worse.

  They arrived to find an oddly contemplative Wargroch peering out over Garantha from one of the many balconies that were favored by Golgren. The bulky ogre did not even turn around when his own guards presented the four warriors to him, instead seeming to find something of interest far, far away.

  The captain gestured his underlings down on their knees and waited. When Wargroch finally turned to acknowledge them, the kneeling officer banged his fist on his breastplate and waited for permission to speak.

  “You I know,” Wargroch muttered. “You are assigned to the stockades.”

  The other ogre swallowed. On the one hand, it was good for those most favored by the Grand Khan to know their subordinates. However, under the present circumstances, the stockade officer would have preferred Wargroch’s complete ignorance. If the Grand Khan’s chief aide knew him, that meant he had marked him-perhaps as one having potential, perhaps for another, more dubious reason. What the captain had come to tell Wargroch would almost certainly endanger his standing, as well as his life.

  “I am in charge of the stockades, yes, Khan Wargroch,” the captain answered in his best Common.

  “I am no khan,” Nagroch’s brother corrected him brusquely. “Commander, yes, but no khan.”

  “Commander,” the captain acknowledged crisply. “Great commander, there has been terrible-Skee anoch-magic!”

  “What magic?”

  “The forest dwellers gone! All gone!”

  The officer described matters as best he could. Both his incomplete knowledge of Common and his confusion about the event forced him to take longer than he would have liked. He had just come on duty and had been setting the guards in place, he explained. The captives had been placid, more manageable than a herd of goats. They had been fed not all that long ago, and so the captain had not had to concern himself with that job.

  Since being assigned to the great pen, the elves and their ogre guards had come to a silent understanding. The elves had realized their fates rested in the hands of the Grand Khan. No one wanted to offend Golgren. The elves were generally submissive because they preferred to nurture their faint hopes for freedom, and the ogre guards were generally tolerant, without anxiety about their captives’ welfare or escape. Neither side fully understood the intentions of the Grand Khan.

  So the changing of the guards was ceremonial, almost tedious, usually. The officer made certain everyone was at their post, and proceeded to prepare for the next shift.

  Barely an hour had passed when there came shouts from not just one guard, but several under his command. The officer had come running up the wooden walkway to the top of the stockade to see what had alarmed his guards, the captain reported, only to discover some of them were actually shivering.

  He had reached for the nearest, intending to shake the story out of him, when his gaze had drifted down into the stockade’s interior.

  An empty interior.

  At that point, Wargroch angrily cut the captain off. “Go
ne? All elves are gone?”

  “Ke-Yes! All! Much magic!” the guard officer hesitated before growling, “Titans, maybe.”

  Mention of the sorcerers brought a hiss from the Grand Khan’s pet meredrake, which was curled up in its customary spot on one side of the chamber. Wargroch let out a similar hiss, and looked as if he were ready to strike the ogre officer giving his report. However, he finally lowered his hand, turning to the warriors behind the captain. “All true? No sign of escape?”

  They shook their heads. One dared answer, “Gates bolted. Meredrakes all around.” Golgren had commanded that handlers with the giant reptiles should patrol the perimeter around the wooden structure at all hours. Not so much because he thought the elves might try to escape, but to stop his own people if they were tempted to show their hatred for the forest dwellers by rushing the stockade to burn it down. “And bows above to watch all,” the warrior added.

  The archers were another precaution which Khleeg had suggested to the Grand Khan. More than two dozen archers stood atop the roofs of the nearest structures surrounding the stockade. Golgren had emphasized to Khleeg and Wargroch that the slaves were vital to his planned deal with the Solamnians.

  Wargroch’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly.

  “Magic,” he finally agreed with the stockade officer. “Titan magic, maybe.” He waved away the captain and the others. “Go!”

  Surprised, but also pleased not to have been rewarded with their heads rolling around on the floor, the captain and his staff rose to bowing positions and backed out of the chamber. As they departed, Wargroch ground his yellowed teeth in thought.

  “Safrag,” he finally muttered.

  Safrag was on the minds of the Titans too, for their leader had been absent far longer than any of them had anticipated. Morgada urged the others to be patient, aware that more than one was already measuring their future against hers.

  Their long-checked attitude toward her being only female couldn’t be tamped down for long. Even the pair who had assisted her with the spell transporting the elves to the sanctum acted as if she had been of little importance to the accomplishment; she had only been the conduit for Safrag’s magic.

  But Morgada was used to the others belittling and underestimating her; so did Safrag himself. Safrag thought he was more clever than Dauroth, whom she had bewitched first. True, Safrag’s cunning coup over the master had caught Morgada by surprise. But the dim-witted Safrag had chosen her to be his apprentice, and all had gone as the female Titan had planned.

  Morgada just needed a little time. And, if truth be told, she needed to know just what had happened to Safrag.

  She entered the private quarters that her status as apprentice to the master granted her. To the unwary eye, the stone walls of the room were just that. Only she and Safrag knew where the doorway lay and how to find the entrance.

  The temptress smiled. Safrag had opened the way almost as many times as she had since he had taken over as the Titans’ leader, but only because she had allowed him to. There were times unbeknownst to him that, had he sought entrance, he would have been blocked without her secret acquiescence to his spell.

  Morgada drew her personal mark and another secret mark just for that purpose. Safrag knew of a third mark, the one between her and him, which he thought she used to keep others from entering. Actually, without her two marks, once sealed, the door would admit no one. Not even Safrag, should he return suddenly.

  The wall rippled. The gray, rough stone became like water, yet retained its solid appearance to all ignorant of the spell.

  The female Titan stepped into the watery stone. The wall wrapped around her like honey, yet it did not cling to her as she passed through. Her hands broke through first, followed by one foot and her beautiful face.

  Once inside, Morgada turned and drew the second symbol again. The wall inside her quarters solidified as normal.

  With a satisfied smile, she gazed upon her pleasant chamber. It was both home and workplace. There was a squat, wooden chest in which she stored mundane matters, and a bookshelf upon which scrolls and tomes were stacked. There was no window, but a slight current of air wafted across her face anyway. Magic, of course, kept all the inner chambers in the vast citadel from becoming too stifling.

  A silver platter of fruit and raw amalok meat lay on a black, wooden table to her right. Next to the black table was the open space where one might have expected a bed of some sort. However, as a Titan, Morgada did not rest as lesser ogres, elves, or humans did. Instead, on the floor of that space was a pattern of stars surrounded by a circle through which four dagger strokes had been etched. It was a pattern that could be found in each of the chambers used by the Black Talon, a pattern that served both to restrengthen and refresh their bodies and minds.

  As for the female Titan, it held one more secret use.

  She summoned a thick cut of the raw amalok meat from the silver platter on the black table-the fare she really preferred was not available to her. With savage gusto, Morgada tore into the morsel. Her powerful teeth ripped through the flesh, blood splattering both her face and robes. Almost like an animal, she devoured the meat, leaving not a single trace.

  When she was done, the sorceress slowly licked her fingers, tasting a bit of the blood that had lingered on her lips because she had allowed it to. Running her open hand over her face and garments, Morgada magically removed all other stains.

  Once again immaculate, the temptress strode over to the patterned floor. The short meal had been for more than merely sustenance. She needed extra strength, for it was not rest she intended to seek from the pattern.

  Turning her back to the black table, she crossed her arms over her chest and lay back toward the floor. Her body softly tilted as if were connected to puppet strings. Midway down in its sloping angle, her feet and legs rose into the air. Morgada lay floating over the pattern, her rigid body more than two feet above the floor.

  As she stilled, the pattern below her flared a blazing blue. Its radiant light shone upward to bathe her.

  One hand moved over her heart, drawing an arched symbol not taught to her by any Titan. The pattern’s illumination shifted, growing so dark that it looked more black than blue.

  Her eyes had been open thus far, but Morgada shut them. Her perfect, full black lips parted slightly as she breathed a single word.

  “Xiryn.”

  And in her head, a voice that gave no hint of being male or female whispered, I hear you.

  XIX

  TO POSSESS THE ROSE

  Is that better? asked the voice, its intensity causing Golgren’s head to burn more fiercely than his flesh. He felt Idaria slump next to him and knew that she suffered the heat too.

  “Ah! So tender! Forgive me again.”

  The voice had become a true voice, but each syllable still struck with heat and force in the Grand Khan’s ears.

  At least the heat was tolerable. Continuing to follow the elf’s warning, Golgren looked just below the imposing figure’s eyes. Sirrion-if indeed it was the god-stood just a little taller than Golgren, although clearly that was by choice, not by nature. The half-breed recalled widespread tales of Faros Es-Kalin’s supposed encounter with Sargonnas, and how it was said the god had the ability to appear in more than one shape or size. Sirrion could no doubt make himself look as mighty as a giant, or tinier than a gully dwarf.

  “Born of elf and ogre, an impossible mix, an improbable mix. Well, to most,” Sirrion declared with some solemn humor. “And bearing the child of mine pleaded for by the High Ogres.” Golgren thought he detected a chuckle.

  Golgren suddenly recalled the Fire Rose. He held it reverently toward the god. “It is yours?”

  “Did I speak of any desire for it?” the fiery figure suddenly roared. “If I demand it, you will give it to me. There is no mistake!”

  Flames erupted around the god. The heat once again grew suffocating.

  Golgren, who had faced down all manner of beasts, mino-taurs, Nerakans, and, of co
urse, the dread Titans, bowed low. “Forgive this humble one, oh god of fire. Never would I presume to know better than you what you desire.”

  “There’s no need to apologize,” Sirrion responded, the fury with which the deity had just spoken utterly gone, and with it the terrible flames and heat. “But that is your choice, of course!”

  Golgren dipped his head again. Sirrion was very much like the incarnation of his element. Volatile.

  The god peered at them, his eyes shifting from the Grand Khan to the elf. “Branchala’s love. Another interesting blending! I find such change stirring!”

  The flames returned, albeit in a more subdued fashion. They seemed to reflect whatever level of emotion Sirrion was feeling.

  “Great is Sirrion,” Idaria said of a sudden. “For without fire, there would be no civilization.”

  “So very true! And do you like my little flower, Grand Khan of all ogres? Does its sweet scent of possibility entice you? It did for those who begged it of me so long ago.”

  “The Fire Rose is … glorious.”

  Sirrion grinned. “Glorious or monstrous, the choice is yours! The choice always is all of yours.” “All of ours?”

  “Oh, there are many coveting the prize, including one coming nearer by the moment! He seems very, very eager! How would he wield the Fire Rose, do you think? I’d be fascinated to watch.” The god of fire had started to raise his hand toward Golgren and the Fire Rose, but lowered it again. “But that would be against what has been set in motion!”

  Despite the danger of stirring Sirrion’s anger, the half-breed dared ask, “What is set in motion?”

  The deity spread his arms wide. The flames grew stronger, hotter. “So much, so much! Ah, how long I’ve sat back and watched, when the world constantly cried for change!” He looked at Golgren, who barely managed to keep his own gaze from being trapped again. “You are set in motion, child of elf and ogre! For evil and ill, for good and fortune, you and others are set in motion! Krynn has grown, and in growth some things must give way, some things must grow stronger! You and they choose that my flower blooms again, after being buried for so long.”