The Gargoyle King ot-3

by Richard A. Knaak

  But all that mattered not. Golgren had departed before the pouch had arrived; then, according to Atolgus, the Grand Khan had been slain by Safrag’s sorcery. The most valuable treasure in the world could have been in the pouch, and it would not change the fact that the Titans ruled the ogre realm and would soon leave their mark on all Krynn.

  Nor could an offer of negotiations by the Solamnics concerning a cessation of hostilities and a potential pact against the Uruv Suurt change that reality either.

  As tall as Golgren, which made them roughly two feet shorter than full-blooded ogres, the Uruv Suurt greatly resembled him in the design of their bodies, save that instead of the coarse, ogre hair they had fine coats of varying shades of brown, black, and on the rare occasion red or white. However, their coats were not the most startling factor to outsiders. No, that had to do with their heads.

  Whether male or female, Uruv Suurt-minotaurs-had heads very akin to those of bulls.

  Faros was, by the standards of his people, handsome. His muzzle was sleek, and his eyes penetrating … so penetrating, in fact, that it looked as if they desired to literally skewer the half-breed.

  Golgren reached toward the minotaur emperor.

  “Betrayal!” roared one of the nearest guards. He and a companion thrust themselves ahead of Faros and attacked the two intruders.

  The wizard used his staff to stop his foe’s attack then struck the Uruv Suurt under the muzzle. At the same time, Golgren let his own adversary’s weapon shoot past him. He then drove the stump that was his other arm-considered so little a threat by most of his enemies-into the guard’s unprotected throat.

  “Stop!” commanded Faros.

  The two guards stumbled back; the one Golgren had struck was still clutching his throat and coughing.

  “The Grand Khan Golgren …” The tall, brown minotaur stepped in front of his soldiers, almost within reach of the half-breed. Although the horned figure also wore a breastplate and kilt like his followers-save that the condor on his breastplate was lined by a pattern of tiny, interlinking axes and swords-his uniform did not completely obscure the many horrific scars the ruler bore from head to foot. Even the muzzle and face had not been left unblemished, though those scars were mostly due to battle. The majority of those on the body were due to slavery, first at the hands of his own people then under the ogres.

  “The Grand Khan Golgren …” Dark brown eyes narrowed as they surveyed the half-breed. “Or is it the former Grand Khan? We’ve heard much of late.”

  “And I hear of Uruv Suurt marching north into the province of Blode.” Golgren waved aside the disrespectful comments. “But I come not to discuss these trivial matters.”

  “You should be discussing what reason there is for letting you keep your head,” a female voice added. From behind Faros emerged the occupant of the other throne. Her tone bore even more malice toward Golgren than that of Faros.

  “Maritia.” The half-breed bowed. “It is a pleasure to be in your fair presence again.”

  The female Uruv Suurt had a less pronounced muzzle and horns only half as long as the two-foot ones of her mate. Her body was more graceful than that of Faros and very much akin, despite the smooth, brown fur, to that of a human or elf female. However, it was a mistake to think she was not as capable in battle as the emperor. Indeed, for a time, she had led the empire’s forces in Ambeon and had even been allied with Golgren against her future mate. But she desired his death more than Faros did, for, at the behest of her mother and eldest sibling, Golgren had imprisoned her and seen to the death of her favored brother, Bastion.

  “You’ll find the company of a hungry pack of meredrakes more pleasant if you don’t give us a reason to keep you alive,” she retorted.

  “Speak faster,” Tyranos muttered, unusually subdued around the minotaurs. “And wisely.”

  “You travel with humans now?” Faros asked, studying the wizard. “A spellcaster, of course. Golgren no longer has your mother to protect him, Maritia.”

  Once Maritia had been devoted to her parents, but in the end, she had learned that the Lady Nephera, high priestess of the Forerunner cult, had not only been instrumental in Bastion’s murder, but had used sorcery to cause the death of the Emperor Hotak, Nephera’s mate and Maritia’s father. Maritia had been there when the god Sargonnas, through Faros, had finally delivered unto Nephera final justice, letting the power of her own patron-Morgion, god of disease and corruption-slowly and horribly slay her.

  Tyranos’s grip on the staff tightened as the guards stared at him with renewed interest. He said nothing.

  “He is of no consequence to you,” Golgren replied to the emperor. “Less than nothing, though useful. It is I to whom all responsibility falls, yes? And it is I to whom you must speak for the sake of all Uruv Suurt.”

  “I never know just where your limits of Common begin and end,” Faros muttered. “Nor where the limits of your conniving end either, but this should at least be entertaining. We can always kill you afterward.”

  “Don’t listen!” Maritia urged. “That one’s already talked himself out of too many deaths.”

  “He’ll speak true. He knows he has to with me.” To emphasize his words, Faros tapped the half-breed’s chest with the tip of his sword right where the half-ogre’s mummified hand hung. The same hand that Faros himself had removed when still an escaped slave leading a revolt. “Still carrying it, I see.”

  “Always, Faros Es-Kalin.”

  “Wise.” The emperor waved back the guards. “Resume your places-no-better yet leave us.”

  “My lord, we should not go,” growled one soldier, who bore a helmet and cloak that marked him as an officer.

  “Rest easy, dekarian. I know this one’s tricks. We’ll be fine … that is, if we can trust your pet wizard, Golgren.”

  That infuriated Tyranos. “By the Kraken! I’m nobody’s pet or slave.”

  Faros’s brow furrowed. He stared at Tyranos, whose eyes blazed.

  “Keep your word and you’ll have no trouble from me,” the spellcaster finally murmured.

  Faros nodded, seeming to take the wizard’s word far more readily than Golgren’s. To his nemesis, the emperor said, “And now? Will you tell us why you’ve committed this madness?”

  The half-breed grinned coldly. “Your legionaries, they do not appear to obey you very readily.”

  Faros looked over his shoulder to where the dekarian and other soldiers stood near two high, bronze doors bearing the condor symbol. The emperor did not look pleased with his followers. “I ordered you away!”

  “My lord! It is Golgren!” the officer persisted. “You yourself have placed a price on his head matched by no other enemy of the state! His description”-the dekarian pointed his sword toward the maimed stump-“has been committed to memory by every legionary! All know his connection to the Lady Nephera and her foul scion, Ardnor-begging your pardon, my lady!”

  Maritia wore an expression of distaste, but it was not meant for the officer. There had been little familial care between her and Nephera’s eldest. He had been his mother’s son-a monstrous creature of the darkness, willing to serve the god Morgion. “No offense taken, dekarian, but do as your emperor commands.” Her hand went to her own sword. “We have the situation well in hand.”

  There was no arguing with the reputations of the imperial pair. The guards retreated from the chamber.

  There stood but the four-or perhaps three as Tyranos appeared not at all eager to be a part of the conversation. He stepped to the far corner, never taking his eyes off the trio. One hand loosely held the staff, the other was turned fingers down and open palm toward the minotaurs.

  “You know our ancient sign of parley,” Maritia noted with a hint of approval. “Even most of our own no longer recall it.”

  “I have no hidden intentions,” the wizard snapped back.

  The empress shrugged; her interest returned to Golgren. There had been rumors the grand lord had once been fascinated by her, despite their great diff
erences. The female Uruv Suurt had never returned his affection; her loathing for her former ally was well-displayed in her narrowing eyes and slightly flaring nostrils. “Well, Golgren? What is it you want this time? The removal of our legions from your southern lands?”

  “In time, yes, but they are convenient where they are. The quicker to send them to where I desire.”

  Faros laughed. “Where you desire? Are you now emperor?”

  “No,” responded the half-breed with a slight bow, “but I will save your empire.”

  Both minotaurs glared. Faros exchanged glances with his mate then rumbled, “And in what manner will you save us? This should be entertaining.”

  “Why, I will save you from the Titans, naturally.”

  Despite attempting to appear otherwise, the mention of the sorcerers clearly disturbed the imperial couple. Nostrils flaring, Faros rubbed the underside of his muzzle. “And of what concern are the Titans to us?”

  “The emperor is no fool,” Golgren baldly stated, absently touching his severed hand, “and should not treat me so. The Uruv Suurt, they deal with a warlord who is the puppet of the Titans. You know this, of course?”

  “We had some gleaning of that just recently,” Faros admitted. “We have just learned of this Atolgus.”

  At mention of Atolgus’s name, Golgren’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly. There was no saving the young chieftain; Golgren considered him only another enemy.

  “What does it matter?” Maritia snapped. “Better to let the ogres feud among themselves, and in the end there will be less of them!”

  The emperor shook his head at his mate. “You know that you don’t believe what you are saying. You know that we were discussing this … situation … only yesterday.”

  Maritia’s expression indicated that what they chose to discuss in private was hardly a matter to be brought up before the hated half-breed.

  “Your spies,” Golgren corrected, “were misled. The Titans are very good at misleading.”

  “It seems a common ogre trait,” Maritia countered.

  In response, the deposed Grand Khan went down on one knee. He bent his head low and extended his hand and the maimed limb to the sides.

  “My life is my bond in this,” he stated solemnly. “All I speak will be truth, and all which I agree to will stand, or my spirit will walk with both hands severed.”

  Faros gripped the hilt of his weapon. “I know that oath. There were ogres who followed me from Sahd’s work camp who uttered that oath, although not with such flair of words.” Again, he rubbed the underside of his muzzle. “Sargonnas take me for a fool, but I’ll grant you at least the chance to speak.”

  Maritia reluctantly nodded. She respected Faros’s opinion on that point, even if the giver of the oath was Golgren.

  “Atolgus is the puppet of the Titans; he has given the capital to them and, thus, all of Golthuu.”

  “Golthuu.” The emperor chuckled. “‘The Dream of Golgren.’”

  Ignoring the mockery, the half-breed went on. “The Uruv Suurt are useful now to the Titans, for they keep my loyal warriors at bay. The offer no doubt was that all southern lands were to be given to the empire, yes?”

  “To create a better buffer for Ambeon,” Faros answered, referring to the minotaurs’ mainland colony and the former elf homeland of Silvanost. The realm had been taken by the forces of Hotak, but Faros had deemed keeping them invaluable to his race.

  “But the Titans, once they do not need you, you will follow me to doom. They will take the empire, and they will make the Uruv Suurt once more the slaves of the ogre race.”

  That last brought a look of intense bitterness to Faros’s gaze. The worst fate for his people-even worse than being the slaves of humans-would be a return to enslavement under the ogres. There was no other race that drew such enmity from the horned warriors. The ogres had been the taskmasters of old.

  “Never again,” growled Maritia. “Never again.”

  Her mate nodded. “We are speaking of powerful sorcerers, though-”

  “And more powerful yet,” Golgren interjected. “For they have that which the god Sirrion fashioned, a thing to give them power over all change.”

  “And we have you, not a very good balance. We’ll fight them, though we know we’ll lose. We have no spellcasters. There is no honor in such.”

  Golgren tossed Tyranos a wicked grin. “No.”

  The wizard glared at them all but otherwise kept silent.

  “You don’t offer us much,” the empress pointed out. “Yourself and this … this human. What do you expect in return for that?”

  The half-breed’s face was all innocence. “I expect the Uruv Suurt to continue to march into Golthuu.”

  Faros snorted. “When we knowingly face the Titans? You wish us to create a distraction for them while you try to regain your realm! You want legionaries to give their lives all for your sake!”

  Golgren replied evenly, “You already make incursions, and soon those legions will be set upon by the Titans and your false ally, Atolgus. Would it not be better for your incursions to remain successful … for the sake of Ambeon and the empire?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “No one knows Golthuu better than Golgren,” the half-breed declared with a baring of his teeth. “The legions, they would find that there are better routes, more profitable routes, than those which they use now.”

  The emperor glanced at Maritia. There was no denying that Golgren was more familiar than any ogre with the terrain of his homeland. He had made it a priority in his rise to power. To know the lay of the land was to know its strengths and weaknesses.

  “You interest me,” Faros finally returned to him.

  “We’ll need the latest charts,” the empress suggested.

  Faros shook his head. “I’ll also need to be there … and quickly. We’ll need the fastest courier ship.”

  “No,” interjected Golgren. “There is a quicker way yet.”

  He gestured with his stump at a suddenly dismayed Tyranos.

  VII

  CALL TO WAR

  Chasm flew swiftly, eating away at the miles. He was aware of the importance of the mission at hand, and despite the danger, he had every intention of delivering the elf to her destination.

  Idaria breathlessly watched the landscape race by hundreds of feet below her. If the gargoyle lost his grip, there would be nothing to prevent her from being dashed on the hard ground, her bones shattered and her body scattered for miles around.

  But Chasm seemed to have a sure grip, so Idaria thought about her own mission and what Golgren had demanded of her. For the sake of her people, the slave had to live up to the half-breed’s faith in her. Idaria realized she did not want to fail him, either, and that raised disturbing questions for her. Because the elf did not want to fail Golgren personally …

  Before Idaria could follow that trail of thought to its ultimate conclusion, a glint from below caught her eye. She touched a warning hand to Chasm’s arm. The gargoyle had veered away from the vicinity of the capital. Below lay the edge of the mountains and, beyond that, a more arid, desolate region. There should have been no village below. However, the glint that the elf had noticed had had a metallic look to it. It was not out of the question that there might be lone scouts out in that direction … or a single Titan waiting just for them.

  Great wings flapping, the gargoyle adjusted his flight path. Idaria had a better view of the landscape.

  What she saw made her gasp. Was that a Solamnic Knight below?

  The figure wavered as though it were a heat-induced illusion of the land, so the elf decided that she was only imagining things. However, Chasm suddenly banked then descended toward the metallic glint, the murky figure, the Solamnic Knight. If it were an illusion, then Tyranos’s servant shared it with her.

  Chasm halted at a level that left Idaria’s feet dangling just a couple of inches off the rocky ground. With surprising care, he set her down the rest of the way then alighted himself.r />
  Steadying herself, the elf stared at the figure. It was not merely a knight from Solamnia.

  It was Sir Stefan Rennert.

  “It cannot be,” she blurted. “You are one of his creatures!” Idaria insisted, referring to the master of the ancient citadel.

  “There is only one to whom I swear an oath now,” Stefan solemnly replied. His face and form were utterly devoid of any injury, and his armor gleamed as if freshly polished. He was even clean shaven. “And that is Kiri-Jolith.”

  Mention of the bison-headed god of just cause prompted the elf to look around. After the intrigues of Sirrion, she fully expected to see the other deity present. Yet there was no sign.

  “He has his tasks, and monumental they are,” Stefan commented, as if reading her thoughts. “I’ve the honor of seeking to help in his place.”

  “But you-you are dead. I saw you die!”

  Chasm grunted agreement, the gargoyle partially blocking the ground between the elf and the impossible visitor.

  Stefan looked pained. “I don’t rightly know if I’m alive or dead or somewhere in between. I only know that as the blade sank into me and I grew cold, then, at the very last moment, Kiri-Jolith came and took hold of me. He kept me safe until I felt strength returning. When I opened my eyes, he and I stood in the midst of what had once been a great castle but which had become merely an arrangement of stones half-buried by time.”

  Once this was a place of tremendous courage and honor, the god had told him as the human had struggled to rise. But that was so long ago, when even I was young.

  As was reasonable, Stefan had paid less attention to the god and more to the fact that he was not lying on the floor of the citadel as a cold corpse. He had asked much the same question of Kiri-Jolith as Idaria had directed at him. Was he alive or dead or something else?

  That remains to be seen, was all the bison-headed warrior had answered. For the first time, the Solamnic had noticed that Paladine’s son looked weary, even somewhat aged.