The Gargoyle King ot-3

by Richard A. Knaak

  Through tearing eyes, he saw that the attack had not been instigated by some resurrected Falstoch, but rather another familiar figure.

  Atolgus peered through the gap, his expression akin to a mad beast. There was both fury and pleasure in his expression. He wielded Golgren’s former sword, only its blade was surrounded by an aura. The warlord’s other hand glowed with a similar illumination.

  The transformation to whatever variant of Titan Safrag expected of Atolgus was all but complete.

  “You taint her chamber!” the sorcerer’s puppet declared. “For that alone you should die! I’ll bring your head to her! She’ll reward me for this!”

  He stepped inside. Only then was a second figure revealed standing behind him, one known even better to the half-breed.

  Wargroch brandished his own weapon. His look grim, he rumbled, “It is a good time to die, oh Grand Khan, a good time to die.”

  XVI

  TRAGEDY OF THE ELVES

  Idaria opened her eyes only to see darkness so intense that at first the elf believed she had gone blind. Then the darkness grew just a bit fainter, enough for her to tell that she stood in some corridor. That was all, though.

  That she could see no better even with her elf-sharp vision instantly told the slave that the darkness was born of Titan sorcery. Idaria turned, seeking Stefan. However, there was no sign of the Solamnic.

  She finally dared whisper his name. Her voice did not even echo. Idaria waited, hoping for some reply.

  Instead of Stefan, she heard the slight clink of metal from farther down the black corridor. Even though it was only for the briefest of moments, Idaria had no trouble identifying the source:

  Chains.

  Steeling herself, Idaria followed the sound. Although she did not hear it again, she felt certain she followed the correct trail. Besides, to turn anywhere else in the black abyss would be foolish. The slight sound gave her the only concrete clue she had as to what had happened to her people.

  Her own breathing pounded in her ears; the otherwise utter silence made the slight noise a thousand times louder. On and on the elf moved without finding any sign she was any nearer.

  Finally frustrated enough, Idaria cleared her throat.

  The brief sound was enough to elicit another slight clinking of the chains, and that time the sound was much closer. The elf felt her heart quicken.

  At last, daring to take a great chance, she quietly called out, “I am here to help. I am an elf.”

  There came a bit more clinking but not nearly enough to represent the hundreds that should be there. Idaria swallowed hard, fearful she was too late.

  A male voice-an elf voice-murmured something that she could not understand. Idaria moved toward the voice only to nearly walk into an unseen column.

  Growing more frustrated, she struck a fist against the column.

  A dark blue light illuminated her surroundings.

  Idaria let out a gasp at the sudden change then another, much more horrified gasp, at the sight before her.

  She stood at the entrance of a vast chamber that appeared little changed in comparison to what Safrag likely had accomplished with the rest of the sanctum. The walls were a deep gray stone, and the floor was a striated marble combining black and crimson. Squat, fluted columns like the one with which the elf had almost collided dotted the immense room. There was no source for the blue illumination.

  A number of disturbing smells greeted her. One was that of scorched flesh, something to which she had grown all too familiar. Another was the iron scent of blood. Again, that was a smell she knew too well. The third was less recognizable and, therefore, more frightening. It was the charged air odor that Idaria most associated with lightning during a storm. In such a place, that odor brought to mind terrible images.

  But none of what she saw or smelled truly mattered much to Idaria, who had finally found her people … or what remained of them.

  They stood in positions of fear, pain, and despair. Some were bent as if seeking to turn from their fate, while a few others stood tall and proud like the race Idaria remembered before the fall of Silvanost.

  Hundreds of elves stood clustered before her, transformed into statues composed of what seemed to be amber. They ranged from those finally showing the age that only the most ancient of elves revealed to the very young, to those that had barely known the glory of the forested realm before the coming of Mina, the Nerakans, and, later, Golgren and the minotaurs. There was no order to the throng. They had evidently been transformed en masse after being herded into the subterranean lair.

  However, not all had suffered that fate. Some chains rattled again, and Idaria discovered the one elf who still retained his fleshly form … but little else.

  He lay bound and spread-eagled to a stone platform designed with five distinct appendages, one for each limb and a smaller one upon which he rested his head. Above him hung a sinister, spherical device of iron from which sprouted six evil tentacles-leather hoses, in truth-that descended to the captive’s wrists, ankles, and attached to both sides of his neck. The tentacles ended in hooked ends that penetrated the veins.

  Idaria shivered. The hoses were transparent and revealed that, once, some crimson liquid had flowed through them.

  She rushed to the elf’s side. Idaria did not know him, but visibly he looked not much older than she. Yet his skin was like parchment, and he was clearly in death’s grasp. Her frustration mounted; if she had been able to get there even a few hours earlier, then perhaps she could have saved that one slave.

  His eyes had been shut, but they opened to reveal pupils almost white. That was no normal elf trait; Titan sorcery had caused the deviation, likely as part of the foul process that kept the prisoner alive while his blood was drained from him. The Titans desired that blood be as fresh as possible, perhaps in case something went amiss with the Fire Rose. With elf blood, they could still make batches of the insidious elixir that had been used to create or rejuvenate their numbers.

  Idaria reached for the hoses attached to his neck, but the elf managed a faint shake of his head.

  “The deed … is done. I am gone. You must save the rest … if you can.”

  “Save the rest?” Idaria looked around but saw no other survivors. “Where are they?”

  “All … all around …”

  He meant the transformed elves. Idaria frowned; imminent death must have stolen the other elf’s senses. He did not know the others had suffered a gruesome fate.

  His eyes shut as he strained to make his explanation clear. Through cracked lips, the dying prisoner managed to gasp, “They … they can be remade. The spell only … only is to hold them until ready.”

  Whirling from him, the silver-tressed slave stared at the legions of macabre statues. “They are alive? They can be brought back?”

  The elf did not answer her. When Idaria turned back to him, she saw that he was dead.

  “Im corpuris den flau esada,” she murmured, using an ancient elf prayer. “May the body give back to the forest as the spirit flies.” Idaria touched his cheek. She did not even have a name by which to remember the latest victim of the Titans’ foul sorcery.

  But the unnamed one had given her some hope. Somehow, there was a way by which all the prisoners could be released.

  Abandoning the brave soul, Idaria rushed through the chamber. Any object or symbol that looked of interest to her she marked, but none seemed promising. The scrolls were written in indecipherable Titan script, and the many arcane devices looked so ominous, Idaria feared that, using them, she was more likely to do harm than good. She wished that Stefan were there to use his medallion and divine the best means of proceeding.

  “Stefan!” Idaria gasped. She glanced over her shoulder in the direction from which she had come. In her desire to find her people, the Solamnic had momentarily slipped her mind.

  Stefan was still on the other side of the wall.

  Rushing to the magical entrance, also illuminated, Idaria pressed her hands aga
inst the stone barrier. Despite her expectations that she would be able to pass through as she had earlier, Idaria met with resistance from solid stone. Growing more anxious, she pressed harder but with no better result. She had been able to enter easily enough but could not leave.

  Then Idaria recalled just what purpose the place served. The Titans had created an entrance suitable for ushering in elf slaves, but with the flow purposely designed for only one direction. That had easily prevented any of the prisoners from trying to escape, however futilely.

  She was trapped. Idaria pounded on the wall. “Sir Stefan! Sir Stefan!”

  There was no reply.

  The Solamnic had thrust himself against the wall the moment Idaria had passed through it, but he could not follow her. Uncertain as to why she had been able to do what even the medallion could not grant to him, he wondered if perhaps the doorway were magical and intended to keep the elves prisoners.

  The knight knew he had to find a path to Idaria and help her get her people to safety before his time ran out.

  But how? How could he-?

  The medallion grew warmer. It was all the warning that he received.

  Stefan thrust the medallion into his breastplate then charged. Veering toward one wall, he gritted his teeth and leaped.

  The wall gave him enough purchase but just barely. The Solamnic literally raced three steps up the wall. He extended his sword arm, ready.

  The Titan materialized almost exactly where the knight calculated he was going to appear. The towering sorcerer’s expression turned from menace to utter astonishment.

  Stefan swung.

  The edge caught the sorcerer across the lower half of his throat. There was a flash of black light then a silver one. Titan sorcery sought to protect the blue-tinted fiend; the just power of Kiri-Jolith sought to cancel that protection.

  Gravity and the weight of his armor hurled Stefan to the floor. He landed in a crouching position as the Titan reached toward him.

  But the sorcerer merely toppled, his detached head striking the floor first with a disgusting squishing sound before bounding past the Solamnic. Stefan threw himself back against the nearest wall as the huge corpse flopped down where he had just been standing.

  The dead Titan was one of the two he and Idaria had observed earlier. Idaria’s entrance into the hidden chamber must have alerted them to their presence.

  Stefan braced himself against the wall and quickly looked around, wondering when the second Titan would show up.

  Something clutched the wrist of his sword arm. Stefan instinctively grabbed the weapon with his other hand.

  A three-digited, red paw that had sprouted from the wall held his wrist. The Solamnic chopped it off at the base. The paw released its hold, dropped to the floor, and faded.

  But another blossomed near where the wall met the floor, immediately grabbing for his ankle. Stefan dealt with that paw as he had the first, chopping it off, then spun around to cut off yet a third reaching all the way from the opposing wall.

  In swelling numbers, clutching paws began sprouting from both sides. Wielding his sword with two hands, the knight moved in a continual spin, chopping off one attacking appendage after another. Each he severed fell to the floor, only to dissolve to nothing.

  As he turned toward the other end of the corridor, he caught sight of the second Titan gesturing. Like a puppet master, the sorcerer was coordinating the strange attacks. Stefan tried to charge him, but a flurry of grasping paws created a menacing barrier between him and his adversary. For every one the Solamnic dispatched, it seemed another two sprang into existence.

  His armor kept their sharp talons from ripping him apart but also slowed him down. Stefan could not reach his quarry at the far end of the corridor, no matter how hard he tried.

  Slash went his sword, again and again. Each time the silver light that bespoke of Kiri-Jolith’s blessing overwhelmed the dark sorcery, yet still the attacks multiplied and continued. Stefan summoned every iota of his training, leaping, dodging, and cutting.

  But he gained little, and soon the Titan would devise a more lethal stratagem. He had one hope. The Solamnic whirled around one more time, chopping away at another set of grasping paws. Then, switching his grip in mid swing, he hurtled the sword like a spear at the sorcerer. At the same time, the cleric uttered a short prayer to his patron.

  The Titan gaped as the blade flew fast enough at him to pierce his protective spells, burrowing deep in the right shoulder. The gigantic figure clutched at the blade.

  “N-not-” was all he managed to stammer before falling back against one wall then dropping to his knees.

  The paws dissipated. Stefan wasted no time in racing toward the stricken spellcaster. The Titan was not dead and, thus, still a danger.

  Looming over the bleeding giant, Stefan planted both hands on the hilt of his weapon and pushed on it. The Titan cried out. His own talons scraped against the Solamnic’s armor, leaving sizzling scratches down one leg.

  Easing up on the pressure, Stefan said, “One chance and one chance alone for you to live! Assist me with freeing my friend and her people, and I’ll spare your life!”

  “Never-ah!” The scream came as Stefan pressed on the sword.

  His voice filled with revulsion for what he felt forced to do, the Solamnic tried again. “Do as I say! Swear and I’ll stop this!”

  Despite his agony, something in the Titan’s expression briefly shifted. Then he cried, “Yes! I swear to help you!”Stefan nodded but then his expression turned grim. Still leaning hard on the sword to keep the Titan from concentrating enough to cast a spell, the cleric removed the medallion. He slipped it over the stricken sorcerer’s head.

  As the Titan registered what he was doing, Stefan stepped back and, silently praying to Kiri-Jolith again, plucked the blade free. The Titan let out a brief cry then planted one hand against the wound.

  “There’s no need to heal it,” the Solamnic informed him. “That has already been done.”

  The blue-skinned giant stared at the wound or, at least, where it once had been. It was truly healed.

  “Strong sorcery,” he muttered.

  “It’s not sorcery. It’s faith.”

  The golden eyes flashed at the knight. “Then you had best pray for your god to be ready to receive you now!”

  Stefan had already been prepared for such deceit. As the Titan started to cast his dark magic, the medallion glowed. The sorcerer gasped sharply, doubling over in pain.

  “Your own power turns against you whenever you choose to use it so,” Stefan explained, “and you can’t remove the medallion. Only I can do that.”

  The Titan glared but said nothing.

  Stefan stepped farther back and waited. The towering sorcerer seemed to think it over then slowly rose.

  “I have no choice but to obey. You spoke of your friend and her people. That would be the elf bitch who beds the mongrel-” At the warning in the Solamnic’s face, the Titan quickly went on. “I can take you to her people, yes, but where is she?”

  “With them already, I believe.”

  A brief, knowing smile escaped the sorcerer. Stefan gestured with the point of his sword at the wall. “Take me through there, and remember that I’m the one who can remove the medallion, not you.”

  Scowling, the Titan strode over to the wall. He raised one hand palm forward.

  The wall turned hazy.

  “We may pass through,” the spellcaster said.

  Stefan waved his sword. “Lead.”

  With a curt nod, the Titan stepped into the wall. As the last of him vanished, Stefan immediately followed. The knight’s body tingled as he moved through.

  He emerged to find the Titan awaiting him. A deep blue illumination filled the area and revealed that behind the Titan stood an obviously relieved Idaria.

  “I feared that something had happened to you!” she blurted, rushing to his side.

  The Titan smirked. Catching his look, the Solamnic tapped his own chest. “Rem
ember the medallion and your oath.”

  The smirk vanished. Somewhat sullen, the towering figure started down the corridor.

  Idaria shot a look at Stefan then rushed to catch up with the Titan, daring to grab his arm. “Can you free them?”

  He looked down at her with unconcealed contempt. “It seems I have no choice.”

  Before she could explain to Stefan, they had stepped out into the immense chamber. At first, the Titan’s massive form blocked the knight’s view. As the sorcerer stepped aside, his face registered shock at the spectacle of the frozen elves.

  “Kiri-Jolith protect us!” the knight growled. He brought the blade’s tip up to the Titan’s chest. “What’ve you done to them?”

  “Preserved them healthier than you would have found them otherwise,” retorted the spellcaster.

  “Undo this!”

  “It will take some doing. There must be patience.”

  Stefan frowned. “I’ll brook no delays, and the medallion will reveal any duplicity on your part.”

  The Titan did not reply. Instead, he turned to the nearest of the figures. Stretching forth a finger, he let the tip of his talon touch the forehead of the frozen form.

  A small, black spot appeared on the head of the elf, a female who likely looked more her true age than prior to her enslavement. Most of the elves had aged as none of their kind normally did until very old. They looked weathered, worn … almost human.

  The black spot swelled then grew what seemed spidery legs that quickly spread over the elf’s still form.

  But no sooner had that happened than the spot and its appendages faded away. The Titan swore.

  “This will take more effort than I anticipated. Morgada had a hand in the original casting. For the last slave, Vradoc and I worked together to resurrect him. Vradoc is dead, thanks to you, human. I must do the work alone now.”