THE FIRE ROSE
Is the Fire Rose the long-sought artifact that could transform the ogre race, bringing it back to the power and glory of ancient times?
The half-breed, Golgren, is now Grand Khan of the united ogre realms, called Golthuu—“the Dream of Golgren.” But the fearsome Golgren is beset by traitors and villains and worse.
Golgren’s beloved capital is threatened by a vast army of the undead and by the treachery of the Ogre Titans, the secretive, fanatical cult of magic-users, led by their new chieftain, the cunning Safrag.
Golgren and Safrag are both obsessed with finding the legendary Fire Rose. Little do they know that another shadowy figure, one who commands legions of gargoyles and the tools of sinister sorcery, has ambitions to eliminate both of them.
Will the Fire Rose save the Grand Khan? Or will its strange magic destroy his fledgling empire?
OGRE TITANS
The Black Talon
The Fire Rose
The Gargoyle King
October 2009
To all the dedicated readers of Dragonlance
throughout the years, I thank you.
Prologue
THE WATCHER
The leathery gargoyle fluttered unnoticed onto the top of the high, dusty ridge. It folded its wings tight behind it and, thrusting its beaklike snout just over the rocks, peered down at the sweeping tableau far beneath it.
Armored minotaurs ascended the ridge below in perfect martial order, their shields creating a wall before them that few weapons could readily penetrate. The seven-foot-tall, horned soldiers were clad in shining breastplates, sleek kilts and helmets designed to fit around their two-foot-long horns and their twitching, alert ears. On their silver breastplates and shields blazed the symbol of Sargonnas—the dominant god of their race—a stylized crimson condor with its wings spread as though in flight.
The gargoyle quietly hissed. Its blunt ears flattened. Even though it served a far greater power than the soldiers did, it was impossible not to be impressed by an army of thousands of such fearsome fighters.
Indeed, the land below was swarming with minotaurs, for at least three legions marched under the scorching sun. They had muzzles like those of bovines, but there was nothing comical about the Uruv Suurt, as they were called by their neighbors to the north, the ogres.
Neighbors whose land the legions were encroaching upon.
Despite the rocky terrain of the region that was once called Blöde, the legionaries kept their ranks tight and even. Hekturions—officers commanding a hundred warriors each—rode back and forth among the lines. Subofficers among the ranks—called dekarians and commanding ten soldiers—helped keep order. Farther back, the captains and other higher-ranked legionaries passed on the overall commands of each legion’s master general.
And each of those generals, in turn, sought to prove themselves the best at fulfilling the edicts of their emperor.
A condor fluttered high on many of the triangular standards carried alongside each legion’s own symbol. The head of a snarling brown bear marked the legion on the right flank, a flying green serpent the one on the left, and in the middle was the black silhouetted steed of the Warhorses. Once the command of the Emperor Faros Es-Kalin’s predecessor—also father of his empress—the Warhorses had been rebuilt into a force fanatically loyal to the holder of the throne.
The Grand Khan of both the former Blöde and its onetime rival to the north, Kern, was a cunning half-breed called Golgren. Old enmities lay between the minotaurs and the ogres: years of slavery for Faros, a severed hand for the Grand Khan.
And evidently the emperor had set in motion the first step toward laying those enmities to rest, along with Golgren.
The gray-scaled gargoyle pulled back several yards before daring to leap into the sky. It purposely flew so that any who looked up in its direction would be staring straight into the sun. Unlike minotaurs, humans, or ogres, gargoyles had two lids over their eyes, one normal and the other a shaded, translucent pair that instinctively lowered whenever necessary—as when the creature flew into the sun.
With great, steady beats of its wide wings, the gargoyle quickly put distance between it and the oncoming armies. No longer in their sight, it flew more out in the open, soaring above the inhospitable land. Below, the parched hills and bleak valleys—only two days’ ride from the more green reaches of Ambeon—hinted at no life, although a startling variety did exist in the shadows. The gargoyle would have liked to have paused to hunt, especially for one of the horned runners called amaloks, but it was not permitted. Its lord demanded immediate knowledge of all matters in the area. To be slow in bringing that intelligence was to invite painful punishment.
And so, despite gnawing hunger, the gargoyle flew as fast as its wings could take it. It began to veer to the north—and suddenly pulled up short. Its wings keeping it hovering, the gargoyle hissed at a sight it had not been warned to expect.
Another army marched toward the location of the minotaur legions, hundreds of ogres in armor almost as immaculate as that of the Uruv Suurt. They marched in good order, their weapons well honed and held proudly. Commanders astride huge horses rode on the flanks and in the center of the ogres, keeping their warriors under control with the brutish barks that marked the ogre tongue.
The gargoyle hesitated, torn. Its primitive mind struggled to decide what would be most appreciated by its powerful master: continued flight or further investigation.
With another hiss, the gargoyle veered around so as to pace the ogres without them noticing it flying high above.
The nearly nine-feet-high warriors were in many ways a contrast to the minotaurs. They had more of a flat-faced appearance, looking like the bastard children of humans and bears—or maybe boars, since most had two long tusks jutting up at the edges of their mouths. Under heavy brow ridges, long, bestial eyes—generally bloodshot—focused ahead. A thin layer of what was more fur than hair covered most of their visible bodies, and under the open helmets shaggy mops of hair showed through.
To most outsiders, the ogres’ martial order and cleanliness would have been a shock. They were supposed to be little more than flea-bitten monsters who preyed upon the unwary and who, if they joined in numbers against a foe, tended to be an unruly horde, with each warrior fighting more or less on his own with no collective strategy.
But that era seemed to be at an end, for the ogres were marching as one. A new order had spread through the ogre lands, a new order of such magnitude that even the lands of Kern and Blöde were no longer called that by their people. By decree of the Grand Khan, both realms—though separated by geography—were one. They were united as Golthuu.
Golthuu, the Dream of Golgren.
A familiar emblem adorned the square standard flying over the ogre force: a severed hand wielding a bloody dagger. Yet another symbol of Golgren’s power.
Unaware of the gargoyle, the ogres pushed toward the ridge. From their pace and grim aspects, they expected something ahead.
The growling in its stomach no longer mattered to the gargoyle, nor, in some ways, did the mission. Like all its kind, it enjoyed a good fight, and clearly one was brewing. That it would also be serving its lord in observing and reporting was an added reward. Only the minotaurs had been expected to be in the region; how the ogres had gotten wind of their enemies so quickly, especially considering the remoteness of the area, was a question to which the winged servant needed to learn an answer. For that, the master would certainly reward it.
It flitted from ridge to hilltop to ridge, pacing the ogres until they were nearly at the ridge where it had last seen the legions. The ogres began to advance more cautiously.
Leaving the ogres for a moment, the gargoyle flew ahead, searching for the other army. I
t did not take long to spot what it sought. Two minotaur scouts had worked their way up and over the ridge, enabling them to obtain a view of far ahead. They spotted the advancing ogres.
One scout turned in the direction of the legions. Although the scout’s comrades could not be visible to him from where he stood, he nevertheless raised a hand as if to signal them.
A glitter of light flashed in the legionary’s hand, the sun’s reflection on a small piece of glass, or even a mirror. The first flash was followed by a second, longer one, and two shorter.
From another part of the ridge just overlooking the main force, another flash responded. The scout busied himself sending an identical series of signals to the legions, where other glints of sunlight revealed receipt of the messages.
The imperial ranks suddenly spread out in perfect coordination. As the gargoyle studied the coming clash, it noted that the scouts were not alone among the ridges. Bands of legionaries had settled into various concealed locations.
The winged spy returned its attention to the ogres, seeing that they had advance forces infiltrating the jagged rocks too. In one almost laughable sight, a band of ogres lay in hiding only a short distance from where a group of legionaries was doing the same.
The ogre ranks began to spread out as they approached, almost as if they had some warning concerning the opposing forces. The gargoyle landed atop a high peak, from where, folding its wings, it watched.
In their new formation, the minotaurs continued to spread over the first ridge. As they did, the ogres advanced toward them.
Scouts on both sides eagerly sent signals to their respective commands.
A massive ogre near the rear of the lines raised his hand. A trumpeter with a curled goat horn sounded a blaring note that echoed through the area.
The legions did not halt upon hearing the trumpet blast, but an officer in a plumed helm and purple cloak gestured to one of his own trumpeters. The legionary sent out a shrill reply.
Barely had both horns sounded than the front lines of both forces edged within sight of one another.
The minotaurs restrengthened their line of shields and held their swords, axes, and pikes ready. Opposite them, the ogres did likewise.
The gargoyle hissed in amusement. It was almost like watching one army fighting its own distorted, grotesque image. The blood would surely flow strong, the gargoyle thought.
Goatskin-covered copper drums beat among the ogres. They were met by the thumping of the iron drums of the minotaurs. For several seconds, the two different drummings vied.
The cloaked commander of the legions rode through the ranks until he and his sleek, black steed stood at the forefront. At the same time, the ogre warlord rode to the head of his forces.
The two leaders eyed one another. The minotaur raised his sword up. The ogre brandished his axe.
Both saluted one another.
The winged watcher blinked in astonishment. Its claws scraped at the rock as it tried to puzzle out the odd battle etiquette. Minotaurs could be very formal, but ogres—even the half-breed’s polished warriors—did not politely acknowledge the foe they were about to attack.
Their weapons still raised, the two riders charged one another. The gargoyle understood. The two leaders would fight for dominance first. It is what gargoyles would have done too.
The ogre and the minotaur met. Their weapons clashed once. And both riders reined their mounts to a halt and bowed their heads to one another.
The other ogres barked in approval. The legionaries banged their weapons against their shields and stood down. The ogres did the same.
Sheathing their weapons, the imperial officer and the ogre warlord clasped hands in greeting.
The gargoyle leapt back from the scene, its suddenly outstretched wings mirroring the amazement on its monstrous staring visage. It felt certain that it must have seen wrong.
Both riders had dismounted. They spoke in low tones. Still more unbelievable, elements of each group were moving toward one another, but with their weapons sheathed and their shields down.
The gargoyle had seen enough. It leaped into the sky, heading north. It flew well above the sight of the minotaurs and ogres. The huge wings beat faster than ever. Hunger was forgotten. Fear that it would fail its dread lord was forgotten. Its master would surely be eager to be told of the intriguing, inexplicable scene.
And the Grand Lord Golgren would surely have been interested too … If only he had been fortunate enough to know, or to have had his own spy.
I
LORD OF GOLTHUU
His wounds still pained him, but Golgren didn’t let it show. Several months had passed since he had led his warriors against the unthinkable: an army of the undead—or, as the ogres called them, f’hanos—bent on the destruction of Garantha, the great capital of his precious Golthuu. Many warriors had perished, and Golgren had nearly died himself. But the threat had been overcome, with the Grand Khan—the Grand Lord at that point—being hailed by his people as Kala i iF’hanosi il aF’hanariFaluum iGolgreni, or the “Final Death of the Undead That is Golgren.”
But the half-breed master of the ogre race had not been entirely responsible for that victory, just as the danger that day had not come from a single source. Much magic had been involved. A great part of the magic, originated from the Ogre Titans. Indeed the damage to Garantha could be traced—at least by Golgren—to the spell the Titans had cast creating a massive quake beyond the capital.
Golgren rose from the wide, lush bed in his personal chambers. Countless silken pillows of many colors filled the bed, and elegant draperies flanked the structure. All were spoils of the conquest of Silvanesti far to the south—a conquest made in conjunction with his current bitter enemies, the Uruv Suurt. Those horned warriors had taken the bulk of Silvanesti as their prize, turning it into the imperial colony of Ambeon.
Golgren was an unlikely looking ruler of the ogre race. He was no taller than a minotaur and more sleek of form than most of his kind. His features could have been called brutally handsome, for there was much in them that spoke of his mother’s people: the very elves he had helped enslave and scatter. From his mother he had inherited his almond-shaped, emerald eyes and his more pronounced—yet narrow—nose. His jaw was strong, but less so than with most ogres. The tusks that he had grown up with had long been filed to mere nubs, adding to his more elf look.
His dark mane of hair was always kept groomed, and he wore garments befitting a noble of the elf or human races. The Grand Khan did not believe it was any insult to his people, but rather an attempt to resurrect the ancient golden era when his kind had been the most beautiful of creatures. The era when elves, dwarves, and humans had all but looked to the ogres as gods.
Golgren was dressed for war. Each day new reports confirmed that his great kingdom was under threat. As Golgren forced his weary body to move, he confronted in a nearby long, crystalline mirror—yet again, a treasure from what was Uruv Suurt-held Ambeon—a figure already clad in a shining breastplate and a kilt, with sandaled feet. A green and brown cloak lay loosely spread over one side of the bed. On a moon-shaped marble table sat a helmet whose crest was shaped like a griffon, the patron beast of Garantha.
Each night, Golgren slept ready to be summoned to battle. He had no choice. With the culmination of his dreams had also come the advent of his eternal nightmares.
“My lord,” came a musical, feminine voice speaking in the Common tongue. “I did not hear you rise. Please forgive me.”
“Ah, my Idaria,” he responded without even glancing in her direction. “Do I not always?”
Golgren had also spoken in Common for, as part of the transformation and uplifting of his realm, the Grand Khan insisted on all his subjects knowing and speaking Common. It was the accepted tongue of commerce and negotiation among the humans, elves, and other so-called civilized peoples. And Golgren was determined to prove his people were every bit as civilized, even if most of the other races were enemies.
A slim, but
still well-shaped form clad in the tatters of a green elven gown slipped up behind the Grand Khan. The elf maiden looked years younger than Golgren—who himself was in the prime of ogre life—but she was, by his estimate, at least twice his age, if not much older. Though a slave, the silver-tressed elf looked well—Golgren desired his personal servant to always look beautiful and fit. Her gown, fashioned according to his orders to make her all the more appealing, revealed the beauty of her skin and body. Her ivory color was a sign of health among the elves, and her eyes were a bright, crystalline blue. She wore sandals that would have fit an ogre child of perhaps four years of age, and moved with an astonishing grace he could never match, even though she wore severed bracelets of chains on both her ankles and wrists.
That chains were no longer attached to those bracelets was a sign of the level of trust that had grown between the Grand Khan and his personal servant. The elf woman—already freed of her bonds by another—had, of her own volition, rejected freedom in order to help her wounded and battered master from the battlefield, and had cared for him loyally since. She had been given ample opportunity to flee or escape, but had never done so.
Golgren boasted to his followers that she adored him even more than they did. But there were other reasons he knew for her dedication that he admitted only to himself. After all, he still held in his hand the future of many of her people, kept secure—if captive—in a special pen at one end of the capital. He had once promised to release them after his ascension to Grand Khan, but circumstances had forced him to delay their release. He might yet keep that promise, if it suited him.
Also—though he preferred not to think of the disturbing possibility—he suspected Idaria of ties to the world beyond Golthuu. He believed she might be a spy.
As to whom she spied for, that was another question. The Knights of Solamnia, the regal knighthood that ruled the realm to the west named for them, were one possibility. Once, Golgren had hoped to make peace overtures to the Solamnians, using the liberation of the elf slaves as a goodwill offering. He still hoped to join with the Solamnians, for they presented the best hope for an ally he might play off against the Uruv Suurt.
The Fire Rose Page 1
