The Fire Rose

by Richard A. Knaak

  “Stop!” Vorag growled. “My command—”

  Atolgus abruptly struck him along the jaw, sending Vorag tumbling from his mount.

  Even as the trumpeter’s call faded, another consisting of three rapid staccato bursts sounded from the hills to the column’s right. No sooner had it begun, than ogres began pouring toward them from that direction.

  And ranks of the Uruv Suurt flowed down from the opposite side.

  Snarling, Vorag drew his shining new sword. In his excitement, he had forgotten the Common word for ambush and instead repeated, “Bakiin! Bakiin!”

  As the ogre commander registered the scene around him, he realized that not only was his column under assault from the hills, but that it was also fighting among itself.

  One of his officers had unsheathed his blade and run through another. The lead mastark handler—the very same handler from whose beast the cage with the messenger birds had slipped—urged his mount into a knot of screaming warriors. The round, flat feet of the huge tusked creature crushed a pair moving too slowly. At the same time, the huge prehensile nose seized another warrior and threw him into the rocky hillside.

  The trumpeter drew his axe and tried to ride down his commander. Vorag ducked the blow and ran the edge of his blade along the rider’s leg. The other ogre growled as blood poured from the long, tapering wound. He hesitated. That was all Vorag needed to finish the betrayer with a quick thrust.

  Vorag tried to seize the reins of the ogre’s horse, but the horse bolted. In the animal’s wake, another foe pressed him. The Uruv Suurt was shorter, but skilled and wily. He traded blows with the commander, pressing Vorag back.

  But the ogre, having been trained in part by one of the renegades working for the Grand Khan, anticipated many of his moves. Every time the legionary mounted an attack, the ogre countered.

  His blade opened a river in the Uruv Suurt’s throat. The legionary looked astounded—perhaps recognizing the training of his foe—before collapsing.

  Another horn sounded. Vorag peered behind and saw a large band of riders racing toward him from the rear of his own force. A relieved grin spread across his ugly features. The traitors and their horned allies were in for a beating shellacking.

  “Regroup!” Vorag roared at the top of his lungs. Several warriors loyal to him moved to obey. They gathered near the commander, awaiting the reinforcements.

  The riders plowed into them, axes and swords slaughtering most of those joining Vorag.

  The commander gaped in disbelief and spotted the treacherous Atolgus venturing near again. Vorag lunged at the traitor. Atolgus suddenly veered his horse around, forcing Golgren’s officer to stumble back as the horse snapped and kicked at him.

  As Vorag backed up, a sharp pain struck his spine. His fingers lost all sense of touch, and his weapon dropped. He felt a hot moistness cover his back.

  The commander fell on his face, already dead before he hit the hard ground.

  One of Vorag’s own warriors grinned fiercely as he raised his bloody axe in salute to Atolgus. “Ki ef’hanfiri iZhulomi!”

  “Common we speak,” Atolgus corrected. “Like all good ogres.” The former chieftain shrugged, “But yes, He joins Zhulom in death.”

  The other ogre’s grin widened, and he raced off to assist his comrades. Around them, the last of Vorag’s loyal followers lay either dead or dying. There was no goodwill for prisoners. Roughly half of the hand had been slaughtered quickly.

  The plumed and cloaked general of the Uruv Suurt came riding up. He saluted Atolgus with his weapon, his teeth bared in the grin of his race.

  “All executed as planned! I commend you, warlord!”

  Atolgus grunted both in acknowledgment of the success and the title the minotaur had used. “The Uruv Suurt did their part well. Our numbers swell.”

  “And those of the mongrel dwindle. My emperor will be pleased. I’ll send word to him.” The general said, saluting. “We shall speak later.”

  The young warlord nodded.

  The Uruv Suurt signaled his legionaries, who quickly fell into ranks and followed their commander off.

  Atolgus looked to one of his own followers. “All the dead must be stripped. The bodies are to be dragged to the caves east.”

  The other ogre grunted, “All will be done, warlord.”

  As the warrior departed, Atolgus looked around the area for anything amiss. When he was satisfied that his followers had all in hand, the young warlord urged his mount away. A few of his guards attempted to follow, but a look from Atolgus made them pull up on the reins. The great warlord was riding away to commune with the spirit warriors who guided him. It was forbidden to be anywhere near him at such times The punishment was death.

  Atolgus rode between two hills, and over a low ridge. He squinted as dust rose from a sudden wind. Rather than turn from that wind, the warlord forced his animal to race into it.

  Pulling up near an arching formation resembling a vulture’s beak, Atolgus found a smaller outcropping to which he could bind his horse’s reins, and left the creature to climb over the rocky soil beneath the beak.

  In the shadows just beyond the outcropping, the warlord suddenly drew his sword and planted the point in the ground. He went down on one knee, his hands still gripping the sword’s hilt.

  “You have done exceedingly well, darling Atolgus.”

  Atolgus looked up with a gaze akin to an adoring child or pup. He remained kneeling, although clearly he would have preferred to leap to his feet and rush to the beauteous goddess appearing before him.

  Morgada smiled. Even her sharp, menacing teeth did nothing to lessen Atolgus’s adoration. “You have pleased him, and so you please me.”

  She reached out and touched the ogre warrior on the forehead with one finger. There was a brief flash of blue energy.

  Atolgus grunted. Morgada let her hand slide to his chin. She turned his head so that he was looking straight at her.

  “He should be rewarded,” the Titaness murmured in the tongue of her kind.

  “Would you like to play with him for awhile? Is that it, Morgada?” came Safrag’s voice. “Perhaps … When he’s done.”

  She stepped back. Atolgus’s gaze continued to remain on her, and it was clear that he loved and worshipped her. The female Titan had placed him under a spell.

  “He’s proven a good student thus far, master,” Morgada replied. “Easily swayed into slaying his mate and betraying his clan, taking up arms against his commander, and those other comrades … A very good student, indeed.”

  The Titan leader stepped up to Atolgus. “Yes,” he said, the talons on his hand coming within an inch of the former chieftain’s unflinching countenance. “A good student. Weak enough to be malleable, but with the potential to become a finely crafted weapon. Certainly clever enough to make fools of the Uruv Suurt, who think they make him their puppet.”

  Safrag gestured. With his eyes still on Morgada, Atolgus rose.

  “False trails, false friends, false glories,” Safrag continued. “All for the benefit of a false ruler. The mongrel thinks that he controls the hunt, that he pursues traitors and the trail of the Fire Rose as he sees fit. All the while his false empire is eaten away on all sides.” The lead Titan smiled like a cat. “Ah, if only Dauroth could have been seen it!”

  Morgada draped an arm over his shoulder. “But he surely looks with pride on what you’ve achieved, master. And surely his blessing is upon us and upon the hunt for the artifact.”

  The lead Titan smiled. He held forth his hand, and in it appeared a tiny vial.

  Atolgus’s gaze at last turned from Morgada. He eyed the vial with avarice.

  “One drop, one word,” Safrag sang. “One promise …”

  With two nails, he removed the stopper. There was an almost living sigh, and a small tendril of wispy smoke emerged.

  The warlord leaned his head back. Safrag drew a three-sided pattern over Atolgus: a gaunt triangle with the sun on one side and stars on the other two. The pa
ttern flared to life as he completed the spell, and it descended. As it reached Atolgus’s forehead, the pattern shrank, growing small enough to fit there.

  There was a slight searing sound, as if the ogre’s flesh were burning. Safrag tipped the vial over just enough to let one drop of its crimson contents fall down.

  As the drop struck the center of the pattern, the latter shone bright before fading away.

  “So precious,” Morgada whispered, referring to the vial’s contents.

  “For the glory of the Titan cause, the sacrifice is necessary. A drop of elixir here, a drop there, to ensure that our warlord is the able champion we desire. The spell enhances the qualities that will draw others to his cause.”

  “But how will that help us to find the Fire Rose?”

  Safrag replaced the vial. “Because when the half-breed finds the walls of his citadel crumbling all around him, he will have no recourse but to seek that which we seek, and to find it fast.” The lead Titan shrugged. “But do not fear! Golgren will not survive the finding of the Fire Rose.”

  He gestured for Atolgus to rise. The puppet warlord silently obeyed. There were subtle changes from the Atolgus of before. He looked slightly taller and broader, and what scars he had received from the battle were all but faded. There was also a slight, golden tint to his eyes.

  “Go, my champion! Let the blood of the mongrel’s followers quench the dry lands.”

  Atolgus saluted Safrag and Morgada with his weapon and rushed to his mount. The two Titans watched with satisfaction as he rode away.

  “An interesting choice, my master,” Morgada cooed.

  “Not nearly as interesting as the ji-baraki among the Grand Khan’s own trusted circle. It shall be a pleasure to see how that piece plays in the game. Very much a pleasure, indeed.”

  Safrag gestured. Black flames enveloped the pair.

  The Titans vanished.

  VI

  ABOMINATION

  Golgren’s departure was delayed by news that was dire but hardly unexpected. Neraka had begun pushing across the border in northern Golthuu. The dark knights had moved in earnest and had easily overwhelmed the lone hand there. The force the Grand Khan intended to lead to the Vale of Vipers had originally been set to strengthen the warriors located by the overrun border.

  Coincidence is the blind’s defiance of truth, Sarth had once intoned to a much younger Golgren, albeit in a more crude, ogre fashion. That was before an older Grand Lord had discovered the shaman knew the Common tongue better than him.

  Golgren did not believe in coincidence. The Black Shells would not happen to push into northern Golthuu at the same time as rumors placed the Uruv Suurt in the south, and while elements of his new army were suddenly disappearing. Indeed, for Neraka to intrude upon the former Kern meant someone had gone out of their way to devise that strategy. Old Blöde was a much easier target, lying just south of the black knights’ base of operations.

  The Grand Khan had no choice but to follow the trail leading to the Vale of Vipers. But his realm could not be left to fend for itself. Golthuu was at a fragile juncture. If Golgren did not maintain a show of strength and keep the borders secure, his domain would quickly return to two splintered lands, scraps of which loose alliances would fight over while the other races moved in to take what spoils they desired.

  Armored and ready to march, he summoned Khleeg and Wargroch.

  “Khleeg, you were supposed to guard Garantha. That is no longer necessary.”

  Golgren’s second in command looked concerned. “My lord?”

  “Neraka must be challenged. Take the new hand to join with Khemu’s hand. Khemu and you and your hand will march to the settlement of Angthuul. Another hand will meet you there. That will give you three hands. You know Angthuul?”

  “Aye, my lord. A day south of Styx. I have been to it.” Khleeg frowned. “And Garantha?”

  As ranks of ogres marched past in preparation for their imminent departure, the Grand Khan put his hand on Wargroch’s shoulder. “The brother of Nagroch and Belgroch must bear the responsibility of watching Garantha. But I will always be near.”

  The proclamation caught the other by surprise, not only because of the responsibility being placed on the younger officer’s shoulders, but because Golgren had said that somehow he would be close by to assist him. Khleeg nodded his acceptance, but asked, “The Grand Khan will need more messenger birds?”

  In reply, Golgren drew from a pouch a tiny, round crystal that was light silver in color. He handed it to Wargroch, who handled it gingerly, for he and Khleeg both understood it possessed magic.

  Even as the pair studied the mysterious bauble, the Grand Khan removed a second crystal from the pouch. “And Khleeg will also have the voice of Golgren to guide him.”

  “My lord …” the senior warrior responded. As he turned his crystal over to inspect it, he asked, “Great one … They are Titan magic?”

  Wargroch looked pained, as though the crystal in his palm had suddenly turned into a festering wound.

  Golgren eased their concerns. “No, the magic owes nothing to the Titans.”

  Indeed, he had only an hour past twisted them out of the hands of Tyranos. A wizard as wily as the leonine one surely knows how to arrange some manner of communication for Golgren to keep in close touch with his most trusted warriors. That was how the Grand Khan had phrased the suggestion to the human, appealing both to Tyranos’s pride and the wizard’s own stake in the ogre’s success.

  Tyranos had protested, slamming the end of his staff into the marble floor of Golgren’s bed chamber. Yet in the end, the human provided had him with the three crystals-one each for Golgren, Wargroch, and Khleeg.

  Hold the stone before your left eye and picture which of them you wish to speak with, the spellcaster had instructed. When Golgren had wondered at such simplistic instructions, Tyranos had shrugged and, in typical manner, asked the ogre if he wanted them to be made more complex and confusing.

  The Grand Khan did not speak of Tyranos to either warrior, but he did repeat the instructions. Wargroch nodded, while Khleeg peered at the stone as if still wary that it would turn into something nasty.

  Finally seeming to accept the necessity of the communication stone, Khleeg growled, “My lord, you must not ride alone—”

  “I will ride with you as far as Ben-ihm, there to lead the hand of Barech to the Vale.”

  His second in command grunted in satisfaction. “Barech is very loyal. Good.”

  Wargroch was suddenly disconcerted. “Grand Khan! Let Barech guard Garantha! Let Wargroch ride with you to the Vale!”

  “Your Grand Khan has chosen you, and you will guard my Garantha. Yes, Wargroch?”

  “Yes, Grand Khan!”

  A mastark trumpeted. Golgren looked past the pair. The first ranks of warriors were nearly at the main gates of the city.

  “Come!” he commanded.

  A crowd had gathered near where the new hand had formed for inspection. Barking cheers rose as the Grand Khan rode up. Golgren waved to all of them, looking every bit the confident conqueror. As he neared the gates, he looked up at the carved head of a huge griffon that had only recently been installed as a symbol of the city’s patron spirit. Its high, fierce head could be seen from a great distance away and also made for the proper backdrop to the ceremony about to take place.

  A roar that sounded as if an eagle had swallowed a snarling cat cut through the cheers. Chained on a five-sided, wooden platform was the very creature for whom Garantha had been named. The griffon was a male, a powerful beast almost as large as a meredrake. Its torso was akin to one of the great cats: long, lean, obviously swift. However, instead of a sinewy, whip of a tail, the griffon had the plumage of a magnificent bird. The golden brown beast also had taloned feet as opposed to clawed paws. Already it had done its best to shred the platform.

  The griffon had an avian head—a fearsome raptor’s profile, a sharp, hooked beak—but its eyes also had a feline cast that gave it a wise and
perhaps distrustful look. The beast roared again, its unique cry silencing many in the crowd.

  It flapped its mighty wings, but rose no more than an inch off the platform. Its wings had been clipped, an arduous ordeal for one of its kind. The male was a recent capture, and one that had originally been intended to dwell in a temple situated near the center of the capital, the Garan i Seraith—The Nest of the Griffon. But Golgren needed the creature in order that all should understand the situation.

  The chain that held the griffon by the throat was twice as thick as the ones generally used. Golgren had ordered that security measure after the disaster at the Nest, when his enemies had sabotaged those keeping the two in the temple at bay.

  At his nod, a trumpeter at the opposite end from the griffon blew the call announcing Golgren’s readiness. Flanked by Khleeg, Wargroch, and his guards, the Grand Khan stepped before the front of the platform and faced the throng.

  He drew his sword. Khleeg and Wargroch imitated him.

  “Iskar’ai!” Golgren shouted. “Victory!” he repeated in Common.

  There were scattered cries of both words from the crowd and the warriors of the new hand. The ogre term faded as more and more picked up the second, Common version. All were aware of the decree that Common be the tongue to speak, and all wanted to prove they were eager followers of their ruler’s commands.

  As one, Golgren and his two officers turned to face the griffon. The winged behemoth lunged at them, but the chain did not permit it to come anywhere near them—at least as yet. Undaunted by its savage beak or huge, slashing talons, the trio stepped up onto the platform.

  As they did, Khleeg and Wargroch moved away from Golgren, flanking him from behind. They held their swords at the ready, but did not advance toward the griffon.

  Holding his blade before him, the Grand Khan confidently approached the angry beast snapping its beak. Just out of striking reach, Golgren saluted the great creature.

  “Let the spirit of the winged hunter fly ever above the warriors of Golthuu,” he intoned loudly. “Let them strike with its swiftness, cut with the sharpness of its talons, and rip out the hearts of the enemy with the power of its bite!”