Even so, there was nothing he could do but wait and see. As with all military hands, Khleeg’s would have had messenger birds at their disposal. It was possible that some note was winging its way to Garantha. Wargroch could be relied upon to alert his master of any such messages.
A mournful howl tore his attention back to the mountains. The ogre warriors tensed before they all realized the howl was nothing more than the wind coursing among the sharp, jagged peaks.
For the ogre people, the mountains had no official name, although, according to the commander, the locals called them Isan du ihageed-araki, the Teeth of the Burrower. They did indeed resemble teeth to Golgren, although more like those of a meredrake or dragon. At a glance, the peaks looked devoid of life, including the hardy shrubs found in southern Golthuu or even southwest of the capital. The oddly narrow mountaintops were also heavily scored, as if countless creatures over the ages had sharpened their claws on the rocky sides.
Golgren’s eyes continually surveyed his surroundings. The mysterious message of the wild fires—and its lack of clear meaning—was still fresh in his wary thoughts.
The way was tight. Often, only two riders could pass through a juncture, or three to four warriors grouped on foot. The lone mastark with the hand actually had an easier time than expected, the great beast stepping on top or over most obstacles. Still, Barech voiced some concern that perhaps he had been wrong to bring the massive lumbering creature with them.
There was no choice when it came to settling down for the night. Night in the mountains fell with a great abruptness, the tall peaks casting pitch black shadows. But the one mastark had another value on the journey. The spoor of the beast was plentiful and fueled the column’s fires. There was not much else to scavenge.
The fires were kept small and, for the first hours, watched from a wary distance by most. However, as the cool night air took over and the flames remained subdued, the ogres gathered in large numbers around each campfire, beginning to relax.
The wind continued to howl. Idaria stayed close to Golgren, her own gaze surreptitiously studying the vicinity as she saw to her duties.
“One could easily find freedom by fleeing into the mountains,” the Grand Khan remarked as she brought him a bowl of hot broth from one of the fires. “Is that not so, my Idaria?”
She looked down as she handed the bowl to him. “One could find many things, but freedom is doubtful, my lord. Not in those mountains.”
“But in Neraka, yes?”
Idaria met his gaze with one just as veiled. “Or in Golthuu as well.”
Golgren nodded vaguely at her evasive reply, and began to eat. The elf knelt nearby, nibbling on some dried fruit she had brought with her. Unless she had no other choice, she didn’t eat meat. Golgren’s mother had learned to suffer meat; life among the ogre tribes was too difficult to survive otherwise.
They bedded down after their meals. The long trek enabled the Grand Khan to drift off fairly quickly. But once asleep, Golgren heard whispers. At first, his dreams could make no sense of the whispers, save that they sounded like a beautiful song whose words he could not understand. The whispers were neither in Common or Ogre, yet he felt that he should understand the words. Not understanding so greatly disturbed him that he suddenly awoke, finding himself covered in sweat.
Even awake, he still heard the whispers. Glancing at Idaria’s still form, the half-breed rose to investigate. The whispering seemed louder the more he moved to his right, yet at the same time, it also felt as if the whispering surrounded him.
Golgren took a few more steps to the right. He was certain the whispering grew louder, more coherent. It was a song, although like none that he had ever heard. Gripping his sword, he advanced a few more paces, and a few more—
A hand suddenly seized the wrist of his maimed limb. Idaria’s excited voice murmured, “My lord! Why are you going so far from the camp?”
He was about to chastise her for her ridiculous statement when, staring past the elf, Golgren looked around and saw that there was no sign of the encampment. Indeed, in the dark there was hardly anything to see at all. He was in the middle of nowhere.
“Where are we?” he demanded. “How far?”
“Several minutes along the trail, my lord. I only barely saw you vanish in the distance and followed as swiftly as I could.”
Golgren hissed, puzzled by how he had come so far. Yet still, he heard the whispering voices as they continued to sing the strange, unsettling song. Loud enough for him to hear plainly, the words remained as riddlesome as the message the flames had left. Did they emanate from the same source?
He glanced at Idaria. She did not appear to have heard anything.
A sudden thought sent his hand into the pouch where the crystal lay. As Golgren tore it free, the voices in his head reached a crescendo.
“No!” the Grand Khan roared. He stumbled a few steps before shouting to the slave, “Lead me!”
She did not hesitate, grabbing his maimed limb and tugging at it to guide him through the deep darkness quicker than he could have done by himself. The pair ran as fast as they could.
A rumble like thunder echoed from ahead.
The ground shook with a sudden extreme violence that brought back to Golgren memories of the confrontation with the army off’hanos. He struggled to maintain his balance, but fell to one knee. As ever, the elf managed to not only keep her own graceful footing, but helped him rise and run again.
The rumble magnified, becoming deafening.
“Hurry!” Golgren commanded.
Fire flickered far ahead. The ogre leader spotted the encampment.
But getting there was an impossibility. The path ahead was blocked by stone and dirt that had fallen from the mountainsides. There was enough of a gap to see ahead, yet he couldn’t attempt to climb over or around, without risking his life.
Still, Golgren did not hesitate. There was only way to stop what was happening. And that was for him to hurl himself in the midst of it all.
The avalanche was assailing the column from all sides. Great masses of mountain debris rained down upon the terrified ogre warriors. Their screams vied with the horrific rumbling.
As he fought to reach the column, the fires enabled Golgren to observe the monstrous spectacle. He saw three ogres crushed by a single rock as large as the mastark. Where much of the right flank had bedded down for the night was already a rushing mass of earth that swept over several more warriors as if it were an ocean wave. Horses darted about, but they had nowhere to go.
Of Barech, there was no sign. However, where Golgren recalled the commander had slept he saw that spot was covered by a huge chunk of earth that had dropped from high above.
Amid the chaos, the mastark recklessly charged toward Golgren. The Grand Khan leapt away from a pile of rocks and earth just as the beast reached where he’d been standing.
His decision proved life-saving. The spot where Golgren had stood suddenly collapsed, the earth there tumbling away so rapidly, while fresh rocks and debris rained from above, that Idaria also had to jump aside or die. Unfortunately for the mastark—and Golgren-the path was even more blocked than before. The battered animal trumpeted and backed up to try again.
As it did, a fresh rockslide dropped upon the leviathan, burying the struggling beast as if it were no more than an insect. The mastark let out one last desperate call before being submerged and disappearing.
Golgren pulled farther back as loose scree pelted him from all directions. Compared to the disaster that had overwhelmed Barech and his force, the danger was over for him.
The rumble gradually faded, leaving only the settling dust to echo in Golgren’s ears. There was not a single sound of life within the area of the encampment, which was all but covered by the great collapse. Surely the warriors of Barech’s hand were all dead. Over a thousand lives had been wiped out in perhaps no more than a few moments.
As the Grand Khan let that dread thought sink in, he realized that the warriors had p
erished because of him.
“Is that it?” sang Ulgrod, one of the newest of the Titans and among the most vocal of those who had called repeatedly for the half-breed’s death. “He’s to remain untouched?”
The Titans had all gathered for the magical event. Safrag had insisted that a pooling of all their power would save any individual from being too taxed with the job. Reserves of elixir were extremely low and had to be rationed.
No one in the inner circle, not even the usually outspoken Ulgrod, had dared point out that the Black Talon appeared to be far more refreshed and powerful than the rest of them.
“Of course, he is to remain untouched,” Safrag responded like a soothing teacher. “The mongrel is our key to the Fire Rose. That was explained to all of you sufficiently.”
The rest eagerly nodded; no one wished to annoy Safrag. The Black Talon and the other Titans had committed themselves to his plan. The artifact was the key to their independence and utter domination—it was the key to everything they desired. If Ulgrod wished to take chances with his life by questioning Safrag’s decision, the rest were willing to let him.
They stood atop the mountains just west of where the column had met its doom, all but untouched by the wind rushing among the dire peaks. Even had it been bright daytime, neither Golgren nor any one else, not even the sharp-eyed Idaria, could have seen them. Yet the Titans could see far and with deadly accuracy, and watching their handiwork was part of the pleasure.
Destroying over a thousand lives had not been much more effort.
“But he’ll surely know it was us—that is all I mean, master! We’ve shown our hand.” Some of the other Titans cracked grins at his choice of words—considering Golgren’s own physical state—but Ulgrod scowled at them. “We have marked ourselves openly as his enemies. Why should he continue on a hunt for something that he knows we also desire?”
“Because he has little choice. And because he is Golgren. He will assume the key to his survival is finding the Fire Rose and wielding it first, against us.”
The others nodded, agreeing with the sense. Only Ulgrod dared speak again.
“And what if he does find the Fire Rose and wield it against us?”
The lead Titan only smiled more broadly. “He will not be able to do what he hopes. But we shall just let the mongrel find out that for himself, shall we not?” He raised his hands to the dark sky, a gesture immediately imitated by his gathered followers. “We shall thank him for preparing our people for our rule and finally, slowly, very painfully, put an end to him.”
As the others joined him in smiling at that particular happy thought, Safrag sang out the words of a new spell.
The Titans vanished.
Just as the Titans were unseen by Golgren and Idaria and the ill-fated warriors, so another figure had remained invisible to the sorcerers’ gathering.
More a shadow than substance, the figure stared for a moment at the spot upon which the sorcerers had stood. Although no taller than Golgren and perhaps just a shade smaller, the figure showed no trepidation at having been so near the full might of the towering spellcasters. Indeed, its long, oval eyes of white radiated only contempt for those who had just departed. From behind the lower half of the tightly bound golden cloth that obscured all its other features, there came a brief but throaty laugh.
The gray and black, hooded figure disappeared.
X
SHADOWS AND SHADES
Tyranos awoke, momentarily uncertain as to where he was. Upon recalling, he tried to leap to his feet, only to fall back—fortunately onto a soft fur—as his head swam.
“Slowly,” warned his companion. “I’ve had my head struck often enough to have learned the proper manner by which to rise afterward.”
The wizard pushed himself up to his elbows and eyed the speaker. The Solamnian sat cross-legged to his left, as calm as if he were back among the highborn of his land and not stuck in a cave somewhere in the Vale of Vipers. Even his beard did not seem entirely out of place, for Stefan used his dagger to keep it fairly trim. There was nothing to suggest that the Knight of the Sword was concerned about anything.
“What happened? I remember you helping me and bringing me to the cave. But after that my mind draws a blank.”
“That was about the time you fainted.”
“I fainted? Never!”
Stefan put away his dagger. “I was warned you’d be full of pride. But I’ve had that failing too.”
“You were warned? By whom?”
The Solamnian cocked his head. “You know.”
The wizard sat straight up. His eyes darted back and forth as he better surveyed his surroundings. The cave entrance was several yards to his right, which meant that at a good sprint, he could reach it before the Solamnian could stop him.
But staring behind Stefan, Tyranos spotted something more valuable to him than a swift means of exit. Just beyond the Solamnian lay the wizard’s precious staff.
And next to Stefan side lay the knight’s sword. So unfortunately, the Solamnian could run him through before the wizard could shove him aside and grab the staff.
“Did you want it?” Stefan asked, reaching behind him and, without looking, taking up the very item his guest so coveted.
“You know I do.”
Stefan tossed it to him.
The wizard was so startled that he fumbled with the magical artifact before finally getting a good grip on it. He immediately pointed the crystal at the Solamnian.
“That really isn’t necessary,” Stefan assured him. “He would not have brought us together if either of us meant harm to one another.”
“Stop talking like that!” Tyranos managed to lurch to his feet. A calm Stefan also rose. The Solamnian did not try to reach for his sword. The spellcaster kept in mind that he still had a dagger close at hand which was good for tossing. “Mayhap he talks with you, but that’s no concern of mine.”
“He only wants to help you. You’re as much a follower of his as I am.”
“He, him, it! Call that one by the name he’s known best! Kiri-Jolith! My path diverged from his long ago, knight—or should I say cleric? That’s what you are claiming, isn’t it?”
Stefan shrugged. “I claim nothing. I’m only doing what he asks of me.”
Tyranos felt his legs buckling. Through sheer grit, he kept on his feet. “Well, he can ask all he wants of me. But I do what I desire, not what any god or cleric likes!”
“But you want to find the Fire Rose, don’t you?”
Tyranos hesitated. “What do you know of that? How much do you know … about me?”
“What I know is between my patron and me and no one else. Not even the Grand Khan Golgren.”
With a derisive snort, the wizard retorted, “That is a perfectly empty answer. Just like a cleric.”
“I’m also a knight. And besides, I always heard that spell-casters are just as secretive.”
Tyranos let slip a rueful smile. “Aye, that I’ll not deny.” Again his legs threatened to collapse. He quickly planted the end of the staff on the ground to help him balance on his feet. As Stefan moved to assist him, the wizard waved him off. “I will stand by myself, or not stand at all.”
His comment provoked the Solamnian. “That has been your way for many years, hasn’t it?”
“Will you kindly please stop trying to delve into my life?”
“As you like.” Stefan sat down again. “The important question is, do you still want to find the Fire Rose?”
Teetering, Tyranos growled. “And you’re going to just tell me where it is?”
“No, I can’t do that, regrettably. I have an idea, because he has an idea. But where it is actually hidden is known truly by only one other, and he only gives those clues he enjoys giving.”
“Bah, more empty talk. What does that mean?”
Stefan shrugged. “My patron didn’t make that clear.”
“A fine … A fine cleric”—the wizard leaned more and more on the staff—“you are …”
His legs gave. He fell face first to the floor.
But Stefan was somehow there before Tyranos struck the ground. The slighter man proved he was much stronger than the tall wizard, and lifted Tyranos up enough to get a better hold on him, before assisting the spellcaster to the soft fur again.
“You need some water.”
“I need a good ale or some rum! Can you manage that?”
Stefan chuckled. “You’ll have to make do with water.”
“A fine cleric, as I said.”
The Solamnian went to the innermost recesses of the shallow cave. The shadows hid exactly what he was doing, but Tyranos heard the scraping of rock. A few moments later, Stefan returned with a small sack of water.
“Did you conjure that up from the mountain?” scoffed the wizard.
“In a sense. There’s a tiny spring back there. I leave something to catch some of the water and pour that into the sack.”
“Truly amazing. You perform miracles.”
The knight furrowed his brow. “Being a cleric is not about miracles. It’s about faith. Faith finds ways.”
“So does magic, thank you very much.” Tyranos drank from the sack. “Better than ale, at the moment.” Refreshed, he suddenly glared at his companion. “But you did heal me. From what I can recall of my injuries, that had to take more than faith.”
“Did it? I had only faith and my patron.”
“And do you have faith in your patron when he tells you how we can find the Fire Rose, which even he, admittedly, cannot?”
Taking the sack, Stefan confidently replied, “For that, we’ll need the help of the Grand Khan Golgren.”
Tyranos eyed him. “That’s the least surprising thing you’ve said … Stefan. That’s your name, isn’t it?”
The Fire Rose Page 13
