The Fire Rose

by Richard A. Knaak

  “Sir Stefan Rennert, Knight of the Sword, nephew of Sir Augustus Rennert—”

  The wizard waved him to silence. “None of that, please. I’ve had lineages tossed at me all my life.” He rubbed his broad jaw. “So, as I presumed, the half-breed is the key. Although why he of all people it should be, I’d like to know.”

  “That wasn’t made clear to me.”

  “Of course not. Nothing is clear. Can you at least tell me what you want? The Fire Rose for Solamnia?”

  “Not in the least,” Stefan replied, his distaste evident. “I don’t doubt some of those high above would prefer the artifact in their hands, but my patron has told me enough about it that I can only see catastrophe if anyone possesses it too long.”

  Tyranos snorted. “And yet, he wishes it in the hands of Golgren. If that isn’t a contradiction, I don’t know what is!”

  “I only understand that I must help keep it away from the clutches of others who desire it, and leave its uses to Golgren. And also to you, to some extent, I think.”

  “How gracious of the gods!” the spellcaster sneered. “And did Kiri-Jolith say exactly how long I’m permitted to use the Fire Rose, or if there are any stipulations as to what I’m allowed to do with the Rose for the few moments he permits?”

  Stefan started to reply, but suddenly he heard a sound from outside. It was a sound familiar to the wizard, judging by his reaction.

  The cries of many, many gargoyles.

  Tyranos clutched his staff tight, uncertain what to do.

  Stefan readied his sword, but he merely used it to gesture Tyranos to caution and silence. For several tense moments the two waited, while outside the cries rose louder and nearer. The Solamnian pulled forth his triangular medallion, and Tyranos heard him speak not just with his patron, but also with several others who boasted names such as Willum and Hector.

  At last, even though the wizard felt with certainty the gargoyles would have located and searched the cave, the cries faded. Within another moment, silence settled again on the area.

  “They were very frustrated to find out that the dragon wasn’t really a dragon,” Stefan commented dryly. “I’ll have to come up with another trick next time.”

  Memories stirred. “That roar? It was you?”

  “With some faith in Kiri-Jolith and the proper ambience.”

  “Inspired!” Tyranos sat straight again and was pleased to discover that his head did not swim. He hoped his legs would soon follow the head’s excellent example. “I think I know why those damned things are all in the mountains. But who was that shadow with the eyes like the Icewall?”

  “Ah! You’ve seen it too”

  “Seen it and know it played me for a fool! Set me a trap I walked into and would’ve never escaped if not for your good imitation of one of the winged behemoths!” The leonine spellcaster growled. “By the Kraken! That shadow—I’m fairly certain it was he—was able to stay among all those gargoyles with no worries about being torn to shreds!”

  That did not appear to surprise Stefan. He put aside his sword in order to reach for some kind of meat. The wizard’s stomach was empty, so he couldn’t have been more pleased.

  “Why should he be worried?” the Solamnian asked as he handed a morsel to the wizard. “From what little I saw, they obey him as if he were one of them.” Stefan shook his head. “No, more than that …”

  “More?”

  The Solamnian tore off a piece of meat for himself. “More. They obey him. They obey him as if he were their very king.”

  Golgren did not sleep that night, though he rested a little. It was something he had learned to do early in life, a tiny half-breed like himself who was often the target of many taller ogres. Rest restored his strength and cleared his mind.

  He and Idaria sat protected from the wind between two large outcroppings about an hour’s rising from the scene of death and destruction. Golgren had not bothered to see if there were survivors, although the elf had recommended doing that. He had declined because he believed all were dead, but also because he had to keep going forward, or something else was bound to happen.

  The Titans were extremely impatient to get their taloned hands on the Fire Rose. And so was Golgren.

  With dawn, he had tried again to reach either Khleeg or Wargroch. But Tyranos’s crystals did not appear to be functioning anymore. Why that was did not really matter. What did matter was that Golgren had only himself and Idaria upon whom to rely. That was a mistake his enemies would regret.

  With Idaria in tow, the Grand Khan made his way among the mountains. He had no idea how far he had to travel, nor even exactly where he had to go. From his low vantage point, all Golgren could see were the tops of the mountains. He had to trust what Barech had said. The trail would lead him to the vale.

  The high peaks kept the pair in shadows throughout the day, making it difficult to see much ahead. Golgren had both his sword and dagger, and could defend them against any strange animals who made the place their habitat. But they did not confront any unusual creatures, nor did they hear any. The wind continued to be the only sound rushing through the chain.

  “No birds,” the elf commented solemnly late in their trek. Her gaze had often turned skyward, where the only hint of daylight could be glimpsed. “None.”

  “No birds,” he agreed. They both knew how peculiar that was. The mountains should have been perfect nesting areas for some of the great birds: condors, blood hawks, and the like. And there were none of the predators that stalked the winged creatures.

  No birds or animals meant less chance of food. For a day or two, that would not be a great problem. Idaria did not eat much, and Golgren was used to famine. Beyond that, though …

  Near nightfall, the slave suddenly sniffed the air. Golgren thought he also smelled something, but the elf had an even sharper nose than him when it came to certain scents.

  “There is water near,” she announced.

  “How far?”

  “Not very.” Idaria nimbly stepped along the uneven ground, her fleet footsteps making the ogre leader trail awkwardly. But Golgren kept up with Idaria as best he could. Only a few minutes later, the slave paused near a small crevasse. Idaria slipped into the gap to explore, emerging a moment later.

  “There is a stream. A small one, but more than enough for our needs.”

  The half-breed joined her inside the crevasse. The stream was as she described it, a little stream caused either by melting ice from above or a deep underground flow. The mountain chain had life after all; one merely had to be patient enough to find it.

  Near the stream they found a small patch of mushrooms. Idaria plucked up one of the lumpy, gray spearheads.

  “I cannot say whether it is poisonous or not—”

  The half-breed quickly snatched up another and stuffed it into his mouth. After chewing and swallowing it, he said to her, “It is not poisoned.”

  The slave stared at him for a moment before picking a few small ones for herself. The meal of mushrooms did not put an end to their hunger, but it did lessen it considerably.

  They had nothing with which to carry water; their sacks had been buried under tons of rock. Both drank as much as they could.

  Just as they finished, Golgren felt a warmth on his hand. Immediately, he held up the signet.

  The symbols faintly glowed.

  “Look,” the elf murmured, pointing.

  He looked where she pointed, at where the stream gushed forth from the mountainside. There, a symbol etched in the rock also glowed faintly.

  A curved line with two dots to its right.

  As Golgren reached for the etching, both its glow and that of the signet faded. Despite that, he was able to trace the symbol and verify its astonishing existence.

  Golgren ran his hands along the mountainside, but found no other etchings, no hidden gaps. It was as if someone else had paused to drink and decided to leave the mysterious symbol.

  “It is old,” Idaria interjected. “Scratched by o
ne of the High Ogres.”

  Golgren continued to trace the markings. “Yes, it would be them. Not the Titans. The sorcerers, they would have no reason for doing that.”

  “The vision …”

  The Grand Khan glanced at her. “The vision?”

  The slave’s eyes grew veiled. “The one in Ben-ihm.”

  He bared his teeth slightly. “So, my Idaria was already present for the vision? You did not appear after?”

  “No, my lord. I was there but a moment before you rose. I saw the vision of the casters, and the shadow that overtook them in the end.”

  He showed no anger at her revelation. “The High Ogres were surely dead long ago. But their magic …” The half-breed grinned darkly. “Their magic maybe lives.”

  He stroked the symbol and touched the signet to it. But if Golgren hoped for anything more to happen, he was sorely disappointed.

  “We are done,” he finally said to Idaria.

  Departing the stream, the pair continued on through the harsh mountain pass. Without horses, the journey was certain to take much longer, but there was nothing they could do about that.

  Night fell upon them and once more they found what shelter they could. The dreams and nightmares that so often haunted Golgren returned with a vengeance. He saw visions of his mother slaughtered, and her body—which he had so painstakingly carried to safety—eaten by the scavenging ji-baraki. Whereas in the waking world the half-breed had avenged himself on the beasts, in his nightmares they kept dragging the corpse out of reach. All the while, the unblinking eyes of his elf mother condemned him for even being born.

  The other nightmares were twisted versions of important events that had marked his life. In one he led the village of his youth into battle against the Nerakans, only to watch the villagers slaughtered as the knights turned into scorpion warriors with four arms—each wielding a sword or some wickedly-barbed club—and as many tails. Worse yet, the dead stumbled to their feet to join the warriors trying to drag him down into the bowels of Golthuu’s desolate landscape.

  But through the nightmares there came at last a soft touch and soothing murmurs. The Grand Khan awoke to Idaria.

  She said nothing more, and he did not thank her. It was her duty as his slave.

  It was still dark, but Golgren had no immediate desire to return to his slumber. He rubbed his thick brow and stared at their murky surroundings. Vague rock formations took on more sinister aspects at night. Some resembled beasts, both real and mythic. There was the head of a roaring dragon. Beyond that he could see the wing and spine outline of a V’radu Ikn, a flying creature like a ji-baraki with feathered appendages. V’radu Ikn did not, fortunately, exist anywhere but in the imagination of ancient ogre storytellers. They were said to sneak up on a warrior the night before a significant battle in order to steal and eat his courage. Losing one’s courage was the worst thing that could befall an ogre.

  Yet another rock formation took the shape of a hooded figure bent over as if carrying a heavy burden. If Golgren squinted, it almost looked as if another, identical figure loomed a little behind the first, no doubt assisting with the load.

  He realized that the shapes were moving, albeit very, very slowly.

  The pair trudged along as if hardly able to stand, much less carry whatever was their shared burden. Golgren started to rise, but hesitated when he noticed two more hooded shapes behind the first pair.

  From his side, Idaria quietly asked, “My lord, what is it? Do you see something?”

  That she asked the question clearly meant that the vision belonged to his eyes only. The Grand Khan suddenly looked to his hand. The warmth told him what his eyes verified a breath later—there was a faint glow emanating from the symbols.

  “What do you see, my lord?” the elf inquired again.

  Golgren did not answer her, and as he peered again at the figures, he saw two more. All moved with silence; all moved as though they carried the weight of the entire world on their backs.

  The Grand Khan let out a slight hiss as he made a count of the figures. Eight in total.

  There had been eight High Ogres in his vision.

  Golgren slowly moved toward the figures, trying to focus better on them. Although he was able to make them out as forms, they were never very distinct. As he drew closer, he saw that they did not exactly walk, but kept jerking slightly and shifting forward, as if someone were pushing along a series of drawings.

  Their poses varied. Each shift revealed slight differences from the previous manifestation. It came to Golgren’s mind that he was perhaps seeing pieces of the past.

  That he was experiencing a vision that had something to do with the artifact was obvious; perhaps the figures even carried the artifact. However, no matter the angle from which he studied the shadows, he was never able to see what it was they carried. Indeed, when Golgren tried to come around behind the figures, he discovered they had no dimension of depth. Their overall images had two sides, but not front or back—very much like drawings.

  Idaria joined him, aware that something beyond her ken was taking place, yet still trying in vain to perceive what it was. She started to come around Golgren’s other side, putting herself in the shadows’ path without realizing it.

  Golgren tried to warn her off, but it was too late. The first shade passed directly through the slave without pause, and without any apparent effect either to her or to the shadowy figure.

  Finally with some idea of what was happening, Idaria moved over behind Golgren, following him as he paced the last of the shades.

  Standing, they would have been just slightly shorter than Golgren and roughly the size of an Uruv Suurt. There were faint glimpses of faces among them, but not enough to identify them.

  “It is the eight,” he verified to himself. “The eight casters.” The Grand Khan again attempted to spot what it was that those in front carried, but all he caught were glimpses of what seemed to be a large, dark chest.

  So engrossed was he in angling for a better view that he no longer paid attention to where the band was heading. It was Idaria who saved him at the last second from what might have been a hard collision with a wall of rock, the elf pulling Golgren back with a surprising display of strength. Golgren watched narrow-eyed as the final shadow entered the rock.

  He thrust his hand after the last figure. Surprisingly, his fingers passed through, briefly, but they grazed the rock hard enough to warn the half-breed that the wall was no illusion.

  As the final shape faded away, something new shimmered into existence. Golgren’s eyes widened as he beheld the second symbol etched by the fires, scored into the rock wall.

  A brief but startled sound from Idaria indicated that she saw the symbol too. Golgren studied the mark closely, trying to see if it differed in some way from the one in the encampment. As far as he could determine, they were identical.

  “But what does it mean?” he murmured. “Kya i thu den?” Golgren repeated, momentarily slipping back into the Ogre tongue.

  In a rare sign of frustration, the ogre leader banged his fist against the rock.

  The signet flashed. The symbol flashed.

  And a blazing gap opened up before the Grand Khan, who stumbled forward and fell through.

  XI

  REBELLION

  There were survivors among Khleeg’s hand, though not very many.

  The black cloud that had descended on the struggle had materialized from nothing. One moment, there had only been the baking sun, the next it was as if darkest night had come.

  One by one, followed by the dozens, the bolts had struck selectively. They fell so long as there was resistance, ending the moment that the hapless defenders finally gave in to the inevitable. More than two hundred burnt corpses gave witness to the monstrous horror. The stench of burning flesh filled the region.

  Rauth’s warriors and the traitors among Khleeg’s hand quickly moved in to seize those left standing. The prisoners were gathered together, and those who were officers of an
y sort were separated from the rest.

  Rauth rode up in front of the others. A narrow-eyed warrior with a crooked mouth that seemed constantly about to smile, he gestured at the officers, the first of whom was dragged forward to him.

  The ogre officer leaped down. He seized the bound prisoner by his mane and pulled his head back. The other ogre struggled, but the guards held him in place.

  Keeping his axe sheathed, Rauth drew a dagger that had once been wielded by his commander, Khemu. There were stains on the blade: Khemu’s blood.

  “F’han!” his own followers shouted. “F’han!”

  With a grin, the treacherous officer drew a thin red line across the captive’s throat. It was not enough to slay the prisoner, but certainly put him through excruciating agony.

  The guards shoved the bleeding captive down on his knees. His hands were unbound, brought around to the front, and retied tightly. He was stretched forward as far as possible.

  The captive tried to pull away. Rauth sheathed the dagger and accepted a hefty axe from a comrade. He raised the weapon high over the kneeling figure.

  As the axe came down, the bound officer tried to throw himself forward. But once again, the guards held him in place. They would pay the price if Rauth missed his target.

  The heavy blade chopped through both wrists.

  The kneeling ogre screamed as blood poured from his severed limbs. His arms moved about as he tried in vain to connect them somehow to the lost appendages.

  Rauth’s followers roared their approval, while the prisoners gave a horrified hiss. Some grew restive, but guards moved in and whipped any who looked defiant.

  The maimed officer finally collapsed, the blood loss and shock too much for even an ogre to bear. The guards unceremoniously dragged his lifeless body to where the rest of the dead lay.

  Rauth casually plucked up the severed hands. With blood and fragments of flesh and muscle dripping down his arms, the ogre held the appendages for the rest of the prisoners to see.

  Even for an ogre, Rauth was a creature of few words. But those few words were all he needed to make his point.