The Fire Rose

by Richard A. Knaak

  “Golgren!” he roared, tossing the severed hands up in the air and letting them fall with a disconcerting thud on the blood-soaked soil.

  Only the wind and the quiet, hesitant breathing of the prisoners was heard in the aftermath of the short but ghastly spectacle. Rauth grinned as he looked among them, his bloodshot gaze especially focusing on the unnerved officers.

  When enough time had passed, Rauth used the axe to point at the next prisoner he wanted brought before him. Compared to the first captive, the ogre did not begin his journey to death with the slightest hint of courage. Out of his yellow-toothed mouth poured unintelligible noises of fear and terror. He twisted and turned and tried to do everything he could to keep from being dragged to the murderous traitor. There were few things that ogres outright feared, but what Rauth had done to the first victim was a mutilation they considered among the most heinous.

  The officer watched with grinning amusement as the second prisoner was positioned before him like the previous victim. He drew his dagger and once more cut a thin line across the throat. The guards immediately forced the wounded warrior to his knees and brought the hands forward.

  Rauth gripped the axe and raised it high over his head.

  A breath later, he lowered it again. To the surprise of the prisoners, he came around to his victim’s front and used the flat of the axe to raise the shivering figure’s gaze to him.

  “Atolgus …” Rauth declared, his eyes indicating the axe head. He shifted the head to a position just over the wrists. “Golgren …”

  The captive was immediate in responding. “Atolgus! Swear to Atolgus!”

  His response was not yet enough. Rauth let the axe slip closer to the wrists.

  The bound ogre immediately twisted his head to the side, offering his bleeding neck to the axe. With a savage grin, Rauth touched the shallow cut with the flat of the axehead.

  “Atolgus!” the prisoner roared. “I swear to Atolgus!”

  From the traitors there came triumphant barks. The guards lifted the bleeding captive to his feet and untied him. He was presented with another axe.

  Rauth pointed to the next enemy officer.

  Nearly all the prisoners would surrender their lives to their captors, in return for becoming bound by blood oath to the traitors’ dark cause. It was part of an old ogre tradition that Golgren himself had utilized at times. The cutting of the hands was a new touch designed specifically to remind the prisoners that the Grand Khan was already a thing half-condemned to a shameful afterlife, and thus hardly a ruler for whom it was worth sacrificing one’s own eternal fate.

  Khleeg growled under his breath at the bloody, albeit cunning strategy. To most ogres, one of the worst things that could happen to a warrior was to have his hands—which held his strength and skills—severed either before or after death. The afterlife in which most ogres believed was a place of no pity; those without hands would be forced to beg forever. A death without hands shamed the clan as well.

  There was no doubt in Khleeg’s mind that, had he been among the prisoners, the first maimed corpse down there would have been his. Not for a moment did he think the traitors would have granted him the chance to change his allegiance. And not for a moment would Golgren’s second in command have even considered saving himself for what he felt would be a greater eternal shame.

  Astounding as it seemed even to him, he lived, and he watched the foul deeds from a low ridge some distance away. He had been certain of his doom when the black cloud had suddenly arisen, for he recognized the sorcery of the Titans.

  But before the cloud could strike, Khleeg had somehow been whisked away. Khleeg had only one explanation for his amazing rescue: The strange crystal that the Grand Khan had given to him had saved him. To Khleeg’s straightforward mind, that was the only explanation. And yet Golgren had not informed him of any such ability on the part of the crystal. He could only assume his lord had wanted to keep that a secret for some reason.

  A part of Khleeg wanted to go charging into the throng in order to smite Rauth down. However, not only would he never make it all the way to the traitorous officer, but Rauth was apparently not the true leader of the astounding insurrection.

  That mantle belonged to a most unlikely choice: a young chieftain of a nomadic tribe whom Khleeg had last seen being offered an officer’s rank in one of the southern hands. Khleeg recalled Atolgus well, a tall ogre eager to curry favor with the Grand Khan. It had been Atolgus who had found the knight, Stefan Rennert, and brought him to Garantha. For that, Golgren had rewarded him, and all indications had been that Atolgus was a loyal follower. Certainly Khleeg, who considered himself good at judging other warriors, had seen no guile.

  The Grand Khan had let Khleeg know Atolgus had a future. That some day, once better seasoned, Atolgus would first lead a hand before joining the august circle of which the Blödian was prime disciple.

  But Atolgus had proven himself as dishonorable as a hunting ji-baraki. That, or he was a Jaro Gyun, a wearer of masks, a duplicitous creature pretending to be what he had never been.

  Pushing out of sight, Khleeg sought the crystal. He had tried to contact his lord before, but for some reason the crystal was dead. Khleeg hoped that it would work again.

  But although he was certain that he followed the proper instructions, still the crystal did not show him his lord. Khleeg growled and nearly threw away the useless piece, but thought of the other who carried a crystal. Perhaps …

  Holding it to his left eye, he muttered, “Wargroch.”

  There was a definite warmth to the stone. Encouraged, Khleeg repeated the name while picturing the younger officer.

  A moment later, a startled Wargroch peered back at him. “Khleeg? Is that you?”

  “Hear me!” The Blödian told all that had happened, including all he had heard about Atolgus. Wargroch made disconcerted noises, but did not interrupt the second in command’s stream of explanation.

  When Khleeg had finished, the other officer finally responded with a snarl of his own. He muttered something in Ogre that Khleeg could not quite make out. He rumbled in Common, “I myself will march down to southern Golthuu to find Atolgus! His head will hang from a pike at Garantha’s gates!”

  “No! Garantha must be protected from Rauth!” Khleeg had considered what should be done. He always sought to emulate his lord. “Warn … Warn hands near Sadurak!” Sadurak was deep in old Blöde, near to where the rebel leader was located. The warriors there were tried and true, one hand under a trusted commander. “Warn Jod! Jod will fight Atolgus! Jod is loyal!”

  Wargroch mulled that over and replied, “Jod is loyal, yes.”

  “Beware Rauth! He will march to Garantha—”

  Wargroch suddenly vanished. Khleeg still felt some vague link to the other officer, but for some reason, it was impossible to see or speak with Wargroch any longer.

  A frustrated Khleeg again started to toss the crystal, but thought better of it and thrust it back into his pouch. He shoved himself away from the vicinity of Rauth’s triumph, trying to decide what he should do next.

  A sudden sound set every one of his nerves on alert. Khleeg drew his weapon as another ogre crept into sight. The disheveled warrior took one look at Khleeg and fell to one knee.

  The Blödian recognized the other ogre, although not by name. Khleeg was fairly certain that the warrior was loyal.

  “Rise,” he ordered. “Others?”

  In response, the warrior gestured behind him. Two more ogres appeared. One was wounded in the arm and carried no weapon. The other boasted a sword broken at the midpoint. If they were part of a trick to trap Golgren’s second in command, they were a good one, for Khleeg found their pathetic state quite credible.

  He waited to see if any more survivors would materialize, but that was apparently the entire sorry lot. Khleeg grimaced and signaled for all three to follow him. He had no idea exactly what he planned to do. The choices seemed either to head back to Garantha, or seek out Golgren.

 
Indeed, the ogre officer suddenly realized there was only one choice.

  Gritting his yellowed teeth, and with his army of three trailing behind him, Khleeg picked up his pace.

  His mind racing, Wargroch put away the crystal. Khleeg’s call to him had thrown the younger officer off balance. Events were not happening as he had expected they would when he was left in command.

  He summoned a subordinate. “Send word to all hand commanders in Garantha!” Wargroch decreed, trying to sound every inch as imposing and masterful as the Grand Khan in both his language and manner. “I will speak with them! Move!”

  Within the hour, four hulking commanders entered the palace. To emphasize his rank, Wargroch had them meet with him in the throne chamber. Unlike Golgren, however, Wargroch filled the seat in every way. He was nearly two feet taller than the Grand Khan and, like Khleeg, was a Blödian ogre stouter in his build.

  To his right, a chained meredrake dozed. The huge beast was a pet of Golgren’s, who often fed him scraps of raw amalok when granting an audience. Wargroch let the giant green and brown reptile sleep. With the exception of its master, the meredrake considered anyone fooling with it as potential food.

  Contrasting with when Golgren sat in Garantha, the walls were not lined with impressive, fierce-looking guards fanatically loyal to the Grand Khan. Only a pair of warriors utterly trusted by Wargroch stood near the metal doors; the only other eyewitnesses in the room were the many ghostly reliefs of the long-dead High Ogres. Blithely ignorant of current events, the latter continued their eternal festivals, hunts, and battles.

  Like all hand commanders, the four had been chosen for their zealous loyalty to Golgren. Loyalty among ogres was generally of a mercurial nature, however. Grand Khans had risen and fallen in the space of months, even weeks or days, with a simple disaster or heavy loss in battle turning many against them.

  There were some who maintained loyalty despite drastic turns of events. Golgren cultivated that sort as a breeder of those fighting amaloks who evinced the strongest builds, the sharpest horns, and—most of all—the fiercest tempers.

  The four commanders eyed the seated Wargroch with some displeasure, as they considered Golgren the only rightful occupant of the throne. Wargroch remained seated, determined to remind them that he had been made ruler in Golgren’s absence. That was important if he was to have his orders obeyed; his commands had to appear as though they issued directly from the Grand Khan himself.

  “Garantha is threatened,” he declared in as succinct a Common as any ogre could speak. It would have been much simpler to tell the four all they needed to know in their native tongue, but that would have looked wrong. Those warriors especially would expect to hear their orders in Common, and Common alone.

  They reacted as expected, straightening and glancing at one another, before returning their narrowed gazes to him. Their forces were the primary defenses of the capital.

  “The hands must march.”

  He received more than one surprised grunt. Wargroch did not allow the four time to think or react. He had made a decision, and he needed them to obey without question.

  “They must march to meet the Black Shells.”

  “Neraka?” grunted one commander, his mouth twisted into an expression of hatred. “The Skolax G’Ran, they come?”

  Wargroch nodded. “Yes, and we will meet them. We will crush the Black Shells.”

  He received nods and growls of approval. Mention of fighting the Nerakans was enough to whet appetites and curb any opposition. More than one of the commanders looked already eager to be off preparing his warriors.

  Nor did Wargroch wish to delay them. “Varuus Sha. You march to Varuus Sha.”

  They knew the settlement. Varuus Sha lay near one of the more obscure parts of the western border between the ogres and the territories controlled by the Black Shells. The Skolax G’Ran were clever foes; they often slipped in through desolate areas.

  “Varuus Sha,” snarled the senior among the four. “We go!” He slapped his fist against his breastplate. The others imitated him.

  With a nod, Wargroch gave them permission to leave. The commanders hurried away, grunting their eagerness. Avid as they were, they would have their forces on the march by morning.

  Alone save for his pair of trusted guards, Wargroch rose. Briefly through the young officer’s mind ran the images of his elder brothers, Nagroch and Belgroch.

  “It is done,” he muttered under his breath. “It is done.”

  But above the throne room, secreted in a place where he could hear all, the massive gargoyle, Chasm, let loose with a barely audible rumble. The master would be interested in all of it, of that Chasm was certain.

  The gargoyle took to the air. He rose straight up and aligned himself between the sun and the ground. No ogre would see him high up there. His second eyelids slipped into place, protecting his own vision.

  Chasm smelled the air, but he was not searching for any normal scent. He was linked by a magical bond to the wizard, a bond that enabled him to locate Tyranos wherever he was.

  Finally the winged fury found his master, and a fresh growl escaped him. Tyranos was still in the place of the shadowed ones. They would take special pleasure in capturing Chasm and tearing him to shreds. The rivalry between his flock and theirs preceded his almost-lifelong servitude to the spellcaster.

  But Chasm did not falter. If his fate was to perish under the tearing claws of his own kind, he would take many of them with him. What mattered was that he must reach his master as soon as possible.

  Above all, he had no choice. Tyranos and the shadowed ones had made certain of that.

  In departing so rapidly, the gargoyle missed the arrival of a sweating, dust-covered rider who leaped up the steps of the ancient palace and rushed past the rearing statues of the great griffons that flanked the entrance. The gasping rider clutched in his right arm a leather pouch that was not of ogre make. Behind him, his sturdy steed gasped from exertion, the rider having pressed the animal hard even during the height of iSirriti Siroth. The messenger had pushed himself just as hard, sleeping little and eating less.

  A sentry stopped him.

  “Wo usan i—” The rider paused for breath. When he spoke again, it was to shout. “The Grand Khan! Must see the Grand Khan!”

  His echoing cry reached Wargroch, who, accompanied by his two guards, had left the chamber of the throne with other duties in mind, but had paused to study a relief that often riveted his attention. In the picture, a beautiful female High Ogre used magic to raise from the ground a field of exotic flowers. Behind her was a hilly landscape that had, despite the centuries, remained identifiable even to that day. Wargroch easily recognized the area where his clan made their home and thus felt an affinity for that particular ghost of the past.

  He heard the cries for the Grand Khan’s attention. Wargroch signaled to one of his guards and, moments later, the warrior returned with the rider in tow.

  “Must find the Grand Khan!” the newcomer continued to gasp. He clutched the leather pouch tightly, as Wargroch stared intently at it.

  “I guard Garantha for the Grand Khan. Speak to me as you speak to him!”

  The rider looked dubious. “The Grand Khan not in Garantha?”

  With a growl, Wargroch signaled the guard nearest the newcomer. The guard put the edge of his sword against the rider’s throat.

  Grunting, the courier handed the pouch over. Wargroch nodded to the guard, who lowered his weapon.

  Golgren’s officer turned the pouch around in order to open it. Yet his hand momentarily froze over the leather strap sealed in thick wax, for the emblem imprinted there—the weapon, the flower, the bird—were familiar to all who knew the Grand Khan.

  It was the symbol of Solamnia.

  XII

  LIGHT AND SHADOW

  At the birth of every healthy male child—females were only considered important for breeding and domestic work, even if they did actually help fight too—there was a ceremony to mark
another potential warrior to strengthen the tribe and clan. It always began at the beginning of iSirriti Siroth, for if a warrior could not face Sirrion’s Burning each day of his life, he was certainly not capable of facing his tribe’s enemies. Weak children perished quickly among the ogres.

  Only males were allowed at the ceremony, for according to ogre thinking, a female presence would weaken the spiritual might the father wished the land to bestow upon his son. Gathered were some fifty armed males from as young as ten summers, to one lone figure known to be at least an astounding sixty summers in age. They collected at the settlement’s most sacred site. Ogres always counted their age by the number of summers survived, for the Burning was most intense.

  Indeed, the site itself was a place where the sun shone fiercest in that part of old Kern. The Aur nu iSirriti, Sirrion’s Eye, was shaped much like a vast oval bowl scooped out by the god. It was a spot where even the hardiest ogre had to wear straps of cloth over their eyes merely to see normally, for the region was encrusted with crystal growths that caught every aspect of the day’s light and magnified it. Shamans among the local tribes claimed to observe the land’s spirits, even servants of the fire god who frolicked during the height of day, although only shamans were foolish enough to peer into the Aur nu iSirriti at that time and without any eye protection.

  Sarth was the only one among the males who moved with ease through the bowl. Although he was spindly and much past his prime as a hunter, everyone treated him with deference. The shaman had survived far more than any of them could imagine, from the rule of dragonlords and the dread goddess known to most of the world as Takhisis, from the constant battles against the Uruv Suurt, the Skolax G’Ran, and, of course, from the eternal infighting among their own kind. Sarth had survived all.

  At the edges of the bowl, four ogre warriors had set up goatskin drums nearly as large as themselves. The frames of each drum were made from the rib bones of young meredrakes; nothing was ever wasted among ogres. As Sarth entered the bowl, the four warriors began to beat a slow rhythm like that of a resting heart.