Richard Knaak - The Gargoyle King

Chasm carried her away from the mountain citadel with more than a score of gargoyles already in hot pursuit.

The gray and black figure materialized in the chamber where Chasm had been held, causing the gargoyles there, including the ones that had ripped apart the hapless Stratum, to pause in their blood-soaked efforts. The leathery beasts bowed their heads low.

The white orbs surveyed the slaughtered Stratum, the bodies of the two larger gargoyles he had managed to slay, then the chains that had held Chasm prisoner. The eyes then looked up to the window through which the two escapees had flown.

Yes … came the amused voice in the heads of the assembled beasts. Go … go and serve me well again, my Idaria .

The power of the Fire Rose surged to life again, the crystalline artifact filling Safrag’s sanctum with a glorious gold and crimson light. The leader of the Titans stood in the center of the wide, stone chamber, all his other long-collected artifacts shunted aside earlier by a single, indifferent spell. Nothing mattered more than the wondrous creation held tightly in his right hand, not even the fact that it burned his flesh as if truly made of flame.

The Fire Rose was just more than a foot in height and had earned its name in part due to its design. It had a thick base that halfway up suddenly broke into a dozen different-sized projections jutting at various angles though always aiming upward. There was a definite resemblance to a flower and, because of its fiery hue, it was a more stunning rose than any other.

Legend-and truth, so Safrag believed-said it had been created by the god Sirrion. The High Ogres had fallen out of favor with the gods, for their hubris had caused them to believe they were the greatest of all creatures on the face of the world called Krynn. They had gone from the creators of art, magical miracles, and high learning to sadistic, decadent overlords of all the younger races. Yet not all had fallen so far, and some thought that, if one god granted their appeal, the end might be prevented.

And Sirrion, the last deity they had expected, had answered. He was one of the neutral gods, those who let time and chance be the deciding factor of lives and souls. Neither good nor evil, but often choosing to ally with the former for the sake of saving the world from destruction, Sirrion and his kind generally had little personal contact with mortals, save for those who acted as their clerics.

But the god of fire and alchemy found much of interest in the words of the High Ogres. They sought something to reshape their terrible destiny and insisted they were worthy of retaking control over their existence. Give them the means by which to restore what they had once been, and they would prove that they were worthy of being Krynn’s first and most beloved people.

Sirrion did just that. He forged the Fire Rose from the deepest, most primitive energies, those with which the world and all beyond it had been created. Into his gift he poured the pure notion of alchemy, of ultimate change at the very root of existence and reality, and of the unique ability that would enable one person to wield that power.

The sorcerers to whom Sirrion had presented the Fire Rose were grateful bordering on tears. They immediately saw the potential of the artifact and how it could not only save their kind, but make them even greater.

However, Sirrion left them with one last message. Almost cheerfully, he said, “The choice is always yours as to how my gift is used-good or ill or doing nothing. What becomes of you and yours through it will be your decision.”

The High Ogres paid that message scant mind, for each was certain that he or she knew the right thing to do, and therein lay the foundation of their failure. None could agree which of them was the best candidate to set hand on the artifact and make their desires come to fruition. They began to war over Sirrion’s gift.

The Titan knew only fragments of what had occurred after that. Tales said that one hand or another briefly commanded the Fire Rose, only to have some treachery cause another to grab it. The original hope, to bring the race back to its glory, was lost. The degradation of the ogres ensued. From the most beautiful and intelligent, they had become the most horrific and brutal race.

And somewhere along the way, a pitiful handful of survivors had made the foolish decision to hide away the Fire Rose from all who came after.

However, Safrag held the precious artifact. He wielded it, for the sake of the Titan dream, naturally.

The Fire Rose continued to glow brightly. Safrag could not help but keep gazing in wonder, reflecting on all the betrayal it had caused, all the slaying by his hand. When he had first come into the ranks of the Titans, he had not thought to strive to be Dauroth’s apprentice, much less his eventual successor. Only a chance reading of an ancient scroll he had found among his master’s collection had stirred those desires. It had shocked him that Dauroth could know that such a miraculous thing existed and not want to find it. It had stunned him further to discover, when told by his master, that Dauroth possessed a tiny fragment of the Fire Rose and still resisted its glory.

That had been when the change had come over Safrag. Dauroth could not see the future as it was meant to be; he was blind to what had to be done. He was, therefore, lacking in the vital qualities that the Titans needed in a true leader.

And so Safrag had found the manner by which to destroy his fault-ridden master and his one rival to his cause, Dauroth’s senior apprentice, Hundjal. It had proven simple to trick Dauroth into believing that Hundjal was the one seeking the Fire Rose, a quest punishable by death. Once Dauroth had slain the other apprentice, the Titans’ founder had ensured his own demise. Dauroth had realized that in the end, but too late to prevent it.

But all was as should be. Safrag controlled the Fire Rose. The ogre race was his to shape, with the world to follow. The mongrel who had dared sit upon the throne and who played at being Grand Khan was presently a frozen monument to both his folly and Safrag’s inevitable victory.

Caught up in the artifact’s splendor, Safrag paid little mind to subtle changes taking place around him. The thick stone walls bubbled and breathed, changed shade and texture, sometimes seeming as if turning to flesh. Scrolls and tomes on the shelves shivered and flared bright red. A few of the former uncurled as if alive and possibly hungry. Other arcane artifacts shifted position or looked to be melting. A vial transformed into a glowing, green crystal. Small creatures of light-literal fireflies-formed in the air, danced, then burned away.

All that was lost on Safrag. His eyes grew wider and more pale with hints of snow. His skin also paled, remaining blue but with a touch of gold. His features shifted slightly, as if he were becoming another person, one with more ursine traits. Even his garments did not remain untouched, for they flowed as if living.

Also lost on him was the fact that, despite having sealed his sanctum from even those most in his favor, Safrag was no longer alone. Behind him, several of the fiery lights suddenly swirled together. They coalesced into a tall, blazing form-a figure of flame. The flames then stilled for the most part, revealing a watcher who stood not quite as tall as the Titan yet loomed over him like a giant. There was in his face a semblance of elf, human, ogre, dwarf, even kender, and yet in no manner was he related to any of those races. His face was long and angular, and his skin was the color of ash left by a terrible blaze. He wore a mane of rich, red-orange hair that flickered and danced as if wild fire.