Richard Knaak: The Gargoyle King

Through the power of the Fire Rose, the Titan leader, Safrag, molded the capital to his latest whim.

Golgren clutched at the harsh, black rock with his lone hand, climbing as nimbly as most others would with two appendages. The re-creation of his right hand through the power of the Fire Rose had not lasted long enough for him to forget the training he had gone through to survive with just the left. The half-breed still had questions regarding Sarth’s reasons for removing the new limb, the ancient ogre shaman having uttered that “to possess is not to own” and that “the gifts of gods must always be questioned … to see if they are gifts at all.”

He had even more questions concerning the withered figure. They included not only Sarth’s unexpected appearance in the middle of those forsaken mountains near the Vale of Vipers-far southeast of the capital-but also his equally mysterious vanishing after freeing Golgren and the healing of the half-breed’s foul stab wound.

There was far more to the shaman than Golgren had ever suspected, but Sarth was not a worry. Thus far, he had shown himself to be an ally.

The half-ogre bared his teeth at the thought of the fate intended for him by Safrag. After their struggle for the Fire Rose, the Titan leader had left him encased in some crystalline substance so Golgren would become a monument to his own failure. If not for Sarth, again, it was likely that Golgren would have fulfilled that role quite permanently.

Shadows from a greater mountain covered Golgren as he reached the top of the low peak he had been ascending for most of the day. The relative coolness the shadows offered did not soothe the half-breed. His efforts thus far had yielded too little. Golgren bared his teeth, an act that evoked the brutish side of his background even more than usual, despite the fact that he had long before honed his tusks down to nearly invisible nubs.

Still, no one would have mistaken him for a true ogre, not when he stood only seven feet tall as compared to the average nine feet, and also, he was far slimmer of build. Golgren looked more like the elves of Silvanost, from which his mother had sprung. Yet despite a rough handsomeness and features that also inclined toward that other race, no elf would have accepted him as one of their own, especially as he was one of those most instrumental in the fall of the elven realm.

Golgren impatiently brushed back the thick, sweat-drenched mane of dark hair that he generally kept washed and brushed to conform with the elf side of his lineage. With almond-shaped eyes of a penetrating emerald-green, the deposed Grand Khan peered down into the valley ahead, surveying the dark rock, the few withered weeds, the parched landscape. A slight grunt was the only sound that gave hint to his frustrations. He had seen that valley before. He had traversed it only the day before.

Golgren was not merely traveling in circles; some magical force was purposely turning him away from his ultimate goal.

He stood there, considering his choices. A bedraggled ruler, he was. Gone was his shiny armor. Only the dusty kilt with the metal tips remained. His sandals were worn, almost useless. He was naked from the waist up, the remnants of his garments long discarded. For weapons, he had only his hand and his wits. They had served him well in the past, and they would serve him well again if he ever managed to reach his destination.

Exactly what his destination was, Golgren could not say. He knew only two things. The gargoyles had descended to that place ahead of him, the gargoyles who had watched and harassed him for months. Their mysterious master was surely there, waiting. Even more than the Titans, Golgren desired a confrontation with the shadowy figure.

And the second thing he knew and knew well was that Idaria would also be there.

She was an elf slave, his personal slave. She obeyed his commands and served him as no other could or would. Yet she was an elf and, thus, expendable. There had been others before her. They had proven expendable. Idaria Oakborn was no different.

Yet she was as much the reason for his determination as anything else.

With nightfall less than two hours away-and the shadows of the higher peaks bringing darkness long before that-Golgren began his descent into the valley. He had survived thus far on small lizards and rodents that he had caught and eaten raw-the trappings of civilization easily tossed aside under the circumstances-but he was almost dying of thirst. He had had only a small trickle of water since the night before. However, if it was the same valley, he knew where he could at least locate that water source.

Sure enough, just as the growing shadows enshrouded his surroundings, the half-breed found the tiny spring. Even then, Golgren did not stumble madly toward it. Instead, he approached it with the caution of the predator stalking his prey while wary of other threats as well. He sniffed the air but found only the fresh scent of the spring.

The trickle of water sounded like a rushing river to him. Golgren bent low to drink, his gaze ever searching elsewhere.

The ji-baraki rose up from the ground as if blossoming there. Its rough-hewn, scaly back had enabled it, when lying flat, to blend into the rocky, uneven ridge. The reptile stood on two hind legs designed to enable it to run at swift speeds; the forelegs were wielded as weapons, a pair of paws with long, sharp claws. The long muzzle was also full of daggerlike teeth designed to rip into the tough hides of tasty meals. Ji-baraki ate just about anything that had flesh to it, including carrion.

No ji-baraki was going to pass up the sort of sumptuous meal Golgren offered. Standing nearly as tall as the half-breed, the reptile slashed out with its claws. The attack was a feint, though, designed to distract Golgren from the true threat.

The second ji-baraki lunged from behind the half-breed, snapping at his neck. However, as the toothy maw shot forward, Golgren turned halfway. His right arm wrapped around the long neck of the beast as his left seized the head of his attacker. The fetid breath of the carnivore filled his nostrils.

With a strength that his lithe form belied, he gave the head a twist. The snapping of the ji-baraki’s neck echoed through the valley. Saliva and blood dripped over the half-breed’s chest.

Golgren threw the already dead reptile forward, using it as a shield against the first. Born battling to survive, the deposed Grand Khan had made a thorough study of his potential enemies, be they beasts or otherwise. There was little that Golgren could thank his ogre father for, but learning the treacherous behavior of the ji-baraki many years past was one of them. There was never just one of the monsters around; they hunted either in mated pairs or in packs, and one always distracted the prey for the other.

Fortunately for Golgren, he faced only a mated pair. In those dank environs, he had calculated that would be the case. The area could not support packs of the ji-baraki, especially with such a large flock of gargoyles also hovering nearby.

The surviving reptile hissed furiously at him as it struggled past its dead mate. Golgren was aware that he could not outrun a ji-baraki. However, escape was not what he had in mind.

He scooped up a rock. The piece was just small enough to fit into his palm. As a weapon, it looked highly inadequate for bashing against the hard skull of a ji-baraki, but that, too, was not what Golgren had in mind.

The second reptile dived for the half-breed. Its mouth opened wide.

Golgren turned on the savage beast and thrust his fingers forward. His timing had to be precise, otherwise he would be without both hands.