Richard Knaak - The Gargoyle King

A searing wind then cut through their ranks, and as it did, the gold that once had been the High Ogres became a storm of dust that blew through Garantha, making the city sparkle as if it had been transformed into the shining city in the vision shared at one time or another by Dauroth, Safrag, and Golgren.

The gargoyles fared no better. Some did try to turn and flee at the sight of the High Ogres’ demise, but the Fire Rose’s power was great, and its reach was long. Few reached farther than the capital’s outer walls. There was no dramatic display for their ends as there had been for Xiryn’s fellow sorcerers; Golgren and Safrag turned the gargoyles into pure vapor and let the same wind carry off that vapor to the four corners of Krynn.

Indeed, not only did the gargoyles in Garantha perish thusly, but so did those that hovered over the areas where the minotaurs and Solamnics marched. The Fire Rose knew no boundaries; wherever the creatures who had served Xiryn flew, perched, or hid, the artifact’s magic sought them without mercy.

It was an exhaustive feat, and therein lay its only danger. Though he had focused on the Fire Rose for barely the length of a single breath, in that time Golgren had neglected to concentrate on Xiryn. The High Ogre instantly seized upon that moment to regain his hold upon the pair and the Fire Rose.

It is mine! the gargoyle king roared in Golgren’s mind. We are one! It is destined! I will have it no other way!

Golgren steeled himself. With very little effort, he again tore mastery of the artifact from Xiryn.

“You made me to control what you could not,” he reminded the High Ogre. “I am the impossible-and ultimate-wielder of the Fire Rose.”

Xiryn’s already-hideous countenance contorted horribly. You were created to make the Fire Rose and me one! You were created to serve no other purpose!

“Very well,” Golgren darkly answered. “You and it shall be one.”

At Golgren’s mere thought, the petals of the Fire Rose opened . From them erupted a terrible golden flame. It shot high then, despite no wind in that direction, twisted toward Xiryn.

Too late did the High Ogre sense what Golgren intended. Xiryn reached for the half-breed, perhaps with some ill spell in mind, only to be engulfed by the golden flame. The shrouded figure silently screamed as his desiccated body easily burned.

Although Xiryn burned well, he was not reduced to ash. Rather, he merely continued to suffer, his face and form blackening.

“So there, the Rose is yours and you are the Rose’s,” Golgren concluded bitterly. “You are welcome to each other … forever.”

As Xiryn continued to shriek, the golden flame bore him up. The gargoyle king shrank but not because he was being burned away. He shrank so he could be fitted between the petals. No more than the size of a blade of grass-and then smaller and smaller yet-the High Ogre was dragged into the artifact. Xiryn was plunged deep into its bowels, the ancient sorcerer screaming all the while.

He vanished into the eternal flames within. Golgren willed the petals to seal again, which they did.

Only then could Xiryn’s cries no longer be heard on the mortal plane, though at Golgren’s command, they did continue and would continue for all time.

“But it is still not enough,” the half-breed finally muttered.

Just then an intense force struck him from behind. As he fell, it was all he could do to maintain even a modicum of control over the Fire Rose. An odd pounding in his head began, as though trying to break what remained of his concentration.

As Golgren struggled to regain his senses, the half-breed heard Safrag say, “A fascinating and informative spectacle! One from which I have learned much, mongrel, such as not to underestimate you, anymore! Hence the spell-last moment, I admit-robbing your focus.”

Groaning, Golgren clutched himself at the waist as he rolled onto his side and away from Safrag. The Titan, the Fire Rose in his hand, loomed over the stricken half-breed.

“There is only one little thing I need from you, mongrel, and then I gladly will reunite you with your dead slave! I’d like my prize to be whole again. The fragment, if you please.” The gigantic sorcerer extended his taloned hand. “With it, I will create of the ogres an entire new race of Titans! I can see the vision clearly now, the golden city with all its golden population! Can you not see it too?”

“I … see only … your death,” Golgren gasped, his face still pressed against the stone.

“You are mistaken. It is your own death that you see. Now give me the fragment if you wish your fate less terrible than the one we granted that fool of a High Ogre.”

“I will … not.”

The Fire Rose flared. Golgren cried out as it sought to remake him, but then, after a moment, the spell abruptly failed. The half-breed lay still, in pain, but alive.

“The fragment cannot save you forever!” growled Safrag. “It only delays the inevitable! Give it to me!”

Golgren managed to turn his head enough to face his rival. “No, Safrag. You … must take it from … me.”

The Titan’s sharp teeth clashed together. His golden orbs flared almost as brightly as the Fire Rose.

The towering sorcerer gripped the artifact tightly in both hands. Its sudden increase in radiance presaged his dire intentions. “Very well, have it your way, mongrel. I will take it from what little there is left of you.”

Safrag muttered. Golgren’s hand shook. He struggled to keep that hand close to his waist, but the effort clearly took its toll.

“Like calls to like, mongrel! I am master of the main artifact! The spell I cast will not give you what you need to keep the fragment yours much longer!” Safrag raised the Fire Rose above his head. “Surrender to the inevitable! You have no choice.”

Golgren’s hand began to pull away. With a groan, the half-breed made one final effort.

The fragment slipped through his fingers. He made a halfhearted try to retrieve it but was moving too slowly. Instead, his hand slapped against his waist, but without the valuable prize.

The fragment flew to a victorious Safrag.

Eyes gleaming, Safrag reached for the floating shard. With the swiftness of a ji-baraki, Golgren rolled onto his feet. His hand left his waist, but he held a dagger identical to the one that he had earlier tossed at the Titan.

It was the second dagger, which he had located in his mother’s tomb.

The half-breed lunged.

Safrag didn’t notice until the last moment, surprise vying with contempt. “You cannot-”

Golgren seized the fragment with his teeth before the Titan could grasp it. The piece flared as he thrust the dagger toward the sorcerer’s stomach.

The Fire Rose glowed, but the abrupt shock in Safrag’s face revealed that he was no longer the one wielding its power.

“No!” the Titan began. “I hold it! I hold-”

The dagger, with the energies of the Fire Rose surrounding it, sank deep.

“But I control it,” Golgren returned through clenched teeth.

Safrag howled. No blood spilled from the wound, only the same fiery energy as that which had embraced the dagger. Safrag had no more blood; he had long become like the second hand that Golgren had gained through the artifact: a shell of what was real, a false miracle, the truth of Sirrion’s gift.

Keeping his teeth clenched and ignoring the shard’s own powerful energies, Golgren twisted the dagger. His will flowed into the Fire Rose and, therefore, into the blade. As he turned the weapon, Safrag, still howling, turned with it.

The half-breed gave the dagger a final twist back .