Richard Knaak - The Gargoyle King

The sprawling city set in the midst of the ogre kingdom of Kern glistened in the burning sun. The surrounding wall was seamless, perfect, and from a distance appeared made of pure gold. Jagged battlements shaped like upturned claws topped the wall. Great towers rose from the wall’s four corners, gleaming spears that thrust ten stories high. On every floor of each tower, all four sides of the building had windows shaped like half moons.

Etched into every edge of the vast wall and its accompanying towers was a repeating pattern, a single symbol: the talons of some great raptor.

At the gates of the city, fabulous, golden doors loomed over all who would enter. On them was emblazoned not the talons, but a handsome, majestic countenance that made the beauty of the elf races pale in comparison. The strong, perfect jaw; the flowing, dark hair; the proud nose; and commanding gaze … they appeared to be the markings of a great king. Yet the face was not that of any ogre, as the people of the continent of Ansalon knew them; for that matter, not any race on the face of all the world of Krynn would have recognized the bestial people. Furthermore, the perfection of the face was marred by two things: the great eyes without pupils and the arrogance of the expression. It was a being who knew itself to be a god.

For all the splendor of the wall and towers, they gave but a hint of the opulence within. Vast, elegant buildings with high-arched doors and rounded roofs lined the shining, immaculate streets. It was as if it were a city of princes-nay, emperors . No edifice was exactly alike any other, yet all spoke of riches, of power, of glory. Intricate patterns representing the stars and the landscape decorated some; mystic runes, others. Great statues of fantastic beasts, especially griffons, dotted the city, all so lifelike they appeared ready to pounce upon those who might pass by. Massive fountains with elaborate scrollwork unleashed torrents of water in a place known for its harsh, dry surroundings. Magnificent gems of every color artfully decorated most buildings, fountains, and statuary, a king’s ransom’s worth on each.

All was perfection and above many of the tallest structures rose the symbol of those responsible for creating that perfection. The raptor’s talons filled the center of hundreds of huge, fluttering banners-also golden, save for the talon itself, which was utterly black. That was the symbol of the Titans, the gargantuan ogre sorcerers who stood some fifteen feet tall … half again the height of most regular ogres. It was the face of their leader that covered the gates. He had been foremost among those responsible for the transformation of what had once been a half-crumbling, ancient ruin of a once-mighty capital, creating something new and even more glorious than its founders had imagined.

And lest any forget that Safrag was not only leader of the Titans, but the one who commanded the power that had resurrected the capital, one had only to gaze upon the focal point of his great achievement: the grand palace. Not in the least did the palace resemble the old marble-and-stone edifice from which the rulers of the current inhabitants’ ancestors-the High Ogres-had surveyed their domain. Nay, what stood there was a gargantuan place of sharp, glittering angles and five magnificent towers topped by arched roofs. Though it was in width and depth equal to its predecessor, that was the only similarity. Indeed, the new structure stood twice the height and was not made of marble, but rather of some sleek material that shone brighter than a legion of newly armored warriors at high sun. It was also unique for being the only building not golden in color. Instead, the palace was of a tint best and yet poorly described as greenish blue, a rare, peculiar hue, as if such a mix had been created by the hand of a god.

Rising up at the front were six awesome columns, each shaped into the semblance of the Titan leader. No single column was like another, for in the first pose Safrag stood as a warrior with a sword; in the second, a learned teacher holding a staff, and so on. Though whether stern or wise, the Titan’s demeanor resembled that of a father tending his small children.

Two massive bronze doors, also unique in the city of gold, marked the entrance. The talon symbol was etched upon each. Though the Titans had their own sanctum far from the capital, that had been the place from which they ruled back when the city was known as Garantha. Henceforth it would be called, in the musical tongue of the Titans, Dai Ushran, and as explained in Safrag’s proclamation, the phrase literally meant “the Golden City.”

Only three days had passed since the Titan leader had renamed Garantha. And only three days had gone by since he had used the power of the magical Fire Rose to completely transform the city in less than a single minute’s time.

The inhabitants of Dai Ushran still marveled at the astounding feat. The excitement was palpable, more so because they had been promised something else even more spectacular than what Safrag had achieved: the transformation of the ogre race itself.

The moment was imminent. The ogres breathlessly awaited the word to gather. The Titans presented power and beauty on a scale that the grotesque, tusked giants had never dreamed would be theirs to possess or behold. Since the downfall of their ancestors, the ogres had lived in squalor, sometimes pretending to aspire to their former greatness, but always looking more comical than noble. Even those of the upper castes, who regularly donned robes stolen from the elves or copied by the best ogre weavers, looked more like animals dressed for sport.

For a time there had come one among them, a singular half-breed, who had offered some hope, some imitation of their former greatness, by learning lessons from their enemies and training the ogres to be proper soldiers who could win in battle. Golgren of the Severed Hand had been slighter than his fellows but agile and clever of wit. No one remembered such an ogre-elf mix before Golgren, and most would have assumed, rightly, that such a creature could not exist, much less survive in the wastes of Kern and Blode. But survive Golgren had, rising up to become Grand Khan of both ogre realms, which he renamed Golthuu, after himself.

But he had made enemies of the Titans, and even those among the population who had been his most ardent followers found it difficult to wish for his return when the sorcerers promised so much more for the future. Yet why did the Titans delay the moment of ecstasy that had been promised? If they could create a new city in a flicker of time, why had they not already begun to lavish the same transformational magic on their people?

It was a question to which several of the Titans themselves desired an answer.

Three of the Titans approached Morgada first, for they knew that she had Safrag’s ear as his apprentice and as perhaps much more. The male Titans were of a kind-tall, handsome, and with the bearing of the gods, some thought. Their flawless skin was of a brilliant blue, and their upswept golden orbs glowed bright. Their ears were long and gracefully pointed, and all three wore their lengthy, midnight-black hair bound in a tail.

They were clad identically in flowing silken robes of dark blue with shimmering hints of crimson. The robes gave the impression of gliding rather than walking. From the right shoulder down to the left side of the waist ran a red sash that ended beneath a golden belt. The left shoulder of each was covered by a decorative armor plate. It was the only piece of armor; the arms themselves were unclad save for a silver band on the right wrist and a crimson one made out of silk on the left.