Richard Knaak - The Fire Rose

The horn sounded again. Golgren brandished his sword toward the warriors, and the onlookers. Finally, without cleaning his weapon, he sheathed it and returned to his steed.

As he and the pair mounted, the assembled ogres continued their barking cheers. The griffon’s handlers moved in to calm and control the wounded winged hunter.

Golgren beat his fist on his breastplate. Wargroch and Khleeg returned the salute. The younger officer started to separate himself from the other two, but Khleeg chose that moment to whisper, “My lord, but how will Wargroch handle the Titans?”

Wargroch did not look pleased with the clear questioning of his abilities. Golgren stilled Wargroch with a dark look and answered, “The Titans will do nothing but obey me.”

He said it with such certainty they had no trouble believing him, although it was obvious they were curious as to the reasons for his confidence. Golgren did not elaborate, however.

The younger officer saluted. “Grand Khan, my life is yours.”

“Yes.” Golgren dismissed Wargroch. The younger ogre rode to where the city guard awaited. As Wargroch neared, they snapped to attention as if he were Golgren himself.

The Grand Khan looked to Khleeg. “Give the signal to depart.”

Khleeg gestured to the trumpeter, who sounded the march. The hand methodically turned in the direction of Ben-ihm, some two days north. Golgren and his second took up the lead.

A blinding glint of light from the direction of the city caused Golgren to glance back. The sun did not lie that way, but with so many armored warriors on the high walls, or standing among the rest of the populace, he assumed it was some kind of momentary reflection.

But it was not the sun that glinted off of the new, shining breastplates of his proud warriors.

It was a faceless, golden figure, his bright, unsettling form reflected strong in hundreds of pieces of armor. Yet when Golgren sought out the source, he could not find the true watcher anywhere in the skies above.

And when Golgren glanced back at the hundreds of breastplates, he was not at all surprised to find that the reflections of the faceless figure had vanished there, as well.

Wargroch reentered the palace with a swagger that made it appear as if he, not Golgren, ruled. He grinned at the guards, who banged their fists on their chests in acknowledgment of his supremacy.

But the ogre had little true interest in the guards at the moment. Another, more delightful distraction stood hidden by the doors to the Grand Khan’s chambers. Since his arrival in Garantha, the Blodian had secretly become enchanted with Idaria. It had started simply enough: her exotic looks and the fact that she was Golgren’s favored had attracted his attention. Wargroch had considered her unapproachable until circumstances had worked to separate her from her master. The sudden rush of knowing that he was master of the capital-however temporary-proved too much for his buried lusts. Wargroch thought that the exotic elf slave might prove susceptible to the one who, for all practical purposes, acted as the Grand Khan.

The guards at the door saluted him and did not argue when Wargroch signaled the pair to depart. For all they knew, his authority required him to enter. Most ogres, Wargroch had often thought, were not nearly as clever as him. Not even Khleeg.

Not even his long-dead brothers.

With growing anticipation, Wargroch pushed his way inside. Immediately, he smelled the elf scents that he associated more with the exotic Idaria than her master.

“Ga ni ifalkuni dura duri,” he rumbled as he surveyed the chamber. The bed was huge and lush, and like nothing Wargroch had ever seen. On one side, the soft outline of a shape could be seen.

“Ga ni ifalkuni dura duri . Come play with me, dryad,” Wargroch called.

When she did not appear, he grew impatient and began searching for her. Where could she have gone? After all, the chambers were high above the ground, and elves did not fly.

But a thorough search left Wargroch empty-handed. The Blodian officer went from room to room within the Grand Khan’s personal quarters, and Idaria was nowhere to be found. Yet the presence of the guards had indicated that she had been within, and the bed had verified that she had been sleeping there not long before.

Wargroch growled. There had to be a secret passage somewhere in the Grand Khan’s quarters, and the slave had slipped out. His desire began to fade as he considered what might have happened between them had she actually been in the quarters. Golgren could return without notice; the Grand Khan was unpredictable. Besides, Wargroch had to measure up to his new duties. Garantha was an imposing responsibility.

He glanced ruefully at the bed one last time, where the loose impression of a smaller, feminine form was still visible. Wargroch grunted and the next moment fled the chambers.

But even after several minutes had passed since his departure, Golgren’s personal quarters remained empty.

Safrag entered what had once been a part of his master Dauroth’s personal libraries, but had since been made very much Safrag’s own domain. The rounded chamber had walls lined with bookshelves made of silver that had been built into the stone, helping secure the magic of the scrolls and other items in the chamber.

Glancing back at the door, Safrag belatedly sealed the entrance. He wanted no one to intrude at that precious moment.

Standing next to the wide, rectangular table, he summoned a glowing sphere of a similarly colored light and sent it adrift above him. The glow revealed inlaid silver in the walls that also had to do with the tomes and other papers lining the shelves.

Surely, it would not do any harm to test the Fire Rose again. Unlike Dauroth, Safrag was not afraid to wield the fragment under cautious conditions. As for the legend that each use of the Fire Rose made the desire to use it again and again more irresistible, Safrag knew well the strength of his will. He would not fall prey to such paltry fears.

At the center set of shelves, Safrag reached toward the middle one and gently touched a red stone inlaid there.

The stone shimmered, and the entire wall rippled as though suddenly formed of water.

“Falstoch, Falstoch! I would have a word with you, Abomination.”

From behind the rippling wall, there came a mournful sound like nothing uttered by a mortal soul. It seemed but a wail. Yet if one listened close, words could be heard.

IIIIII cooooooommmmmmme …

IIIIII coooooommmmmmmeee …

Slowly, a dreadful sloshing noise became evident, as if something that was not quite flesh, not quite liquid, approached from whatever dank realm existed behind the wall. There was an agonized hint to each shudder, and the same two words repeated over and over. The voice was reminiscent of someone drowning.

A vague shape appeared behind the shelves, a shape sometimes seeming almost ogreish in form, sometimes almost that of a Titan. And most often, something macabre.

A hand suddenly thrust out of the wall. It bore four digits, five, three, and five again. Its flesh dripped to the floor, sizzled, and vanished, yet the hand looked no less whole. A thumb melted into the hand, only to thrust out at a different angle.

With the greatest of strain, the dripping hand stretched forward. Behind it came a thick limb that also dripped. Pustules formed, swelled, and popped. Dwarf limbs, some even with hands, briefly sprouted, and melted back into the main arm.

Safrag casually stepped back, remaining out of reach of the grotesque apparition. In an almost clinical manner, he studied the monstrous changes constantly assailing the one he called Falstoch.

A face thrust through the wall, a face that made even the deformities of a Titan without elixir seem beautiful by comparison.