Richard Knaak - The Fire Rose

Golgren slowly moved toward the figures, trying to focus better on them. Although he was able to make them out as forms, they were never very distinct. As he drew closer, he saw that they did not exactly walk, but kept jerking slightly and shifting forward, as if someone were pushing along a series of drawings.

Their poses varied. Each shift revealed slight differences from the previous manifestation. It came to Golgren’s mind that he was perhaps seeing pieces of the past.

That he was experiencing a vision that had something to do with the artifact was obvious; perhaps the figures even carried the artifact. However, no matter the angle from which he studied the shadows, he was never able to see what it was they carried. Indeed, when Golgren tried to come around behind the figures, he discovered they had no dimension of depth. Their overall images had two sides, but not front or back-very much like drawings.

Idaria joined him, aware that something beyond her ken was taking place, yet still trying in vain to perceive what it was. She started to come around Golgren’s other side, putting herself in the shadows’ path without realizing it.

Golgren tried to warn her off, but it was too late. The first shade passed directly through the slave without pause, and without any apparent effect either to her or to the shadowy figure.

Finally with some idea of what was happening, Idaria moved over behind Golgren, following him as he paced the last of the shades.

Standing, they would have been just slightly shorter than Golgren and roughly the size of an Uruv Suurt. There were faint glimpses of faces among them, but not enough to identify them.

“It is the eight,” he verified to himself. “The eight casters.” The Grand Khan again attempted to spot what it was that those in front carried, but all he caught were glimpses of what seemed to be a large, dark chest.

So engrossed was he in angling for a better view that he no longer paid attention to where the band was heading. It was Idaria who saved him at the last second from what might have been a hard collision with a wall of rock, the elf pulling Golgren back with a surprising display of strength. Golgren watched narrow-eyed as the final shadow entered the rock.

He thrust his hand after the last figure. Surprisingly, his fingers passed through, briefly, but they grazed the rock hard enough to warn the half-breed that the wall was no illusion.

As the final shape faded away, something new shimmered into existence. Golgren’s eyes widened as he beheld the second symbol etched by the fires, scored into the rock wall.

A brief but startled sound from Idaria indicated that she saw the symbol too. Golgren studied the mark closely, trying to see if it differed in some way from the one in the encampment. As far as he could determine, they were identical.

“But what does it mean?” he murmured. “Kya i thu den?” Golgren repeated, momentarily slipping back into the Ogre tongue.

In a rare sign of frustration, the ogre leader banged his fist against the rock.

The signet flashed. The symbol flashed.

And a blazing gap opened up before the Grand Khan, who stumbled forward and fell through.

There were survivors among Khleeg’s hand, though not very many.

The black cloud that had descended on the struggle had materialized from nothing. One moment, there had only been the baking sun, the next it was as if darkest night had come.

One by one, followed by the dozens, the bolts had struck selectively. They fell so long as there was resistance, ending the moment that the hapless defenders finally gave in to the inevitable. More than two hundred burnt corpses gave witness to the monstrous horror. The stench of burning flesh filled the region.

Rauth’s warriors and the traitors among Khleeg’s hand quickly moved in to seize those left standing. The prisoners were gathered together, and those who were officers of any sort were separated from the rest.

Rauth rode up in front of the others. A narrow-eyed warrior with a crooked mouth that seemed constantly about to smile, he gestured at the officers, the first of whom was dragged forward to him.

The ogre officer leaped down. He seized the bound prisoner by his mane and pulled his head back. The other ogre struggled, but the guards held him in place.

Keeping his axe sheathed, Rauth drew a dagger that had once been wielded by his commander, Khemu. There were stains on the blade: Khemu’s blood.

“F’han!” his own followers shouted. “F’han!”

With a grin, the treacherous officer drew a thin red line across the captive’s throat. It was not enough to slay the prisoner, but certainly put him through excruciating agony.

The guards shoved the bleeding captive down on his knees. His hands were unbound, brought around to the front, and retied tightly. He was stretched forward as far as possible.

The captive tried to pull away. Rauth sheathed the dagger and accepted a hefty axe from a comrade. He raised the weapon high over the kneeling figure.

As the axe came down, the bound officer tried to throw himself forward. But once again, the guards held him in place. They would pay the price if Rauth missed his target.

The heavy blade chopped through both wrists.

The kneeling ogre screamed as blood poured from his severed limbs. His arms moved about as he tried in vain to connect them somehow to the lost appendages.

Rauth’s followers roared their approval, while the prisoners gave a horrified hiss. Some grew restive, but guards moved in and whipped any who looked defiant.

The maimed officer finally collapsed, the blood loss and shock too much for even an ogre to bear. The guards unceremoniously dragged his lifeless body to where the rest of the dead lay.

Rauth casually plucked up the severed hands. With blood and fragments of flesh and muscle dripping down his arms, the ogre held the appendages for the rest of the prisoners to see.

Even for an ogre, Rauth was a creature of few words. But those few words were all he needed to make his point.

“Golgren!” he roared, tossing the severed hands up in the air and letting them fall with a disconcerting thud on the blood-soaked soil.

Only the wind and the quiet, hesitant breathing of the prisoners was heard in the aftermath of the short but ghastly spectacle. Rauth grinned as he looked among them, his bloodshot gaze especially focusing on the unnerved officers.

When enough time had passed, Rauth used the axe to point at the next prisoner he wanted brought before him. Compared to the first captive, the ogre did not begin his journey to death with the slightest hint of courage. Out of his yellow-toothed mouth poured unintelligible noises of fear and terror. He twisted and turned and tried to do everything he could to keep from being dragged to the murderous traitor. There were few things that ogres outright feared, but what Rauth had done to the first victim was a mutilation they considered among the most heinous.

The officer watched with grinning amusement as the second prisoner was positioned before him like the previous victim. He drew his dagger and once more cut a thin line across the throat. The guards immediately forced the wounded warrior to his knees and brought the hands forward.

Rauth gripped the axe and raised it high over his head.

A breath later, he lowered it again. To the surprise of the prisoners, he came around to his victim’s front and used the flat of the axe to raise the shivering figure’s gaze to him.

“Atolgus …” Rauth declared, his eyes indicating the axe head. He shifted the head to a position just over the wrists. “Golgren …”

The captive was immediate in responding. “Atolgus! Swear to Atolgus!”