Richard Knaak - The Fire Rose

“It was too quick,” the Titan murmured to himself. “I had no time to gather Ulgrod’s blood.” He focused on Idaria. “But perhaps …”

The elf tried to pull away, but she could not free herself of his control. Like a puppet on strings, she moved inexorably toward Safrag.

A curved dagger made of obsidian materialized in his other hand. There were stains upon it whose origins Golgren did not have to guess.

“There is a better way. A less … messy way,” he quietly declared.

The Titan glanced at him. “And that is?”

The Grand Khan stretched out his hand. “Return the signet to me.”

The towering figure roared with laughter. “You are amusing after all, mongrel! Return that powerful signet to you? And you have a reason why I should act so madly?”

“The signet will work for me. You and I both know that. There will be no need for blood, spells, questions …”

“And no risk to me?” Safrag bared his double rows of sharp teeth. “Wearing the signet made you safe from most Titan magic; you and I know that, oh Great Khan! Return it to you? I think not.”

“I wish to find the Fire Rose. You wish the same. The signet for some reason wishes it of me also.”

“Yes, it does seem to be bound to you.” Dismissing the insidious dagger, the spellcaster suddenly grinned like a hungry ji-baraki about to pounce on its victim from behind. “Perhaps you can lend me a hand after all.”

He gestured.

Golgren grabbed at his throat. He struggled to breathe as the chain around his neck twisted and turned.

A mound rose from his chest. It strained to be free, almost pulling the Grand Khan with it.

A grotesque missile burst away from him, slipping up over his throat and pulling with such force that it tore free of the chain, which went scattering across the passage floor.

Safrag seized the object as it came to him. He held it up, admiring the awful sight of Golgren’s mummified hand.

“Exquisite work. Almost as fresh as if it had been cut off yesterday, rather than-what is it, at least three years?”

“Give me that.” Golgren coldly whispered.

The Titan cocked his head. “It may be that I no longer need you, Grand Khan. You would do best not to test that supposition. Remain compliant and you live, at least for the moment. Oh, and I might let her live too, of course.”

Golgren did not glance at Idaria. He eyed the Titan for a moment more, before retreating a step.

“That’s better.” Safrag turned the mummified hand toward himself, and placed the ring on one of its curled fingers with deliberation. The sorcerer summoned the obsidian blade once more, which caused the elf to start. “Rest easy, slave. Your blood is not needed yet. There looks to be enough remaining on the blade for what I need. If not, I have the signet itself.”

He touched the dagger’s tip to the hand. As he did, Golgren’s gaze narrowed.

The hand clenched .

“Excellent.” Safrag released it. The hand did not drop to the ground, but rather it floated as if weighing nothing. It opened and clenched again, repeating the dread sight over and over until the Titan waved his palm over it.

The disembodied hand hovered silently. The wrinkled skin smoothed, and a sheen of freshness spread over the appendage. Indeed, it appeared to have been newly severed.

And as the hand changed, the signet began to glow-faintly, but it glowed.

“Not enough.” Safrag looked from Idaria to Golgren. “You will suit better. Come, mongrel.”

The Grand Khan’s feet thrust him forward despite all his resistance. His maimed arm rose up toward the towering spellcaster.

Safrag brought down the blade. Golgren remained emotionless as the Titan jabbed the half-breed’s forearm.

“There,” Safrag said mockingly. “That didn’t hurt too much, did it?”

With a curt gesture, he sent Golgren back, releasing him from the spell. Safrag took the newly blooded blade and touched it not to the signet, but rather to the severed hand.

The fingers stretched. The hand looked even more alive.

More important, the signet glowed very bright.

“Lead us,” commanded Safrag to the hand and the ring. “Show us.”

A great plume of fire erupted from the signet and whirled to gather behind the hand. As Golgren and the others watched, the fire formed a shape very familiar to the Grand Khan … the golden figure.

In an astounding change from what Golgren had witnessed before, it wore his hand as if it were its own. As the arm of the figure fused with the appendage, Golgren’s lost hand burned golden.

The gleaming figure strode forward, a blaze of flame trailing in the wake of each drifting step. It did not walk upon the ground, but rather floated a few inches above it. Indeed, it almost seemed to be gliding on the wind instead of walking.

In that manner it moved down the corridor. Golgren watched it dwindle from sight before glancing at Safrag.

“After you, oh great and glorious Grand Khan,” the gigantic spellcaster declared with a slight chuckle. “After you, of course.”

His countenance expressionless, the half-breed slowly followed after the shining figure. Idaria paced him, and Safrag, with a hungry smile, took up the rear.

Twice the gargoyles had passed the cave since that first time, and twice they had failed to notice it, or the two within.

Tyranos knew something of gargoyles, especially that some breeds could sense the use of magic. Certainly, Chasm could, and he was tied close enough to the foul creatures that they should have had the ability to note strangers in their midst too.

“The abilities granted to me by my patron differ from the magic of wizards,” the knight commented as he finished cooking a small lizard he had caught earlier. “They are more subtle , and thus beyond the senses of the creatures.”

With a growl, the wizard turned on him. “Will you stop doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Reading my thoughts!”

The Solamnian smiled kindly. “I can’t read thoughts.”

“Yet you just happen to know what I’m thinking?” Stefan touched the medallion. “My patron’s given me insight into the actions of others, into their movements and, thus, I suppose, what those actions mean. You were gazing at the cave mouth with your fist clenched, and the gargoyles passed but a few minutes ago. I made a guess from that.”

“You should play cards. Or is that above a cleric?”

The other chuckled. “For entertainment, no. For anything else-” Stefan suddenly stiffened. He set down their meal. Staring off, he quietly asked, “Are you fit enough to move?”

“I’ve been fit enough to move for the past day at least. Why?”

The knight rose. “We need to be elsewhere and quickly.”

Tyranos snorted. “Did your patron tell you that?”

Stefan did not reply, instead reaching for his sword. Belting the sheath, he looked to the wizard. “Be wary. They have the chance to smell us the moment we depart from the cave.”

“I may have a few tricks for that.”

With the Solamnian leading the way, the duo stepped up to the mouth of the cave. Stefan paused to touch the medallion. “Thank you, lord of just cause. May you continue to guide us in what we must do-”

“Whatever that is,” Tyranos added with some sarcasm.

Lowering the pendant, Stefan stepped out.

The wind immediately struck him like a slap across the face, but the knight did not flinch. The wizard joined him, brushing aside the golden brown hair that flew into his face as he surveyed the area for signs of the gargoyles.

“Looks to be clear. No sign of them, and certainly no stench.”

“As they could not sense us, we might not necessarily be able to sense them until it’s too late.”