Richard Knaak - The Fire Rose

Morgada gestured. The guardian lowered its weapon and tossed the hapless elf back among the others.

She looked to the other Titans. “The deed is done!” she sang. “You have Safrag’s-and my-gratitude.”

They bowed. All but the other two members of the Talon vanished.

Morgada and her counterparts glided toward the elves, who eyed them with far more anxiety than they did the surrounding ghouls. The elves recognized their value to the Titans, even if what exactly the sorcerers needed them for was mostly conjecture. The prisoners only understood that it involved blood and that those taken were never seen again.

“The mongrel cannot save you,” the female Titan declared with some mockery. “Just as he cannot save himself.” She waved the monstrous guards toward the prisoners. As the skeletons began herding the elves in the direction of the Titan stronghold, Morgada added, “But we can thank him for gathering you up so nicely for us, don’t you think?”

The elves from the stockade in Garantha said nothing. Morgada chuckled and directed the guards on their way. She and the remaining Titans watched as the elves were herded along.

“Why do we need them if Safrag is going to bring the Fire Rose to us?” asked one of the male sorcerers.

“You should pay more attention, Kulgrath! It may be that the proper use of the artifact might take us some weeks to understand, maybe more. We might need the blood of the elves in the meantime.” She smiled. “Besides, the master wishes to experiment on many, many spells that will require their blood too! One way or another, the elf race will perish providing us with knowledge and power. Do you have any problem with that?”

He shrugged. “I merely wondered about the feeding and caring of the herd.”

She laughed at his naivete. “Feeding? Care? Why, my dear Kulgrath! How long do you think we’re going to keep them alive?”

Kulgrath and the other male joined in her merriment as the dank, magical forest once more filled the clearing around them.

The golden figure pressed on through one passage to the next, always a few paces ahead of Golgren, Safrag, and Idaria. It was questionable whether or not any of them knew where they were going. But their surroundings changed.

The first hint came as the jagged, rock walls began to smooth until finally they became utterly flat. Safrag ran a hand over the flat walls, grinning.

“Not the least imperfection! And yet so much effort was required, even with magic! Truly, the High Ogres wielded power as none other!”

“Not even Titans?” Golgren innocently asked.

Safrag was not rattled. “The rejuvenation of the ogre race through us has only had a generation in which to do its work, mongrel. Within several years, we shall achieve and surpass our ancestors’ glory. Sooner than that, if the Fire Rose is indeed ahead!”

“And if it is not?”

“If it is not, I shall at least have the pleasure of skinning you alive layer by layer before draining your faithful slave of every ounce of her precious blood.”

It was only a few moments before the smooth walls gave way to something even more fantastical. All three paused to gape. There could be no doubt that something grand lay ahead.

From the floor, and rising up the walls to the ceiling, was the most intricate relief any of them had ever witnessed. It spread ahead as far as they could see. The work was seamless, with no beginning or end, and must have been the work of a thousand dedicated artisans, so detailed was its every feature.

“It is their history.” Safrag breathed. He touched the left side of the wall, where the world of Krynn seemed to hover in a mass of stars. There were symbols of each of the gods, and even depictions of the gods themselves, as represented in other High Ogre ruins. They swirled around the depicted planet, as if seeing it for the first time.

Safrag’s greed meant he was reluctant to slow down, and he prevented them from studying much of the relief in detail. But certain elements stood out. There were the first dragons, the first war, the rise of the first of the High Ogres, and the granting to them of the guidance of the mortal world by the gods. The first of the great cities was built, and entire lands were tamed, as the beautiful race began to come into its own with its magic.

The first hints of other races appeared also, the elves first and foremost. Compared to the High Ogres, the elves were portrayed as pale shadows, bland as compared to beautiful. Contrary to what many modern ogres thought of the elves, the relief gave no hint as to animosity between the races.

Golgren peered above, where the acts of the gods were recounted and portrayed. The ceiling was the sky, while the left and right walls reflected different aspects of High Ogre life. On one side was the physical aspect-the striving for perfection in both appearance and society. The other side showed the growth of magic as an essential part of the race.

“They believed there were no limits to their greatness,” Idaria murmured through veiled eyes, observing the depiction of a High Ogre who was busy creating a vast castle from dust.

Golgren found his gaze returning to the ceiling, to the gods. While some of them entered and exited randomly from affairs involving the race, a handful appeared to take long and definite interest in whatever the High Ogres were doing. Golgren recognized the mark of Takhisis growing more and more prevalent. She was not the only one, for there was her consort, the Uruv Suurt’s main god, Sargonnas. He was perpetually confronted by the other patron of the horned ones, the bison-headed Kiri-Jolith. The head of the bison was set against that of a fierce condor, Sargonnas’s emblem.

But there was another god always behind the other three, a god whose symbol kept changing but in a manner that was ever recognizable.

“Sirrion.” Golgren whispered to himself.

A sudden intake of breath from Idaria, followed by an unintelligible oath from Safrag, made the half-breed look ahead.

As ever, the golden figure hovered a few paces ahead, patiently waiting. But the other travelers stood frozen, eyeing the new and horrific tableau presented to them along their path.

The walls, floor, and ceiling before them were all scorched black.

Whatever burning force had struck in the cave had done so with a thoroughness most frightening. The rock had been melted smoothly away. All traces of the relief ended abruptly.

After contemplating the sight for a moment, Safrag muttered, “Move on.”

As they continued, so did their ethereal guide. Golgren rubbed his maimed wrist as he watched his animated hand, the signet thrust forward, act as part of the golden figure.

“Patience,” mocked the Titan. “The two of you shall be reunited soon enough.”

Golgren evinced no emotion. He was aware of the diabolical implication of Safrag’s promise. The Grand Khan could imagine a hundred monstrous ways in which the sorcerer might keep his word.

The gleaming form moved on and on, revealing the passage as a black, burnt place. Golgren sniffed the air, and even though he was certain that the scorching had transpired many, many lifetimes ago, there was still a hint of fresh ash, of bitter smoke.

“We are deep, deep in the mountain,” Idaria abruptly murmured to him.

The Grand Khan nodded. Someone had wanted the sanctum well hidden from everyone .

“Hold!” Safrag suddenly ordered. They paused, as did the golden figure.

The reason for the Titan’s command was barely visible ahead. For the first time in quite a while, they saw something besides a continuation of the burnt passage. Just noticeable at the edge of the darkness was a pale rock.

“Grand Khan.”

Golgren understood what Safrag wanted. The Titan was worried that the pale, green rock augured some kind of threat. Why jeopardize his own safety when there were others around to take the risk? Golgren would prove himself of value, or not.