Richard Knaak - The Fire Rose

As Golgren moved ahead of Safrag, their guide did too. What had only been glimpsed gradually revealed itself.

It was an arch. An arch carved to resemble hundreds and hundreds of fanged serpents wrapped around one another, rising up and around until they met those curling toward them from the opposite side. The entire arch was of the same faint green cast of color, although whether that had been the original hue, or if it had faded with the ages was impossible to tell.

As with the vast relief, the detail contained in the arch was phenomenal. Each serpent had individual scales, and all appeared to have closed eyes. Their sharp fangs bit into the serpent above, or their tails touched. Some were only a few inches long, others more than two feet. All were identical.

All were vipers.

“So,” mused Safrag. “The Vale of Vipers perhaps reveals the source of its name.”

Their guide stood just beyond the great arch, which was several feet in depth. Not bothering to wait for the Titan’s command, Golgren stepped toward the guide, into the arch.

Nothing happened. He turned and gazed expectantly at Safrag.

“Go,” the sorcerer ordered Idaria.

She solemnly traced Golgren’s footsteps. The Grand Khan watched her closely, but like him, she passed through untouched.

Safrag smiled. As he started to follow them, he said to their waiting guide, “Proceed.”

The golden figure moved on. Safrag stepped through-

A vast chorus of hisses echoed through the underworld, the sound so piercing that all three were forced to cover their ears.

The hissing was accompanied by a tremendous scraping sound. Golgren peered around, but could not detect the source.

Idaria found it. “Look there.”

Golgren and the Titan followed her outthrust finger.

The top of the arch was breaking apart. No, it was slithering apart.

The serpents were moving.

Golgren dragged the elf toward him. Safrag moved after the pair, only to have several of the vipers fall upon him.

As they landed, their bodies shimmered a deep emerald. The Titan roared with pain.

“Come!” the Grand Khan ordered Idaria. He stared ahead, turning away from Safrag’s predicament, not caring whether the sorcerer lived or perished.

The vipers coiled around the Titan’s limbs, torso, and throat. With a growl, Safrag seized the one around his throat and with hands that blazed blue, tore the creature in half. As he flung the two pieces away, they reverted to the pale, green stone again and cracked in pieces when they hit the ground.

But even as the gargantuan spellcaster quickly destroyed three of his tormentors, twice that number replaced them, the vipers dropping on him from various parts of the arch. Others squirmed and slid and slithered, seeking to break free so they could add their dark power to that of their brethren.

One clamped its fangs down on Safrag’s wrist. As he shrieked, another planted its fangs in his shoulder.

The Titan’s cries were music to Golgren’s ears, but he was looking ahead. The golden figure quietly turned its head toward the half-breed, as though beckoning him onward, but did not otherwise budge.

Golgren stretched his hand forward. The figure did the same, using the arm that ended with Golgren’s severed appendage. The Grand Khan did not hesitate. Seizing the hand and the signet, he tore them free.

The faceless figure reverted to a plume of flame, and faded away. However, the symbols on the signet still glowed, and when Golgren held the signet forward, their glow magnified.

Without another word, he led Idaria on. The sounds of Safrag’s struggle faded behind them, whether due to some end to the struggle or the acoustics of the passage, Golgren did not know.

As they raced along, Golgren paid little mind to the fantastic carvings and columns that lined the walls. The wonders of the High Ogres meant little to him, he who had an empire to lose. The Grand Khan had no doubt that events were taking place that threatened his reign. He needed to find the artifact and claim it for his own. At last he would have the chance to be rid of the Titans and his other foes.

At last, he could begin remaking the world as it should be.

There was no sound from behind them as they rushed through one passage after another. The great images on the walls and ceiling passed by the Grand Khan, for the most part unnoticed. Golgren paid fleeting interest to a pair of gigantic High Ogres carved in marble, because he was concerned that they, like the vipers, might prove more than merely lifelike.

The two sentinels had been carved to peer down critically at any coming in their direction. One wore an expression almost sad, while the other appeared to be mouthing a warning. The Grand Khan did not care what concerned them, as long as they did not attack him. They were a sign that, after so long, he must be getting close.

The signet ceased glowing.

Golgren’s severed hand shriveled, again becoming the mummified relic he had for so long carried over his heart.

The Grand Khan let out an oath as the illumination around them dimmed. He tugged the ring free and thrust it on his other hand, yet that did not light up the symbols or keep the magical radiance from utterly fading away.

As darkness claimed them, Golgren also heard a short intake of breath from Idaria, who had been keeping up with him all along.

“What is it?” he hissed.

“Someone … There is someone ahead of us.”

Feeling certain that it was either Safrag or some other Titan, Golgren thrust his lost hand into his tunic and braced himself for whatever attack was to come. He continued to hold the signet before him, as it was the only weapon he had, even if it didn’t work very reliably.

Yet no sound came from ahead and certainly no flash of magic presaging his demise. Golgren sniffed the air, but sensed only an ancient mustiness.

No, there was something else: the hint of some flower, or an aromatic scent. Try as he might, the half-breed could not identify the odor.

“What do you smell, my Idaria?”

“It is a place long dead,” she replied. “And I smell that.”

“Do not play games. There is a scent that should be familiar to an elf’s sensitive nature. What is it?”

After a moment, Idaria answered, “It is rosemary, I believe. Dried and ancient, but most likely rosemary.”

“Ah, yes.” He recognized the scent from its use by her and other elves who had cooked for him. Most ogres had no appreciation for such smells, being so used to blood, sweat, and decay.

But their ancestors … They had been more like Golgren, savoring wondrous and delicate scents.

He took a step forward, focusing his will on the signet, demanding that it do something for him as before.

The chamber suddenly illuminated, though the signet remained dull. A golden hue spread over Golgren and Idaria, and allowed them to at last see fully what the elf had only managed to glimpse.

Ahead sat a long, wide table of what appeared to be iridescent pearl, set in the center of a chamber.

Around it sat eight robed figures.

Eight High Ogres.

Their once-flawless blue skin was as desiccated as the half-breed’s severed hand. Their great manes of hair hung like limp strands of spider webbing. The immaculate robes were covered in dust and faded of color.

The eight had obviously been dead for many, many centuries, but their state of preservation was remarkable. Only as the pair moved closer to the bodies did such things as the lack of eyes and wrinkling of the lips show that there was little more than skin and bones left on their gargantuan bodies.

They were seated around the shining table, one at each end and three apiece on the long sides. For all practical purposes, they looked as if they had fallen asleep at different stages.