Richard Knaak - The Fire Rose

Gradually, what had been written became known, and what became known made the wizard frown.

“Sirrion, you trickster,” he muttered. “And I think I understand you a little better, oh master of gargoyles. A little better, definitely.” Tyranos growled. “And what I understand, I do not like, no.”

The undead were extremely disciplined in their task, Idaria noted bitterly as she watched the body of Sir Stefan lifted up and carried away. Chasm, meanwhile, was bound up in rusting but serviceable chains. She remained unchained, but she expected that to be remedied shortly. In the meantime, two undead held her arms with viselike grips.

She mourned Stefan’s loss and was concerned for both Chasm and herself, of course. But it was Golgren whose fate Idaria anguished over in her mind. The quest had been his above all. Something had not merely desired him to find the Fire Rose; it had needed him to do so. She had realized that too late.

And that something had not been Safrag, she also realized belatedly. Even so, the Titan leader might well be the victor, for he had seized the artifact from Golgren.

The skeletal guardians let Stefan’s corpse drop unceremoniously to the dust-covered floor at the far end of the chamber. The body bounced hard on the stone floor before settling in the corner, face up. In death, the knight’s expression looked resigned.

She muttered a short, elf prayer for his spirit. As slight as her whisper was, it still caused the undead to turn toward her.

There was something about the ghoulish figures that disturbed Idaria, even more than the army of skeletons that had marched on Garantha. There was something not right about them, something terribly not right.

The elf caught a tiny glimpse of light within the empty eye sockets of one of the undead. She looked at another and noted the same. There was no reason why she should have recognized it for what it was, but nevertheless she did.

The creatures were alive . Not in the sense that she or Chasm were alive, and not in the mocking sense of the f’hanos who had attacked the capital. Those had merely been animated, with no true recollection of what they had been when living. The magic had made them mimic their former lives, but they didn’t live and breathe. Even the two skeletons of Stefan’s comrades had not been like the things surrounding her, for those had been the spirits of the pair given brief resurrection in order to pass on the gift of a god to a worthy warrior.

No, the creatures were not truly undead; they were something worse, unimaginable. They were living creatures who, despite the decay of their bodies, had not ever actually died .

Some shambled toward her, while others were vanishing into the shadows again. Their hollow sockets filled her view as they came closer, intrigued by their captive. Their intense stare-made all the more eerie by the absence of eyelids to blink-intensified the feeling that they were inspecting her.

Tales of what the Titans did with their elf prisoners stirred fear in Idaria. The ghoulish forms finally turned and followed the rest away, leaving only the pair gripping her arms.

A rumbling sound originating from without filled the vast chamber. The rumbling grew louder, more insistent. Idaria peered high up, where one of the vast windows was located.

And through that window poured more gargoyles than she had could have imagined existed. The elf had witnessed many, many perish already. The vast flock looked renewed, undiminished.

They came in many shapes and sizes, some similar to Chasm, others with more pronounced beaks and slimmer bodies. Idaria could not see the colors of all their hides, but assumed most of them were gray or dusky brown like the ones she had previously encountered. Some had wings that stretched for many yards, and all fluttered with the ease of birds despite their great size.

The rumbling she had heard was the flapping of so many wings accompanied by the hisses and growls of the gargoyles. Those that entered the ancient edifice circled around twice and began to alight on any solid perch, be it a stone staircase rail, a statue, or even a cracked wall. Others filled the nesting areas. The rest took their places based not only upon what niches remained, but on which among them was strongest and fastest. Some made brief shows of dominance, the captive elf noted, but none went farther than hisses and the occasional swat.

More and more of the strange, hideous creatures poured into the citadel, filling it up to the ceiling and beyond. Additional hisses and flapping could be heard outside the one in which she was imprisoned.

Many of the gargoyles, once they settled down, peered expectantly in the elf’s direction, but not exactly at her.

At last the flow ceased. The smell of the gargoyles had grown pungent and was made worse by the slow beating of wings that seemed determined to push the stench in her direction.

The beating of wings stopped. The gargoyles grew silent. Their gazes were fixed just beyond Idaria, who suddenly felt the heat of eyes that stared at her from that direction as well.

Her monstrous guards slowly turned her that way. She beheld a high-backed chair that she was certain had not been there moments before. Made of stone, it had two jutting points at the top that were identical to the two points of the castle.

And in that chair-that throne-there emerged a shadowed figure with nearly fleshless white hands and long, oval orbs that glowed a deathly white. Those eyes were all that could be seen of the head or face; the rest was covered by a hood and bound by a tight, golden cloth over its features.

As the figure finished materializing, the gargoyles let out a long, slow hiss. They bowed their heads low and turned their necks in a recognizable act of submission.

Idaria’s two guards also bowed their heads. The elf had no intention of imitating the bows, but her gaze was caught by that of the figure, and suddenly she found herself bending too.

A raspy chuckle filled her head and sent every nerve shivering.

I trust you are better , said a voice.

Somehow, she found her own voice. “Who are you?”

I am master here . The pale hands gestured at the many gargoyles. It is my domain. Those are my subjects . Again came the chuckle. As you have also been .

“I am not your slave. I do not serve you.”

But you already have for so long , came the reply in a voice that, although it was still in her head, sounded exactly like the Nerakan officer whose name she could not remember. And before that even, and just as you will continue to serve me .

“Never,” she responded coolly.

Several of the gargoyles hissed at her affront, but a single raised finger silenced them. Although there was no visible hint, the elf sensed amusement in the voice.

You will continue to serve me, as so many have served me in my desire throughout time, until it is mine . The shadowed form rose, standing at least as tall as Golgren or the wizard Tyranos. You will all continue to serve me until the Fire Rose is finally back in my hands, and the world is set right, my Idaria .

A silence hung over Garantha the morning after the attack on Khleeg and his warriors. The populace was used to violent changes in leadership, for it was a part of ogre tradition. Yet the new Grand Khan had not announced himself and, in fact, had been seen by very few.

If his face was unknown, his name had already become widespread: Atolgus . Whispered from one ogre to the next, stories blossomed around the name that had little to do with fact, yet were hardly as fantastic as the truth. Atolgus had been a warrior raised by mountain spirits, was the unknown son of Zharang, was even the half-brother of Golgren, and so on and so on.