The Fire Rose

XIII

As the griffon was the symbol of Garantha, so was the mastark the symbol of Sadurak, the city situated nearer than any other true city of the ogres to Ambeon.

The warlord ruling Sadurak in the days of the Great Chieftain Donnag’s rule had been Donnag’s own cousin, but had made the mistake of defending Donnag to Golgren. Since that time, a balding, one-eyed warrior named Jod had ruled with an iron fist, his authority extending all the way to the outlaw town of Pashin farther southwest. Golgren had need of outlaws only with interests akin to his, and Jod saw to it that any illegal activity there had to have his permission first.

Sadurak was perhaps half as large in size and population as Garantha and perhaps half as rebuilt. Jod was a loyal follower, but he didn’t fully comprehend the intricacies of recreating the glories of High Ogre civilization. He therefore relied mostly on what Golgren dictated to him, not all of which he well understood. Although the formerly marble white walls surrounding Sadurak were in the process of being restored, they were being done so with whatever color and quality stone could be quarried from nearby.

With the elves no longer officially available for slave toil, Jod needed his people to work the quarries. That meant that in addition to whatever criminals had been condemned to hard labor, his own soldiers had to spend shifts beating gigantic iron nails into the rocks with huge, flat-headed hammers.

The warriors at the task wore no breastplates, only their kilts. In most cases, they looked like a legion of corpses, for the sweat that matted their hides also collected all the dust their labors raised. It coated the ogres from top to bottom, save for where light cloth bands draped over their eyes and a larger pieces covered their nostrils and mouths. More than a few had pale, red marks upon them-wounds caused by flying stone chips.

The ogres had long lost all knowledge of quarrying as the outside world knew that job, and so had developed methods, good or ill, that suited them. As Jod-on a personal inspection-rode among the workers, he nodded in satisfaction at the latest block of marble emerging from the much-ravaged ravine. It was roughly cubic in shape, with more than three-fourths of it already dislodged and freed. Workers were busy hammering nails into what was considered the base, nails to which powerful ropes were being attached. The ropes already strained against the block, for above there were other ogres preparing for the marble’s final release and lift.

A lean, young ogre male suddenly came up on the edge of the ravine and sounded three notes on his goat horn. Two workers finished hammering in a nail and rushed away, tools in hand.

Above, the ropes tightened. Eight there were in all, the ends of some ropes stretching far enough back over the top that Jod could not see their lifters. He could spy four other ogres diligently setting spikes at intervals along the top. The overseer estimated their locations and again nodded.

When the spikes were in place, the trumpeter sounded one long note. The four who had set the spikes immediately swung at them with their hammers. They struck in unison before halting.

The horn repeated the same note. The workers struck. The pattern was repeated.

After the fifth repetition, a slow groan briefly rose above the sounds of work. Jod guided his horse a bit farther back, just to be safe. The ropes strained as those at the end increased their effort. The block was nearly free.

A cloud of dust arose from the south. Jod steered his mount around, curious.

A sea of warriors coalesced from the cloud. At the head rode scores of riders, ranks of unmounted fighters behind them.

Jod was aware of all the forces under his command, and so he knew the warriors were not any who served in Sadurak. He recalled there had been some missives sent to him, questioning the absence of one force led by an eager young warrior whom Jod had met and knew was favored by the Grand Khan himself: Atolgus. Jod assumed Atolgus had marched his force into the wild and either gotten lost or been killed by a subordinate. That was how bad leaders were dealt with in the old days too.

But seeing the newcomers, the commander wondered how they had chanced upon Sadurak. Certainly, there were no other hands expected in the area; Golgren would have informed his loyal officers if any were coming. The newcomers-

Jod suddenly bared his teeth. A surprise. The veteran warrior had fought too many battles to think any surprise was a happy one. Either the warriors were fleeing from something, or they were something with which he should be wary.

“Varkol! Varkol!” he shouted to the figure holding the horn.

The trumpeter paid him no mind, for renewed groaning warned everyone that the block was breaking away. Jod shouted again, waving his arms to get the trumpeter’s attention.

Varkol finally looked his way, but misunderstood the gesture. He blew the next series of notes, the ones that gave warning to the rope wielders that they were about to contend with tons of falling marble.

An arrow suddenly pierced Varkol’s chest. The younger ogre, just finished with his sounding, toppled off the edge of the ravine.

Ogres were not known as the most proficient archers. Although the Grand Khan had worked hard to change that, such a shot as had killed the trumpeter took exceptional skill. Jod quickly peered at the direction from which the arrow had come.

There were Uruv Suurt behind the first two ranks.

Legionaries and ogres fighting side-by-side and against the Grand Khan’s own troops!

The commander turned his horse about, trying to decide what would be best to do. He was an ogre leader-and no leader left his warriors behind-yet he also felt obliged to warn the city.

Jod looked back over his shoulder to where Varkol’s broken body lay. He urged his mount in that direction, even though that would put him in the shadow of the precipitous block of marble.

Some of the warriors working the quarry had sensed something was wrong, while others merely looked around as though they thought perhaps replacements had come. A few of the former began racing for their weapons, which had been set with their breastplates at a nearby hut. No one had imagined a need for defense, and the only armed fighters were the guards on the perimeter.

As Jod leaped down to seize the lost horn, he wondered exactly where those guards were. Ogres did not abandon positions; indeed, they were more likely than even the most stubborn Uruv Suurt to stand their ground until slain.

Jod brought the horn to his mouth. He saw that many of his warriors were still unaware that something was amiss. The racket raised by the work in the quarry kept many from hearing the oncoming force.

Jod blew hard on the horn, sounding the notes that any warrior trained since Golgren’s takeover would recognize as the call to arms. Jod repeated the signal three times, forcing all the air from his lungs each time. By the end of the third signal, the ogre was hacking from the dust he had inhaled.

But his warning appeared to have an effect. No one was working anymore. Ogres were rushing to their weapons, and the only problem the commander noticed was that many still did not realize that the threat came from the newcomers. Most in the quarry could not yet make out the horned figures approaching.

A flight of arrows shot over Jod’s head just as he finished blowing the horn. The arrows flew so high that the veteran warrior, more concerned with what to do next, ignored them.

But a moment later, a terrible thundering warned him that he had made a foolish mistake.

Jod raced desperately even as the shadow swept over him. The thundering was accompanied by a familiar groaning sound, as if a giant was gasping out his last moments of life.

He grabbed for his horse’s reins, but the animal was quicker than him. It sprinted away, fast outpacing both its master and the huge block of marble descending upon the ogre. The deadly flight of arrows wasn’t meant for him, but for those still commanding the ropes above. There was nothing to keep the marble from falling and wreaking havoc among the defenders.

It also threatened to bury Jod beneath its massive weight.

The shadow swept ahead of him. The commander had no choice but to leap.

The ground shook as he landed. He was tossed up several feet and battered to the ground again.

A massive weight crushed his left foot. The ogre leader screamed.

Jod glanced back to see that although the main block of stone had missed him, a fragment as huge as his body had broken free and smashed his left foot to a pulp. That he was still breathing was little consolation; the gory mass that had been his appendage was bleeding profusely, and threatened his life.

He dragged himself forward, looking for something with which to bind the wound.

A second, smaller shadow fell over him. Jod gazed up to see the menacing form of an Uruv Suurt officer whose long cloak and plumed helm marked him as either a general or something close to it.

The horned legionary raised his sword.

An ogre stepped up behind the minotaur. Jod briefly took heart in the appearance of a member of his own race, until he realized the ogre seemed unconcerned over the legionary’s pose.

“Jod,” the ogre, a younger male, rumbled.

Through a pain-wracked eye, Jod peered at the other. “A-Atolgus? Kyzari ut-”

Atolgus shook his head. “You must speak Common, Jod! It is what your Grand Khan commands.”

The Uruv Suurt general snorted derisively at the comment. “Golgren will command nothing but the lance upon which his head will sit and stare at the surrounding crows.”

The bleeding commander snatched futilely at Atolgus’s leg.

“Why do we waste time with that one?” demanded the legionary. “I must report to my emperor and assure him that all is going well, even if not quite as he might expect.”

Atolgus did not answer the Uruv Suurt, but instead kneeled down to look Jod directly in the eyes. There was something different about the young chieftain that the older ogre could not put his finger on, something that compelled the attention of the overseer.

“You command Sadurak,” Atolgus whispered, grabbing him, sounding more like the Uruv Suurt than an ogre who had not grown up speaking Common. Jod wanted to pull away, but could not. All he could do was stare at the dark eyes tinted with gold, gold like the sun.

“You command Sadurak,” the other ogre repeated. Jod vaguely recalled the Atolgus he had first met in earlier years, not at all like the confident, overwhelming warrior. “You will speak of all of its defenses. You will tell them all to me.”

Jod could no longer feel anything in his left leg. He wanted to look at his wound, but could not. Instead, words began spilling out, words in the best Common he could speak.

And when he was done, the ogre wished he could have cut out his tongue, for he had left nothing out of his description. Even if he had wanted to, he could not keep any secret from Atolgus. The eyes, more golden than ever, demanded and received all they desired.

“You have heard all?” Atolgus asked the minotaur, finally letting Jod look away.

“The defenses should be simple, even if they know that we’re coming. Sadurak will be ours before the day’s over!”

“Will that satisfy your emperor for the time being?”

The horned officer seemed not to notice that Atolgus’s Common was even better than when they had first met. “Aye, it will. My legionaries can keep the rabble under control and solidify our holdings along the border, warlord.”

Atolgus grinned. He took his own sword and, as Jod stared at him, said, “Fya i f’han iJodi hardugh. I give you good death, Jod.”

He drove the sword into the other ogre’s throat. At Atolgus’s side, the Uruv Suurt grunted approval at the clean sweep of the stroke.

Withdrawing the bloody blade, the warlord gazed past the sprawled corpse. “Sadurak.”

Blood played a part in many Titan ceremonies and spells, blood drawn especially from the elf race. Elves were the closest race to the ancient High Ogres in terms of their innate magic, which was why their sacrifice had been required to make the elixir.

But elves were scarce those days, and Safrag was not yet ready to sacrifice those in the stockade. Besides, he had a different source in mind.

A stench filled the chamber in which the Black Talon had cast its latest spell. Residual energies drifted around the darkened room, briefly illuminating the giant sorcerers’ faces in most unnatural expressions of disgust and anxiousness.

The three abominations stood clustered together in the center, with the talon symbol of the inner circle under their misshapen feet. Safrag gazed at the three, his lips pursed in mild interest.

“Three where there should be four,” he sang. “Why three, Falstoch? Why?”

The lead abomination dripped forward. It was more hunched than the others, and there was a furious quivering to its constantly shifting form that the other pair did not display.

There was… There was the elf, Falstoch said in their minds. The elf slave of the mongrel.

“And what could she possibly do?”

Falstoch moaned from pain before managing to respond, The elf slave … She stabbed … She stabbed Grahun, and he melted.

The sorcerers muttered among themselves. Despite their unwholesome appearance, the abominations had been discovered to have some distinct advantages over their former brethren, for their constantly shifting forms made them resistant to magics which even the Titans had to be wary of. Their same shifting ability meant they could literally fit into places nothing else could. The abominations were almost truly liquid. So Safrag had used them to follow Golgren’s trail into the mountains.

There was a third, very important reason why Safrag had chosen Falstoch and the others for that momentous task, a reason not spoken of aloud but known to all. Even the monstrous beings themselves knew it. They were expendable.

But the abominations were so desperate to restore themselves to a semblance of life that they were willing to be used.

“The elf slave stabbed him, and he melted?” The lead Titan studied Falstoch closely. “And what of you? You are wounded also, Falstoch, but you have not melted.”

The mongrel’s elf cut me with her little blade. The pain is still great.

“But you did not perish.”

No. There was blood on the blade.

“An elf … Blood of her race …” Safrag nodded in satisfaction. “Of course. What makes us glorious can also poison us. So said Dauroth, did he not, Morgada?”

“Yes, great one. The elf blood can be turned against our kind.”

“No elf should know it. But she apparently does. And she even knows how it must be done.” He glanced at the others, appraisingly. “Draug. You have watched the slave often of late. What is known of her that I might not recall?”

The other Titan shrugged. “She may spy for Neraka, thinking that they would help free her people. A naive notion, if she believes it. I have not been able to discover her contact there, though, for there is some magic involved-”

“The Nerakans are pawns for us, as are the Uruv Suurt,” Safrag interrupted, dismissing the intelligence as of little importance to his question. “Of her past?”

“Oakborn is her family, strong among elves, but not so great as to claim ties to their leaders.”

Safrag frowned. “Yet she readily guesses the weakness of something she can never have seen before, hmm. No matter! If she lives, she will give up her secrets to us.” He turned back to Falstoch, who seemed to be having trouble breathing. “Tell us all else that occurred.”

Falstoch did the best his labored body and mind could to relate his version of the hunt. He revealed to them the High Ogre markings and the vague comments made by the mongrel and his slave. Of more interest to Safrag, however, was the place where Golgren had used the signet to slip into the stone. From where, the Titan leader surmised, he was transported elsewhere.

“You do not know where you ended up? When you sent out the call, we brought you back. But our link was only with you. We could not sense your true location.”

Do not know.

“No matter. We shall find it readily enough through the Grand Khan Golgren.”

There is more. Falstoch straightened as best he could, although it was clear that his suffering far exceeded that of the duo behind him, who stayed respectfully silent. Falstoch spoke with some of the dignity of one who had once been among the august ranks of the Titans. There is this.

One globular hand thrust out. Although it constantly melted and reformed, what lay in its palm was visible to the sorcerers.

“The signet!” Morgada hissed.

“The mongrel’s signet!” growled Draug.

“You took it from him?” Safrag angrily roared. “You took it from the half-breed?”

Safrag did not want it? the lead abomination managed to gasp, confused. A signet of the High Ones?

“It was the half-breed’s means by which he was able to follow the trail! It responded to him as if he were born to its use!” Safrag’s right hand crackled with black lightning. “I gave no order to you and your putrid ilk, Falstoch, to take the signet from him, not when the mongrel seems the only key…”

The other Titans sat silent as Safrag stopped. He leaned back in consideration, his golden eyes never leaving the signet.

Without warning, he reached his hand out. With a slight wet sound, the signet flew out of Falstoch’s palm and into the hand of the Titan leader.

Safrag suddenly grinned. “You have done us a great service after all, Falstoch.” As the wounded monstrosity tried to bow, the handsome sorcerer added, “Go until you are needed again.”

The abominations had only a moment to bemoan their protest before vanishing. The other Titans showed no curiosity as to where Safrag had sent them. Oblivion would have been the choice of many, but that would have been a waste of minions. Like Dauroth before him, Safrag wasted little.

“Even better,” he murmured. To the air, the Titan sang, “Ulgrod, you are summoned before your master!”

Barely had he spoken than the Titan whom he had called-the last among their rank to be granted that status by the late Dauroth-appeared before Safrag and his fellows. Ulgrod’s nose wrinkled, and he glanced around seeking the source of the lingering stench.

Belatedly, he looked up at Safrag. “Master, you said you’d have need of me! Are we to be done with Golgren at last? Do I bear the honor of skinning the scrawny beast alive and presenting his still living flesh to you?”

“A dramatic notion, Ulgrod, but no, not that way. With your good aid, however, I do believe that we may be done with the half-breed.”

Ulgrod went down on one knee. “I’m yours to do with as you command, master.”

Safrag nodded gratefully. “Your sacrifice will be remembered by all.”

The other sorcerer frowned. “My-”

Safrag vanished and suddenly appeared standing next to the kneeling figure. In one hand he held the signet, and in the other he wielded a black blade made of obsidian and curved like a sickle moon.

The blade carved a slice through Ulgrod’s throat. The blood that flowed from the awful wound was anything but ordinary, for it glowed with a fiery heat and radiated a magical energy that made Safrag’s staring visage terrifying to behold.

None of the members of the inner circle so much as moved a finger, for they were not surprised at the shocking turn of events. They had been made aware of what Safrag intended, and although some had shown looks of horror, those had faded quickly at the promise of what the dire deed might bring them.

The Fire Rose.

Ulgrod managed no final word, not even a final sound. He slumped before Safrag, still positioned on one knee thanks to the slightest use of the other Titan’s power to keep him so.

“Blood is the power, blood is the might,” Safrag intoned.

The other members of the Black Talon materialized, creating a six-sided pattern within which Morgada and three others formed a square. Safrag and the late Ulgrod remained at the center.

The lead sorcerer held the blade high. “Blood is the power, blood is the might,” he repeated. “Blood binds, blood guides.”

Each of the other Titans drew a symbol before them, their personal mark. Dauroth had begun the tradition, and Safrag had continued it. The marks were tied to the very core of the Titans’ beings. By summoning them, they opened themselves to whatever Safrag chose to do with them. By such means Dauroth had had the power to condemn Falstoch and the like to the forms they suffered. Also by such means had Safrag earlier tricked Ulgrod into giving up his life force. Ulgrod had expected to rise to the Black Talon. In a sense that was exactly what he was destined to do, for he would forever be a part of them.

The marks of each Titan glowed blue, but never the same blue as any of the others in attendance. As one, the ten knelt around Safrag, who kept the body of Ulgrod at a point beyond life but not yet true death. Were it his desire, Safrag could still save the one whom he had grievously wounded.

Instead it was Ulgrod’s blood that Safrag sought to save-save and use. He had followed a clear line of thought over the past few days, and his thoughts were racing. So much magic existed in the elixir, enough to make of brutish ogres towering, flawless spellcasters like none ever seen on the face of Krynn.

Would not the very blood that flowed through them, the former apprentice reasoned, be capable of fantastic feats?

There had been only one way to find out and be certain, and the allure of the Fire Rose had been enough to sway the rest of the inner circle. After all, none of them would have to give up their blood.

Those who were not of the Black Talon would not learn Ulgrod’s true fate, only that he had made a great sacrifice in the search for the fabled artifact. Ulgrod’s death meant the meager supply of elixir would last that much longer.

The assembled sorcerers held their palms toward Safrag. They slowly thrust them forward, and as they did so, the glowing marks floated not to the lead Titan, but rather on an angle upward, toward the obsidian dagger.

As they willed it, the other Titans also began singing with one voice. There were no words to their song, only tones. The tones grew stronger the closer the magical symbols came to the blade.

And when the marks touched the bloodied tip of the blade, they seemed to be sucked within as if slipping into the middle of a vortex. The Titans groaned, and their wordless song took on a harsher, demanding tone.

Safrag murmured as the others sang. As he did, various symbols appeared around him, and faded away. Each was a tinier representation of the marks of the others, among them Ulgrod’s. Like miniature stars, they flared to life, glittered, and glided over Safrag and the frozen form before dying.

Safrag lowered the blade. The other sorcerers immediately quieted.

It had been his original intention next to bleed himself with the ensorcelled blade, mingling the power of sacrificed Titan blood with the magical essence of his own greatness. Through that technique, Safrag believed he could elevate his skills to a point where he could perhaps see beyond the ancient High Ogre wards hiding the Fire Rose in the wilderness. Were it to work, there would also be no more need of Golgren.

But Falstoch’s report suggested another, safer path to his goal. The signet had proven itself bound to the resting place of the Rose. That meant he could turn the smaller artifact into a guide for the spellcasters, not the half-breed.

Bringing down the dagger, Safrag touched its point to the symbols on the signet.

A great plume of flame burst from the signet. Startled, Safrag dropped the ring.

An ear-rending hiss filled the chamber. The flames burned such a bright orange-red that even the blue-skinned Titans took on its hue.

“No one moves!” commanded Safrag.

The flames rose above the signet, spun, and whirled. As they did, limbs-golden limbs-grew from the plume.

A figure of gleaming metal formed from the fire. The flames sank within, utterly disappearing.

The golden figure had no face, no other features. It did not turn to Safrag, but rather stared off in another direction.

It was Morgada who recognized what was indicated. “He stares in the direction of the vale! I am certain of it!”

“But we know that much already!” snapped another Titan. “For all that, for Ulgrod’s use, there must be more!”

“So there must.” Safrag, defying the nearby presence of the golden figure, stretched down to seize the signet.

The figure reshaped, the front facing the Titan leader. Safrag paused, but the figure did not otherwise move.

With more confidence, the Titan straightened. He dared put the ring on.

“Show me!” he demanded of the gleaming figure. “Show me where to seek the Fire Rose!”

The golden figure made a sudden cutting gesture that caused the other Titans to push back in surprise. In the wake of the movement of its arm, a trail of flames briefly flared across the air toward the Titan Leader.

Both Safrag and the golden figure vanished.

Morgada and the others leaped to their feet. As they did, Ulgrod’s body, no longer held by Safrag’s magic, finished collapsing into a bloody pile. The gruesome sight was all but ignored as the sorcerers stared at the place where their leader had last stood. All that remained to mark Safrag’s presence was the dagger, which Morgada finally picked up to show the others.

“It’s clean of blood,” she informed the others.

They all stared at it for a moment, the truth of her words obvious. The female Titan finally glanced down at Ulgrod himself, and gasped.

The others followed her gaze and repeated her exclamation.

Ulgrod’s robes were lying there, not in the least stained. Of the Titan himself there was nothing but a burnt outline.