The Fire Rose

XVI

The Titans were without Safrag. But for the planned event their leader was not needed. He had set in motion a number of plans and left several events in the hands of his apprentice-Morgada-and various other members of the Black Talon.

No one had discussed the master’s abrupt departure as anything but temporary, although some of the Black Talon secretly contemplated what would happen if he never returned. Some assumed that, if Safrag disappeared, Morgada would take over the reins of leadership, at least for the time being. Others-the Titans still being ogres despite their exulted status-could not see a female as their leader. Thus they watched for any sign of weakness on her part, any failure that could be used against her, should a struggle for power take place.

Morgada knew the hostility well, and so she kept a sharp eye on everything as she prepared to launch Safrag’s great spell.

They gathered in the mystic forest surrounding their sanctum, for the nature of the spell demanded more room than even the most vast of the citadel’s chambers could offer. More than two score of Titans created the complex pattern that involved a star within a star, flanked by three sickle moons. The matrix of the spell involved a binding of powers rarely used by even the Titans, which was why so many had been summoned.

Some of them had not come without protest. The time was nearing when more than a few would be in dire need of the elixir. Those not of the inner circle had no idea that there was not enough remaining for all of them, or that the Black Talon would certainly make sure that they were the ones to imbibe first.

In the end, their need for the elixir overcame their dislike of the shadowy forest, where even in daytime it often seemed dark as night. They stood in a clearing that all knew had not been there before the ceremony, and yet looked as though it always had existed. The magic of the domain that Dauroth had created was such that the forest changed as willed-and occasionally as it seemed to desire.

The sky was shrouded by mist as the sorcerers went through a moment of meditation before beginning. Morgada guided the efforts, her form faintly glowing blue. The sorceress’s eyes were shut tight, and to all appearances her chest did not even rise and fall.

At the moment she sensed all were ready, the fatally beautiful spellcaster gazed upon those surrounding her and at two members of the Black Talon in particular. She slowly raised one hand to shoulder level, and the others opened their eyes in unison with the action.

Morgada turned her palm upward, and a black vial materialized in it. Only she and the other two from the inner circle knew that the blood contained therein had been taken from the sacrificed Ulgrod. The rest assumed that it belonged to the mythic stockpile of elf blood that Safrag supposedly kept in storage for creation of the elixir.

A stopper shaped like the head of a Titan popped off the squat vial and floated in the air. Tendrils of red and silver energy rose from within, seeming to dance above the opening.

Morgada sang a magical note. The tendrils wrapped around one another like intertwining serpents, and became a scarlet mist that rose up to join that of the forest. The Titans’ surroundings suddenly took on a crimson hue.

Morgada turned the vial over, letting the contents spill out. However, it did not simply form a puddle on the ground, but instead spread to every one of the sorcerers. Despite the vial’s relatively slight size, the magical blood had no trouble creating the entire required pattern. Deep red lines ran from one Titan to another, and each time one segment was completed, the blood flared to brighter life. The vial’s flow only ceased when the entire pattern had been recreated.

Morgada turned the bottle upright again, allowing the stopper to seal itself. She released the dread container, which vanished.

The female Titan sang another note. The others joined her, creating a sound both wondrous and terrible to hear. The treetops shivered even though there was no wind, and the mist turned more crimson as it settled down just above the spellcasters’ heads.

Slowly, the wordless song lowered in volume. As it did, Morgada began drawing a certain symbol according to Dauroth’s version of the High Ogre tongue. A bent tree with blazing marks was intended to represent poisoned fruit. At the base of the bent tree she drew two wavy lines that burned red.

It was the Titan symbol for the elf race as Dauroth had decided it should be drawn. The tree represented their long reign as the supposed guardians of Krynn, a guardianship that he regarded as built on the demise of the High Ogres, and the lies-hence the poisoned fruit-that the forest dwellers had spread about the ogre race’s past.

And the river that flowed beneath the foul tree was the blood with which the elves would repay the ogres for the centuries of degradation.

Once Morgada had finished the symbol, it drifted away, moving not to the center of the assembled Titans’ pattern, but rather to an area to the east of them. As the symbol neared, the mist-enshrouded trees closest to it faded back. Wherever it flew, the symbol cleared the area of any tree or bush, the expanse growing.

When at last she was satisfied, Morgada caused the mark of the elves to hover. A glance at the two other members of the Talon verified their approval. Smiling expectantly, she altered the song again.

The change was the signal for the others to raise their hands toward her and her two companions. From the fingertips of each Titan emanated blue streams of magical energy that touched the trio, before flowing through them into the scarlet pattern. The pattern became bone white.

“Children of the lie, we see your damning hearts, we see your foul lies,” Morgada sang in the Titans’ musical language. “We hear your words of deceit and the whispers you make in the ears of all others. We call you by the name we know you-Arys idu lokai! — the Speakers of the Curse!” She clenched her hands. “We call you, Arys idu lokai, call you that you may speak no more your untruths and instead pay with your blood for the resurrection of the First People!”

The Titans grunted as the arcane energies flowing between them flared a hundredfold more intensely. The forest took on a new, more macabre glow.

And where the symbol Morgada had drawn hovered, there began to take shape ghostly figures. They were slim and much shorter than the gargantuan sorcerers, albeit tall enough when compared to the races of men and dwarves. Their numbers grew from a handful to dozens, scores, hundreds. The sinister forest of the Titans expanded to make room for every addition.

And as the numbers grew, the ghosts also defined themselves more distinctly. Some were shorter, like children. Many had long, flowing hair. There were males and females. The figures clustered about one another.

They were elves. Frightened, drawn elves. Their garments were in most cases tattered, and many bore visible scars.

Morgada clamped her mouth shut. The spell ceased.

The Titans turned to the fearful newcomers.

One quicker-witted elf broke from the throng. He made it to the edge of the clearing … only to back up in fear.

Out from the trees marched a macabre army. Only shadows at first, they resembled ogre warriors. But in the light of the sorcerers’ magic, the horrific truth revealed them as skeletons, the bones of warriors who had come to serve the Titans. Dauroth had transformed them from living to dead, preferring the absolute obedience of the latter.

The lone elf stumbled, collided with the nearest skeleton, and bounced off. The unliving sentinel reached down and seized him by the throat, and raised a rusted but still usable axe.

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.

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.