The Fire Rose

XXII

Tyranos groaned as he awoke and immediately realized what he had done. Whoever was master of the gargoyles would have set some insidious trap for the rare intruder who might be searching for the Fire Rose. Yet Tyranos had not considered that possibility. Admittedly, he had a streak of smugness, which his earliest teachers had said would someday kill him despite his skills. It looked to be that day.

The massive spellcaster looked around and saw nothing. He was in utter darkness in a place that smelled to him like the grave. The reason for that became apparent as his eyes adjusted.

Corpses. Three. From the looks of them, they were all ancient, yet the smell of death still pervaded the dark, moist area. Tyranos guessed that was because there was nowhere for the smell to go. That boded ill as much as the dead themselves.

The three hung as he did, floating in what seemed to be midair with their arms and legs spread out. Tyranos could tell little about them save that one looked to be a gargoyle by its shape, while the others were closer to human or elf in form but taller.

The wizard squinted. High Ogres, perhaps. If so, the bodies had been trapped a long, long time.

He tried to turn his head, but only half succeeded with the movement. Still, he could turn enough to enable him to see that he was not floating, but rather seemed to be attached to several tiny strands that looked like nothing less than webbing.

“No damned spiders, thank you,” Tyranos rasped, more to hear anything than because he truly believed it was the work of any arachnid. What he could make out of the corpses gave no indication they had perished from having their life fluids sucked out of them. The webbing itself had been the cause of their demises. They had been trapped and had starved to death.

The wizard struggled, but to no avail. Physical strength meant nothing, otherwise the gargoyle wouldn’t be among the dead.

Tyranos looked for his staff. It was nowhere in sight.

“We can’t have that,” he muttered. Tyranos concentrated on the missing staff, trying to summon it.

It did not appear in his hand, but not because he wasn’t trying hard enough. The spellcaster could sense the staff attempting to draw near, but some other greater force held it back.

“Damn!” Tyranos gritted his teeth. After a moment, he murmured a spell.

The strands lit up as if electrified. The wizard continued to grit his teeth as his body also suffered some from the spell. He stared into the sightless sockets of one of the High Ogre dead.

After several seconds, the electrical illumination ceased. The odor of something having been burned wafted under Tyranos’s nose, although whether it was the strands or himself that was the source of the odor was a question he could not answer.

Taking a breath, he tugged as hard as he could on the strands holding his left hand.

Nothing happened.

A lengthy epithet escaped the wizard.

“So,” he snarled to himself. “Only one choice, Tyranos. Only one choice damn it.”

He set his chin against his chest and concentrated.

A heat arose just over his heart. Something radiated there, casting a vague, circular shape even though, had anyone looked, they would have seen no medallion, no tattoo.

To find the truth, they would have had to look much deeper into the wizard.

Tyranos let out a sudden roar of agony. The circular shape grew more evident beneath his robes, almost as if it were burning its way through to the outer world.

And as the circular shape glowed bright, the wizard’s form began to alter. His mouth and nose stretched forward, becoming part of one unusual feature. His clean-shaven face sprouted dark hair, even on the forehead and around the eyes.

With a furious cry, Tyranos threw the power that he had summoned into destroying the strands. He heard them burn with a satisfying sizzle, but at the same time felt the changing of his body worsen.

“I-will-not-revert!” he shouted to the darkness. “I-am-no longer-that!”

His left arm suddenly tore free of the snare. His right arm followed suit a breath later.

Struggling hard, the wizard tumbled forward with such force that he collided with the nearest corpse. Tyranos instinctively pushed himself back for fear he would become entangled in the dead figure’s trap.

His legs weakened. He collapsed on the floor. As he did, his face began to shrink again, finally returning to normalcy.

The glow over his chest faded. The wizard lay there, shivering.

His strength gradually returned enough to enable him to push himself to a sitting position. Yet Tyranos still shivered.

“Too damned close. But you knew that’d happen, didn’t you?”

Neither he nor any invisible voice answered the question. The wizard shoved himself up onto his feet. He was free of the strands, yet hardly free of the trap itself.

“Where are you?” he asked the missing staff. “Close by, but how close by? Ah.”

Gingerly stepping past the gargoyle corpse, Tyranos followed the sensation he felt. The staff was in some ways as bound to him as Chasm.

A faint glow emanated ahead. The muscular spellcaster grinned. “So, there you are! I’ve missed you.”

He reached for the staff, which was also snared by strands. The wizard gave a good pull-

A tremendous hiss from above was all the warning that he received. The bone white form dropped down on him, its long, sinewy body quickly coiling around the wizard from chest to ankle.

A ghostly head snapped at him. It was huge snake-a viper-with fangs as long as Tyranos’s fingers.

He used one powerful hand to grab the beast just under the jaw and thus keep it from sinking those fangs into his arm.

The snake pulled back its head. Tyranos immediately twisted the creature’s head just to the side of his own.

A spray of venom shot forth, a spray that only barely grazed his cheek thanks to his swift reaction. Still, the slight touch was enough to make the area burn like the coldest ice.

At the same time, the coils tightened painfully. The spell-caster felt his rib cage being squeezed impossibly hard. The viper was also a great constrictor, a double threat.

But Tyranos squeezed back. “There are things in the sea my people have fought that are far worse than you could ever be, worm!”

The wizard crushed its throat.

The viper stiffened. The head cracked off and fell near his feet.

Twisting, Tyranos broke free of the rest of its body. Fragments of the viper went flying in different directions, some of them landing in the strands.

Studying the pieces still in his hand, the wizard saw that the creature had indeed turned to stone upon dying, much as it was said certain draconians did. Of course, draconians-the dragon men who had once served the dread goddess Takhisis-were living creatures, whereas the serpent had more likely been an animated carving brought to life by some magical trigger.

Tyranos discarded the pieces and tried to free the staff again. It worked after he had pulled as hard as he could. The wizard inspected his staff for damage, and satisfied, looked around in order to consider his next move.

The most logical one came to mind. Tyranos raised the staff and concentrated.

A moment later, he lowered the staff in disgust. “So. Not so easy to escape, eh? Let’s see what else we can find.” He glanced over his shoulder at the representatives of the dead, adding with a mocking tone, “You’ll wait, won’t you?”

Holding the staff before him, the wizard muttered. The crystal point shone, albeit not nearly so bright as times in the past. Grunting in frustration, Tyranos studied the area around him.

There was a passage beyond the webbed area, which surprised the wizard. Shrugging, he headed to the passage.

It was narrow, but passable. The walls were absolutely smooth, even where the stone blocks met. The builders had been craftsmen and-so Tyranos discovered as he held the staff close to one wall-masters of magic. Latent forces swirled within the walls, their purpose undecipherable, and therefore potentially deadly.

The passage veered at a sharp angle to the right. Tyranos turned the corner and confronted a wall.

He also encountered another skeleton clad in the robes he was increasingly certain represented some generation of the High Ogres.

The poor fool had been crushed to death by something. Every bone was broken, the skull in several unattractive pieces.

But the dead were already familiar and only of mild interest. The wizard stepped gingerly over the remains and used the staff to tap against the wall at the end.

It sounded very solid.

“Blasted tricks.” Tyranos turned back.

There was a wall where the passage had been.

He was trapped.

A grinding noise sounded. The wall that had appeared behind him began moving in his direction.

The tall spellcaster was not amused. He stretched the staff forth and tapped the moving wall. Like the one he had just investigated, it sounded very solid. It continued toward him.

“And so I’m to be squeezed to a pulp am I?” It was an old kind of trap, Tyranos knew, a favorite of tomb builders who had some access to magic or very clever mechanics.

However, Tyranos had no desire to end up like the unfortunate under his feet or any of the many others he had come across in his searches. He gazed up at the ceiling, studying the point where the moving wall and the ceiling met a side wall.

Tyranos stabbed the staff’s head into the point of convergence. “Tivak!”

The silver strands of energy burst forth and struck the area.

Hot stone pelted him as the area exploded. Tyranos kept his head covered by the hood of his robe.

When he dared look up again, it was to find that the ceiling and the walls had all been scorched black and badly damaged. More importantly, the wall had ceased advancing.

“And that’s that done.” Tyranos turned to deal with the wall at the other end.

But the wall was gone and shortly beyond where it had previously stood, Tyranos could see a chamber.

A lighted chamber.

Tyranos told himself to be patient, measuring each step as though he were trying to cross a raging river by means of a bridge consisting of a single piece of rope upon which he was balanced. After succeeding with one step, he would dare the next.

By the time he reached the chamber, his heart was pounding from anticipation. Yet still the spellcaster did not leap inside the room. Instead, he extended his staffjust beyond the end of the corridor.

A gigantic pattern formed at the entrance, a complex, magical pattern filled with every color of the rainbow and every geometric design Tyranos had ever known. It blazed so brightly that he had to shield his eyes until they grew accustomed to the glare.

The pattern hovered there, utterly blocking his way. Yet it did nothing more aggressive. Tyranos studied the pattern, noting marks of the three moons, of the constellations as they had been before the ones designated for Paladine-once highest of the gods of light-and dark Takhisis had vanished from the heavens. There were also geographic marks, some of which he did not recognize, others that he did, and a few that were possibly places he knew, but with small variations.

The pattern altered. Some of the locations became other places. The constellations shifted positions. Several of the geometric designs realigned themselves and, as they did, Tyranos felt the magic of the pattern as a whole take on a new significance.

He cocked his head. There was something about the entire creation-

With his head high, Tyranos strode forward. He braced himself as he reached the shimmering pattern and breathed a deep sigh of relief when he emerged on the other side untouched.

“By the kraken!” the wizard rasped. He turned around to see the final traces of the pattern vanish. “So not so concerned about someone who’s not bound to any High Ogre, eh?”

Tyranos had studied much about the ancient race since first hearing about the Fire Rose. He had learned about their ways and about rivalries between their different factions. The pattern was designed to keep out anyone of a certain group-or possibly one particular individual. It had also been created to sense anyone who in any way served that group or individual, a piece of complicated spellcasting that truly impressed him.

“But why so precise?” Tyranos asked the vanished pattern. “Why worry so much about one type of intruder and not so much about others? Did you think the other traps sufficient?”

Still puzzled, he turned back to face the interior of the chamber. He hesitated. There, before him, was a wall filled with the flowing, beautiful script of the High Ogres.

And nothing else.

“That can’t be right. Let’s just see if we can decipher what you’re saying. ‘The way to freedom’ or something?”

Stepping up to the writing, he studied the text, one line after another. Tyranos mouthed it out syllable by syllable, sometimes learning a word by deciphering those around it.

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.