The Fire Rose

III

There were troubles with ruling a realm divided by broken land, mountains, and other geographic divides. Golgren borrowed his ideas in that regard from the Uruv Suurt, who claimed mastery over their mainland colony of Ambeon and many, many islands east of the Blood Sea. No realm was as splintered as the minotaur empire’s, and a constant stream of ships kept communication going between the individual colonies. Under Faros Es-Kalin, the newest emperor-Golgren’s archenemy-those ships had swelled in number.

The Grand Khan boasted a continuous stream of ships moving between the parts of his realm too, especially the lighter sailing craft that borrowed heavily from the empire’s designs. Yet sailing around the Hollowlands, past the Misty Isle, and through the Bay of Balifor was an overly-tedious and dangerous process. Thus, while that route was necessary at times, Golgren had also opened a land crossing near Ogrebond heading south to the sea just beyond the bay, utilizing a new port town he had dubbed Carduuch, or “Serpent’s Bite”. Even that way entailed wasted time and effort, however.

And that was why Golgren had begun to study the nearby land of Khur in detail.

Khur was an arid land filled mostly with human nomads. In many ways, the nomads were respected by the ogres, who acknowledged their strength, cunning, and savagery. However, being human, the nomads had made ties with the Knights of Neraka. And thus to invade them was to end the semblance of peace that existed between Golgren and the dark knighthood. Yet, if the news he had received was correct, the Black Shells had already broken that peace, and Khur was already his enemy.

Golgren studied the weathered maps on a huge wooden table in what had become his war room. The high-ceilinged chamber had likely been a grand ballroom in the days of his ancestors, for it was vast. The floor and walls still retained remnants of fanciful images, some recognizable as High Ogres in poses of merriment. The Grand Khan cared not a whit that he had turned a place of entertainment into one of planning destruction, for to ogres war was the ultimate entertainment. It gave purpose to their otherwise dismal lives and had a long ogre tradition.

Khur had been Golgren’s next intended foray into conquest, one that he had felt would not be so disturbing to the Solamnians at least. Uniting the “provinces” of Kern and Blode through Khur would prove far more vexing to the Nerakians and the Uruv Suurt. And as an ally of Neraka, Khur was an enemy of Solamnia. In Golgren’s eyes, it had been the perfect next step in his master plan.

His face expressionless, the Grand Khan suddenly swept his maimed arm across the table, flinging away the maps that had been given to him long ago by the Solamnians who had come to “train” his village in warfare against the Black Shells.

Golgren strode out of the war room, with two hulking guards-one from Kern and the other from Blode, as he always dictated-following close behind.

Signs of reconstruction and renovation were everywhere, with scaffoldings lining corridors and raw materials covering portions of the marble floors. The work had slowed over the past months, in great part because very few elf slaves were involved anymore. Having determined that they would be his bargaining chip with the Solamnians, Golgren had not wanted to let his people become too much accustomed to using the elves as slaves. Without them, ogres tried their best to imitate the meticulous skill of the elves. The results were not as pleasing.

Three ogre workers quickly scrambled to attention as he strode by. They had been seeking to patch a section of wall that had collapsed in upon itself in generations past. The work had been started by the slaves, and where elf hands had sought to ease the cracks and replace the marble, the wall looked almost as though it had never broken in the first place.

Unfortunately, where the ogres had taken over, the new marble did not match the previous stone in shade, nor were the cracks completely covered over. Instead, great splashes of plaster feebly attempted to bridge the gaps between broken pieces.

The three ogres had been chosen because of their relative skills at such craftsmanship, but so amateurish was their effort that Golgren paused to survey their handiwork. The trio dropped to their knees and cowered before their much shorter lord.

Golgren snapped his fingers. One of the Grand Khan’s guards let out a grunt of warning and thrust a sword forward for emphasis. The three workers scrambled to their feet and fled down the corridor.

The Grand Khan softly placed his hand on one of the ancient reliefs. In the image, two High Ogres rode magnificent steeds in the midst of some activity, possibly a hunt. Their images had been recreated by the slaves, but whatever they were hunting for had been obscured by the pathetic efforts of the ogres.

“The elves, whatever their faults, were far more adept, weren’t they?”

The two guards swung around to face the unexpected newcomer. Golgren, unfazed, slowly turned to face Safrag.

“Such a glorious piece of work,” the new Titan leader murmured. Stepping past Golgren and the wary guards, the gargantuan sorcerer let out a sigh. “Please. Allow me.”

Raising his palms to waist level, the Titan stood before the center of the relief. He took a deep breath.

A golden glow rose from Safrag’s palms. He shivered slightly and began breathing rapidly. His eyes fluttered half closed.

Despite their responsibilities, the guards took a step back. Ogres, more than most races, feared magic.

The glow rose to envelop the image. While there was no visible change at first, where the work had either been done by ogres, or not touched at all, the energies suddenly grew bright.

And before the eyes of the onlookers, the rest of the relief took shape. The two hunters were joined by a never-before-glimpsed third figure: a female astride the back of a wingless griffon. Their prey turned out to be a huge, majestic creature that resembled a horse with lupine features and two horns. The strange creature was an amalok, one of the most dominant and useful beasts in all Golthuu. A variety of amalok breeds had once spread from the uppermost points of Kern down to the worst recesses of Blode. They had been used for their hides, their meat, their horns, and for racing. The spotted variation pursued by the High Ogres was carved in such detail that one could distinguish the strands of hair and the split in the hooves. There could be no doubt that an animal of that kind had once lived, though no such amalok was found anymore.

With a slight gasp of effort, Safrag stepped back.

“Arresting, isn’t it?” the Titan commented. “There’s so much to admire of our great ancestors.”

“Decorum being one of those things,” the Grand Khan blandly returned. “And what does Safrag require all of a sudden, that he appears to me with such brash suddenness? Or has he a desire to offer the Titans as workers to restore the palace for me?”

Safrag chuckled. “As glorious as the palace fully restored to its former greatness would be, our gifts can be of far better service to you than that, Grand Khan,” the blue-tinted sorcerer said. He gave a low bow that still did not take him down to eye level with the half-breed. “No, I come on business of importance regarding a missing portion of your armies.”

With a wave of his hand, Golgren dismissed the two guards. They retreated, standing far enough away to not hear, but still close enough to be summoned back to duty, if needed.

“The Titans are slow to hear. That news is not fresh news to me, Safrag.”

The Titan leader spread his hands in apology. “Naturally, we knew about it for some time. But it made no sense to alert you without first trying to find out more information. You’d certainly like to know where the missing ranks might be, after all.”

Golgren did not even so much as arch an eyebrow. “And you know?”

“We have … evidence. Strong evidence.” Safrag raised a hand toward Golgren.

A dagger suddenly appeared at the base of the Titan’s stomach. The Grand Khan’s face remained a mask. Behind him the guards could be heard giving a start, turning toward Golgren.

“No …” Golgren called to the pair. They immediately halted.

The dagger stayed pointed at Safrag’s stomach.

“Your throat is a bit high for my dagger, Safrag. But a blade to the stomach can be as fatal, I think, even to a sorcerer.”

The Titan was gracious even in the face of the threat. “But I mean no harm, Grand Khan! I merely have something to show you.”

Over his open palm there suddenly appeared the vision of a mountainous region. Golgren did not remove the dagger while he studied the vision. He vaguely knew that particular area. It was almost directly south of Garantha, in the midst of the rugged mountain chain that extended there.

“That is near the Vale of Vipers,” Golgren finally said.

“So we also found out.”

“The missing hand last marched in the southern reaches of old Blode. To be near the vale, Zhulom would have had to march his warriors far and with much good reason.”

“We thought he might be seeking to build a rebellion,” the Titan suggested.

The Grand Khan’s green eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “To build a rebellion, Zhulom would need the help of the Uruv Suurt. He would be best served staying in the south of old Blode.”

Safrag bowed again. “Your wisdom is great. We considered that also, and perhaps Zhulom has done so previously. But all signs most definitely point to him being near the vale.”

“The vale …” Golgren withdrew the dagger, which he quickly slipped back into his belt. “So very near Khur.”

“Imagine the empire with Khur. And, by proxy, imagine Neraka, Grand Khan.”

Golgren said nothing, showed no emotion.

Dismissing the vision, Safrag continued blithely, “Of course, I wouldn’t expect you to ride there yourself. We Titans shall look into the matter there as best as possible.”

“Yes. You are to be commended, Safrag.”

“The Titans but live to serve you, Grand Khan.”

Grinning without humor, Golgren replied, “So Dauroth also said.”

With a shrug, the Titan leader vanished in a brief flash of black flame that left a slight sulfur scent in Golgren’s nostrils. Slipping his hand to a pouch at his waist, Golgren withdrew a small vial. Expertly popping the bound cork off the tiny green container, the Grand Khan briefly inhaled the potion. The elven scent managed to disperse the sulfur.

Replacing the vial, he summoned back the guards. Without a word to them, the Grand Khan glanced one more time at the wondrous relief, much improved, and continued on.

Khleeg and a second officer met him outside the palace. Wargroch, also a Blodian, was in some ways uglier than Khleeg. His toadlike face was reminiscent of two other ogres who had served Golgren during his rise to power. There was good reason for that resemblance, for both Nagroch and Belgroch had been elder brothers of the warrior. They too had given their lives-in one way or another-in service to Golgren.

“Lord,” the pair rumbled, striking their fists to their breastplates.

To Khleeg, Golgren asked, “Word of Zhulom?”

His second in command turned uncomfortable. “Nothing, lord.”

Wargroch grunted. Khleeg glared at him.

Golgren eyed the younger warrior. “Speak, Wargroch.”

The other’s grasp of Common was better than Khleeg’s. “Grand Khan, I hear of sightings of ogre warriors coming from the south. I understand they march through Khur-”

“All j’nari!” insisted Khleeg to them. “All … rumor!”

The Grand Khan silenced Khleeg with a look. “And the rumor? You hear it where, Wargroch?”

“Mentioned in reports, in stolen messages from Black Shell riders … in other places …”

“It is true?” Golgren demanded of Khleeg.

His second in command shrugged. “True, some word here, some there. How true that word …”

A brief scowl escaped the Grand Khan, a scowl he quickly smothered. “It is decided,” he murmured to himself. “Khleeg, my horse. Wargroch, you and I, we will ride!”

“Ride where?” asked Khleeg, clearly not pleased. His brother had been chosen over him; he would be left behind.

The Grand Khan bared his teeth-not at Khleeg, but rather thinking of the destination he had in mind. “To Sarth.”

The ogre was a rarity among his kind, so old and wizened that he almost appeared to hail from some other race. His body was barely more than bones, and his flesh was so pale gray that he looked like a f’hanos. His two smallest fingers were missing from his left hand, as were the small toes of each foot. Yet the marks that were all that were left of those impairments indicated that the missing digits had been carefully severed, not removed by accident.

The old ogre sat in the mouth of a cave hidden in the mountains just east of Garantha. The cave was not deep, but the shape of the opening evoked the fanged mouth of a serpent. The old ogre sat under the stone fangs, drawing with a stick in the dirt.

The patterns he made were many. Some were recognizable as crude designs of local animals: the huge, elephantine mastarks, the giant reptiles called meredrakes, amaloks of varying sizes, and birds of prey were just some of the drawings. The old ogre mumbled as he drew, and whenever his mouth opened enough, it revealed that other than his two cracked bits of tusk, he had only a few fractured teeth.

His pate was bald, and what hair he bore on the rest of his gaunt body was spread in gray patches. Although the winds that howled through the mountains were harsh, they seemed not to affect the ogre, who wore only an old, torn kilt. No sandals protected his feet, whose soles were harder than leather.

In addition to the drawings in the dirt, there were other markings etched into the sides of the cave entrance.

A sun. A dragon with many heads. A huge tree. A griffon.

Beside the ogre was a tiny fire made from some of the squat brush that managed to survive in the inhospitable landscape. Tendrils of smoke wafted away from the cave and its tenant, finally drifting toward the two approaching riders.

“Gya ihul iGuyviri” rasped the elderly ogre sitting in front of the cave.

Wargroch glanced curiously at his lord. Golgren kept his expression calm, though his eyes briefly narrowed.

“And I see you too, Sarth,” the Grand Khan returned, “who knows I am Golgren.”

“And who speaks the tongue that is not the tongue,” countered the elder, his comment followed by a grunting laugh. “As you wish to speak. Golgren you are, Guyvir. What brings you to Sarth after so many seasons? Not since Ka i’Urkarun Dracon iZharangi-The Dragon Who Is Zharang-brought his f’han to him and called him Grand Lord …”

The elder’s ability to speak Common so well-better, in fact than any ogre other than a Titan-made Wargroch growl suspiciously. Golgren quieted him with a gesture. “A shaman, Wargroch. He is supposed to be a creature of peace.”

Again came the grunting laugh. “Sarth is Sarth as he has always been. As Golgren has always been Golgren …”

The wind whipped through the Grand Khan’s hair, and his cloak fluttered as if alive. Yet the air seemed still around Sarth.

“Wait,” Golgren ordered Wargroch, as he dismounted.

The younger ogre grunted uneasily, but obeyed. He took the reins of Golgren’s massive steed and hung back, watching warily as his lord drew closer to the shaman.

Ogres respected various gods. But more than deities-even more than Sirrion perhaps-they respected the land, which they believed was an entity everlasting. A decadent, bestial folk, ogres no longer had clerics like other races. But they did have shamans, who were revered as the watchers of the land, fulfilling its needs and guarding against its enemies. That did not mean that, like druids-perhaps their closest equivalent-the shamans helped cultivate the flora and watch over the fauna. Rather, they were servants of the land, beings who listened to its silent whisperings and did what they were told, no matter the cost to them.

There had never been more than a few shamans at any one time. But those that had existed had always been treated with the greatest reverence, until what humans and elves called the Chaos War had taken place. The land had demanded that the shamans stand against the forces of Chaos, and they had done their duty and died for it. To the knowledge of most ogres, not one of their shamans had survived. With the mercurial nature of their race, most ogres had soon forgotten that shamans had ever existed.

But Golgren’s mother had not been an ogre. She had been an elf. And, as an elf, she had looked to the shamans as akin to privileged beings from her own race. And so she had searched for a shaman, and somehow she had found Sarth … Or he had found her.

“You have grown since your mother’s womb,” Sarth cackled as Golgren reached him. “Not so much, but you’ve grown.”

Only the narrowing of the Grand Khan’s eyes gave hint to the emotions he smothered inside. Sarth had not been a shaman with any connection to the half-breed’s village, but he had nonetheless been there the night the captive elf had given birth.

The shaman looked down at his drawings and erased all of them with one sweep of his bony hand. As Golgren seated himself cross-legged before the cadaverous but still tall figure, Sarth started making new drawings. A circle with a cross on one side. A warrior with a club. A sickle moon with a reptilian head atop it.

The drawings were immediately recognizable to the half-breed. The warrior was meant to represent his father. The circle with the cross was his pregnant mother. The sickle moon with the head of a meredrake marked the time of Golgren’s birth.

“Halu i guyvari zuun delahn,” said the shaman, briefly reverting to Ogre. “Such a thing cannot be born between the races. No ogre and elf may breed a child, but a child is bred,” he concluded, peering up at Golgren. “A son is wealth and power. The father must have the mother. He lets live what should not exist for lust of the mother.”

“I know the story,” interrupted Golgren coolly. “Sarth wastes his breath telling what is already known, yes?”

But the shaman continued to draw his pictures and symbols. The head of an Uruv Suurt with a collar around his throat. An ogre standing upon a scale that was tipped to the left even though the ogre stood on the plate on the right.

A burning flower above the ogre.

“Sarth knows those things only because I have told Sarth those things.” The Grand Khan deftly rose. As he did so, he saw by the cave a few small items that clearly had been brought as tokens for the shaman. An amalok horn. A necklace of meredrake teeth. A small clay figure of a female ogre. To Golgren’s kind, each of the offerings suggested a specific purpose or need.

“Few believe in Sarth anymore,” Golgren added. “Fewer yet come to see Sarth. Small wonder.”

The shaman remained unperturbed by his visitor’s insults. He studied his drawings as if seeking something.

“Dalu i surra fwaruus,” Sarth muttered, sounding annoyed with himself. The bony finger thrust out and began a new drawing above the ogre on the scale.

There was a sharp, uncharacteristic intake of breath from Golgren. The shaman was busy with a simple figure that could have been an ogre, a human, or an elf. Yet where the other drawings had included details such as eyes or a nose at least, the figure had an oval head devoid of any features.

Sarth drew lines stretching forth from the body of the figure. Each line had three jagged sections to it. In such a manner did the old pictographs of ogre language indicate something that was bright or that shone.

A figure that shone.

Going down on one knee, Golgren leaned close to the shaman. His voice low, he murmured, “What do you know of that?”

“Kesu idwa. Sarth is told. Sarth does not question what is told. He knows that it is.”

The Grand Khan’s fingers came within inches of the old ogre’s throat, itching to strangle him. Although, if standing, Sarth would have been much taller than Golgren, his body was very frail for an ogre. Golgren could have snapped his neck in two without trouble.

Sarth did not react to the potential threat, save to say, “Yawa idwa i tuz iGolgreni. You are not told what to do, Grand Khan. The choice was and is always yours.”

Edging his hands away, Golgren leaned back. The half-breed slowly ran one foot over the drawings, eradicating them.

“That is the answer to such,” he said to Sarth. “It is as you have said: I make my fate, as I have always. No drawings, no prophecies, no shamans who may speak as surrogates for the Titans …”

Once again ignoring Golgren, Sarth started new images. There were only two. One was a serpent coiled above a mountain; the other was a sword drawn with uncanny precision.

The Grand Khan recognized the first. Sarth had drawn an illustration representing the name of a place.

The Vale of Vipers.

But the sword, on the other hand, could suggest many meanings. A battle that would take place there, perhaps. Hardly astounding, considering recent news. Yet Golgren doubted that Sarth had drawn the sword for that purpose. It looked familiar, a specific design that did not look ogre in cast. It was more like …

Sarth was reconstructing the minotaur head, shaping the image differently.

It suddenly became obvious that the head was larger and rounder than an Uruv Suurt. The muzzle, meanwhile, was much shorter, almost crushed into the face.

“Yawa idwa i tuz iGolgreni,” Sarth repeated, looking down with satisfaction at his latest piece of artwork. “You are not told what to do, Guyvir.”

The Grand Khan said nothing. He touched neither the shaman nor the drawings, but simply turned and headed back to a perplexed Wargroch.

“My lord, did he tell you what you want?”

“No, he told me what he wanted. And that is how it has always been.”

The toad-faced officer reached for his weapon. “Gerad ahn if’hani-”

Golgren stopped him with an unexpected glare. “No one shall touch Sarth, ever.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “And remember, all officers are to speak Common.”

More befuddled than ever, Wargroch beat his fist against his breastplate. “I have dishonored my Grand Khan! I give my life-”

“Stop. We ride.” Without another word, Golgren took the reins of his horse and mounted. Wargroch hurried to climb atop his own.

As the Grand Khan began to turn his mount around, he suddenly heard Sarth chanting in Ogre.

“Zaru iVolantori igada tur iVolantori.”

“Hear the tale of Volantor, Volantor the Mighty,” was the closest translation. Like all ogres, Golgren knew the story of Volantor. It was told as a parable among his kind. Volantor had been a great warlord, with victories over the Uruv Suurt, humans, and dwarves. He had dispatched many a foe himself with his huge axe, called “Throat Eater” in legend. Volantor had become a khan in his own right and had gathered more wealth and power than most ogres could imagine.

Standing ever at Volantor’s side had been his friend and comrade, Jaro. Throughout Volantor’s rise to power, Jaro had guarded the warlord’s back just as Volantor guarded his friend’s. When Volantor became a khan, he made Jaro his second in command.

And it was as khan that Volantor achieved his greatest victory over a jealous rival. Volantor himself dispatched the other warlord, but not without receiving a wound to his chest. Fortunately, while the wound had been a large one, it had not been fatal. Volantor handed his axe to Jaro and began binding his chest.

At which point the patient Jaro took Volantor’s prized axe and removed his friend’s head. All that Volantor had built up became Jaro’s.

Whether or not the tale was true, the moral was clear to any ogre. One’s friends and allies were only such until it was no longer worth their while to be friends. It was more often those closest to power who dealt the killing blow.

Zharang had learned that lesson too late, using the ambition he saw in Golgren to further his own ambitions and thinking that he controlled the upstart. Golgren’s former lord had ended up with a sword through his chest, his body sprawled across the shattered table where the Grand Khan had been supping with guests.

Golgren had played the role of Jaro, but now he wore Volantor’s guise.

And if Sarth could be trusted to be right-as he generally was-one or more Jaros now awaited their turn, bearing some variation of Volantor’s treacherous Throat Eater.

One of whom might even be … Sir Stefan Rennert?