The Fire Rose

VI

Golgren’s departure was delayed by news that was dire but hardly unexpected. Neraka had begun pushing across the border in northern Golthuu. The dark knights had moved in earnest and had easily overwhelmed the lone hand there. The force the Grand Khan intended to lead to the Vale of Vipers had originally been set to strengthen the warriors located by the overrun border.

Coincidence is the blind’s defiance of truth, Sarth had once intoned to a much younger Golgren, albeit in a more crude, ogre fashion. That was before an older Grand Lord had discovered the shaman knew the Common tongue better than him.

Golgren did not believe in coincidence. The Black Shells would not happen to push into northern Golthuu at the same time as rumors placed the Uruv Suurt in the south, and while elements of his new army were suddenly disappearing. Indeed, for Neraka to intrude upon the former Kern meant someone had gone out of their way to devise that strategy. Old Blode was a much easier target, lying just south of the black knights’ base of operations.

The Grand Khan had no choice but to follow the trail leading to the Vale of Vipers. But his realm could not be left to fend for itself. Golthuu was at a fragile juncture. If Golgren did not maintain a show of strength and keep the borders secure, his domain would quickly return to two splintered lands, scraps of which loose alliances would fight over while the other races moved in to take what spoils they desired.

Armored and ready to march, he summoned Khleeg and Wargroch.

“Khleeg, you were supposed to guard Garantha. That is no longer necessary.”

Golgren’s second in command looked concerned. “My lord?”

“Neraka must be challenged. Take the new hand to join with Khemu’s hand. Khemu and you and your hand will march to the settlement of Angthuul. Another hand will meet you there. That will give you three hands. You know Angthuul?”

“Aye, my lord. A day south of Styx. I have been to it.” Khleeg frowned. “And Garantha?”

As ranks of ogres marched past in preparation for their imminent departure, the Grand Khan put his hand on Wargroch’s shoulder. “The brother of Nagroch and Belgroch must bear the responsibility of watching Garantha. But I will always be near.”

The proclamation caught the other by surprise, not only because of the responsibility being placed on the younger officer’s shoulders, but because Golgren had said that somehow he would be close by to assist him. Khleeg nodded his acceptance, but asked, “The Grand Khan will need more messenger birds?”

In reply, Golgren drew from a pouch a tiny, round crystal that was light silver in color. He handed it to Wargroch, who handled it gingerly, for he and Khleeg both understood it possessed magic.

Even as the pair studied the mysterious bauble, the Grand Khan removed a second crystal from the pouch. “And Khleeg will also have the voice of Golgren to guide him.”

“My lord …” the senior warrior responded. As he turned his crystal over to inspect it, he asked, “Great one … They are Titan magic?”

Wargroch looked pained, as though the crystal in his palm had suddenly turned into a festering wound.

Golgren eased their concerns. “No, the magic owes nothing to the Titans.”

Indeed, he had only an hour past twisted them out of the hands of Tyranos. A wizard as wily as the leonine one surely knows how to arrange some manner of communication for Golgren to keep in close touch with his most trusted warriors. That was how the Grand Khan had phrased the suggestion to the human, appealing both to Tyranos’s pride and the wizard’s own stake in the ogre’s success.

Tyranos had protested, slamming the end of his staff into the marble floor of Golgren’s bed chamber. Yet in the end, the human provided had him with the three crystals-one each for Golgren, Wargroch, and Khleeg.

Hold the stone before your left eye and picture which of them you wish to speak with, the spellcaster had instructed. When Golgren had wondered at such simplistic instructions, Tyranos had shrugged and, in typical manner, asked the ogre if he wanted them to be made more complex and confusing.

The Grand Khan did not speak of Tyranos to either warrior, but he did repeat the instructions. Wargroch nodded, while Khleeg peered at the stone as if still wary that it would turn into something nasty.

Finally seeming to accept the necessity of the communication stone, Khleeg growled, “My lord, you must not ride alone-”

“I will ride with you as far as Ben-ihm, there to lead the hand of Barech to the Vale.”

His second in command grunted in satisfaction. “Barech is very loyal. Good.”

Wargroch was suddenly disconcerted. “Grand Khan! Let Barech guard Garantha! Let Wargroch ride with you to the Vale!”

“Your Grand Khan has chosen you, and you will guard my Garantha. Yes, Wargroch?”

“Yes, Grand Khan!”

A mastark trumpeted. Golgren looked past the pair. The first ranks of warriors were nearly at the main gates of the city.

“Come!” he commanded.

A crowd had gathered near where the new hand had formed for inspection. Barking cheers rose as the Grand Khan rode up. Golgren waved to all of them, looking every bit the confident conqueror. As he neared the gates, he looked up at the carved head of a huge griffon that had only recently been installed as a symbol of the city’s patron spirit. Its high, fierce head could be seen from a great distance away and also made for the proper backdrop to the ceremony about to take place.

A roar that sounded as if an eagle had swallowed a snarling cat cut through the cheers. Chained on a five-sided, wooden platform was the very creature for whom Garantha had been named. The griffon was a male, a powerful beast almost as large as a meredrake. Its torso was akin to one of the great cats: long, lean, obviously swift. However, instead of a sinewy, whip of a tail, the griffon had the plumage of a magnificent bird. The golden brown beast also had taloned feet as opposed to clawed paws. Already it had done its best to shred the platform.

The griffon had an avian head-a fearsome raptor’s profile, a sharp, hooked beak-but its eyes also had a feline cast that gave it a wise and perhaps distrustful look. The beast roared again, its unique cry silencing many in the crowd.

It flapped its mighty wings, but rose no more than an inch off the platform. Its wings had been clipped, an arduous ordeal for one of its kind. The male was a recent capture, and one that had originally been intended to dwell in a temple situated near the center of the capital, the Garan i Seraith-The Nest of the Griffon. But Golgren needed the creature in order that all should understand the situation.

The chain that held the griffon by the throat was twice as thick as the ones generally used. Golgren had ordered that security measure after the disaster at the Nest, when his enemies had sabotaged those keeping the two in the temple at bay.

At his nod, a trumpeter at the opposite end from the griffon blew the call announcing Golgren’s readiness. Flanked by Khleeg, Wargroch, and his guards, the Grand Khan stepped before the front of the platform and faced the throng.

He drew his sword. Khleeg and Wargroch imitated him.

“Iskar’ai!” Golgren shouted. “Victory!” he repeated in Common.

There were scattered cries of both words from the crowd and the warriors of the new hand. The ogre term faded as more and more picked up the second, Common version. All were aware of the decree that Common be the tongue to speak, and all wanted to prove they were eager followers of their ruler’s commands.

As one, Golgren and his two officers turned to face the griffon. The winged behemoth lunged at them, but the chain did not permit it to come anywhere near them-at least as yet. Undaunted by its savage beak or huge, slashing talons, the trio stepped up onto the platform.

As they did, Khleeg and Wargroch moved away from Golgren, flanking him from behind. They held their swords at the ready, but did not advance toward the griffon.

Holding his blade before him, the Grand Khan confidently approached the angry beast snapping its beak. Just out of striking reach, Golgren saluted the great creature.

“Let the spirit of the winged hunter fly ever above the warriors of Golthuu,” he intoned loudly. “Let them strike with its swiftness, cut with the sharpness of its talons, and rip out the hearts of the enemy with the power of its bite!”

The griffon roared.

Golgren lunged. The beast’s talons tore at the air just above his head, and its beak scored the shoulder of his maimed arm. The ogre leader aimed for the creature’s chest, which was covered in both feathers and fur.

His blade made a nick there. A thin stream of blood dribbled out.

Golgren withdrew. He studied the tip of his weapon, which was all but clean.

The Grand Khan stared at the furious, squawking beast. He observed the grabbing talons and judged the distance between him and its snapping beak.

And again, he lunged.

One talon cut across his cheek, but Golgren avoided having his entire face torn off by rolling underneath the attack. The griffon twisted. The chain not only slowed its movements however, but made the creature stumble.

Golgren’s blade came up. Its tip cut more deeply into the beast’s chest. Golgren could have shoved the sword in deep, but instead he quickly withdrew the blade and threw himself to the side.

The griffon pursued, but before it could reach its tiny assailant, the Grand Khan had moved beyond the chain’s length.

The crowd and the assembled warriors cheered.

Golgren raised his sword for all to see. Its top was red, and a thin streak of blood ran down to the hilt.

“The spirit of Garantha gives victory to its people!” he shouted.

Khleeg and Wargroch came to their lord’s side. The two officers raised their swords so that the tips of their weapons touched Golgren’s. Streaks of blood spread to their swords.

In the background, the griffon roared and roared. Its wound was a superficial one, exactly as intended. Had Golgren killed the creature during the ceremony, it would have meant that the spirits would forecast misfortune for any battle to come. On the other hand, had the griffon maimed or slain him by some chance, it would have meant that the patron spirits had decided a new ruler was needed for the sake of the ogre race.

Instead, by proving his courage, cunning, and skill, the Grand Khan had shown that those spirits still proclaimed him true master of his people and victor against all foes.

Golgren let his two officers share a bit more blood from his sword. By doing so, he symbolically extended the griffon’s protection to those he most trusted. The warriors who followed Khleeg would see him as an extension of the Grand Khan, just as those under Wargroch’s authority in Garantha would understand that he spoke with the voice, the wisdom, of their leader.

The horn sounded again. Golgren brandished his sword toward the warriors, and the onlookers. Finally, without cleaning his weapon, he sheathed it and returned to his steed.

As he and the pair mounted, the assembled ogres continued their barking cheers. The griffon’s handlers moved in to calm and control the wounded winged hunter.

Golgren beat his fist on his breastplate. Wargroch and Khleeg returned the salute. The younger officer started to separate himself from the other two, but Khleeg chose that moment to whisper, “My lord, but how will Wargroch handle the Titans?”

Wargroch did not look pleased with the clear questioning of his abilities. Golgren stilled Wargroch with a dark look and answered, “The Titans will do nothing but obey me.”

He said it with such certainty they had no trouble believing him, although it was obvious they were curious as to the reasons for his confidence. Golgren did not elaborate, however.

The younger officer saluted. “Grand Khan, my life is yours.”

“Yes.” Golgren dismissed Wargroch. The younger ogre rode to where the city guard awaited. As Wargroch neared, they snapped to attention as if he were Golgren himself.

The Grand Khan looked to Khleeg. “Give the signal to depart.”

Khleeg gestured to the trumpeter, who sounded the march. The hand methodically turned in the direction of Ben-ihm, some two days north. Golgren and his second took up the lead.

A blinding glint of light from the direction of the city caused Golgren to glance back. The sun did not lie that way, but with so many armored warriors on the high walls, or standing among the rest of the populace, he assumed it was some kind of momentary reflection.

But it was not the sun that glinted off of the new, shining breastplates of his proud warriors.

It was a faceless, golden figure, his bright, unsettling form reflected strong in hundreds of pieces of armor. Yet when Golgren sought out the source, he could not find the true watcher anywhere in the skies above.

And when Golgren glanced back at the hundreds of breastplates, he was not at all surprised to find that the reflections of the faceless figure had vanished there, as well.

Wargroch reentered the palace with a swagger that made it appear as if he, not Golgren, ruled. He grinned at the guards, who banged their fists on their chests in acknowledgment of his supremacy.

But the ogre had little true interest in the guards at the moment. Another, more delightful distraction stood hidden by the doors to the Grand Khan’s chambers. Since his arrival in Garantha, the Blodian had secretly become enchanted with Idaria. It had started simply enough: her exotic looks and the fact that she was Golgren’s favored had attracted his attention. Wargroch had considered her unapproachable until circumstances had worked to separate her from her master. The sudden rush of knowing that he was master of the capital-however temporary-proved too much for his buried lusts. Wargroch thought that the exotic elf slave might prove susceptible to the one who, for all practical purposes, acted as the Grand Khan.

The guards at the door saluted him and did not argue when Wargroch signaled the pair to depart. For all they knew, his authority required him to enter. Most ogres, Wargroch had often thought, were not nearly as clever as him. Not even Khleeg.

Not even his long-dead brothers.

With growing anticipation, Wargroch pushed his way inside. Immediately, he smelled the elf scents that he associated more with the exotic Idaria than her master.

“Ga ni ifalkuni dura duri,” he rumbled as he surveyed the chamber. The bed was huge and lush, and like nothing Wargroch had ever seen. On one side, the soft outline of a shape could be seen.

“Ga ni ifalkuni dura duri. Come play with me, dryad,” Wargroch called.

When she did not appear, he grew impatient and began searching for her. Where could she have gone? After all, the chambers were high above the ground, and elves did not fly.

But a thorough search left Wargroch empty-handed. The Blodian officer went from room to room within the Grand Khan’s personal quarters, and Idaria was nowhere to be found. Yet the presence of the guards had indicated that she had been within, and the bed had verified that she had been sleeping there not long before.

Wargroch growled. There had to be a secret passage somewhere in the Grand Khan’s quarters, and the slave had slipped out. His desire began to fade as he considered what might have happened between them had she actually been in the quarters. Golgren could return without notice; the Grand Khan was unpredictable. Besides, Wargroch had to measure up to his new duties. Garantha was an imposing responsibility.

He glanced ruefully at the bed one last time, where the loose impression of a smaller, feminine form was still visible. Wargroch grunted and the next moment fled the chambers.

But even after several minutes had passed since his departure, Golgren’s personal quarters remained empty.

Safrag entered what had once been a part of his master Dauroth’s personal libraries, but had since been made very much Safrag’s own domain. The rounded chamber had walls lined with bookshelves made of silver that had been built into the stone, helping secure the magic of the scrolls and other items in the chamber.

Glancing back at the door, Safrag belatedly sealed the entrance. He wanted no one to intrude at that precious moment.

Standing next to the wide, rectangular table, he summoned a glowing sphere of a similarly colored light and sent it adrift above him. The glow revealed inlaid silver in the walls that also had to do with the tomes and other papers lining the shelves.

Surely, it would not do any harm to test the Fire Rose again. Unlike Dauroth, Safrag was not afraid to wield the fragment under cautious conditions. As for the legend that each use of the Fire Rose made the desire to use it again and again more irresistible, Safrag knew well the strength of his will. He would not fall prey to such paltry fears.

At the center set of shelves, Safrag reached toward the middle one and gently touched a red stone inlaid there.

The stone shimmered, and the entire wall rippled as though suddenly formed of water.

“Falstoch, Falstoch! I would have a word with you, Abomination.”

From behind the rippling wall, there came a mournful sound like nothing uttered by a mortal soul. It seemed but a wail. Yet if one listened close, words could be heard.

IIIIII cooooooommmmmmme …

IIIIII coooooommmmmmmeee …

Slowly, a dreadful sloshing noise became evident, as if something that was not quite flesh, not quite liquid, approached from whatever dank realm existed behind the wall. There was an agonized hint to each shudder, and the same two words repeated over and over. The voice was reminiscent of someone drowning.

A vague shape appeared behind the shelves, a shape sometimes seeming almost ogreish in form, sometimes almost that of a Titan. And most often, something macabre.

A hand suddenly thrust out of the wall. It bore four digits, five, three, and five again. Its flesh dripped to the floor, sizzled, and vanished, yet the hand looked no less whole. A thumb melted into the hand, only to thrust out at a different angle.

With the greatest of strain, the dripping hand stretched forward. Behind it came a thick limb that also dripped. Pustules formed, swelled, and popped. Dwarf limbs, some even with hands, briefly sprouted, and melted back into the main arm.

Safrag casually stepped back, remaining out of reach of the grotesque apparition. In an almost clinical manner, he studied the monstrous changes constantly assailing the one he called Falstoch.

A face thrust through the wall, a face that made even the deformities of a Titan without elixir seem beautiful by comparison.

The Abomination-Dauroth’s name for the accursed thing-had no eyes, one, and three … and none of them exactly where eyes should be. A mouth formed, but sideways. It melted into the waxy, dripping flesh, and was replaced near the forehead by another mouth that lasted only a single breath before vanishing. The same constant transformations occurred for every other aspect of the body, be it the ears, the nose, or growths that had no identifiable function. Coarse black hair sprouted in random patches, shriveled, and fell off. Like all else that peeled away from the constantly melting form, the hair sizzled on contact with the stone floor before fading away.

The rest of Falstoch shoved its way through. If there were legs, they were lost in the bloated shape that moved like a snail and left a trail of slime worse than any such creature. Other arms and perhaps what were feet and legs continued to erupt from random areas. Nothing ever lasted long, and nothing-not even the head-was permanent. One head sank into the bubbling mass, and rose again from the right side. What eyes it had stared at the Titan from a very crooked angle.

Sssssaaffffragggggg … it intoned, its voice coming from all around the chamber. Haaasssss Daaauroth forrrgivvvven usssssss?

“Dauroth is dead. I am master of the Black Talon and all other Titans.”

His words caused an ever-so-brief hesitation in the horrific shifting of the Abomination’s shape. Falstoch and those like him were Titans who had transgressed against Dauroth, and for their “crimes” had been condemned by the late master to this sad fate. They were abject lessons to the rest.

Deeeeeeadddd … There was a hint of grim pleasure in the ghoulish voice, perhaps the only pleasure that Falstoch had experienced since Dauroth had transformed him. Falstoch’s crime had been to experiment on a possible elixir that would have freed him from relying on Dauroth’s good will. The experiment had not gone far, but since it had not been sanctioned by the Titans’ creator-and since Dauroth wanted no one else to have the secret-Falstoch had paid the ultimate price.

The other Abominations had been condemned for similar transgressions, all seeking to circumvent Dauroth’s will.

Safrag extended his palm toward Falstoch. The tiny fragment of the Fire Rose materialized in it.

The Abomination’s reaction was immediate. Leeeeggeendd! Rrrrrroooossssseeee!

“Speak truly, Falstoch. Did Dauroth use it when he cast you into your hellish state?”

Nooooooo!

That surprised the former apprentice. He had spent many hours of many days perusing Dauroth’s secrets, determined that none would be lost to him. Yet he had failed in that particular one. Even in death, Dauroth could still surprise his treacherous servant.

None of that truly mattered given that Safrag had the fragment. He knew that of all the Abominations, Falstoch had always had the most knowledge of the artifact’s legends.

However, speaking with such a disgusting blob did not suit Safrag.

“Sera issura alayva etoi,” the Titan sang in words that were as close to that of the ancient High Ogre language as anything else Dauroth had created. As he uttered the spell, Safrag also drew a triangular pattern over the piece.

The tiny fragment of the Fire Rose blazed crimson and orange. Tendrils of fiery smoke wafted up from the fragment. Yet Safrag felt only a very comforting warmth on his palm.

The tendrils twisted around one another. As the lead Titan continued to sing, they began to create a shape that made Safrag’s eyebrow arch in surprise. It was a dancing shape with arms and legs. The moment it formed, it moved with excited abandon.

And before Safrag’s eyes, it leapt into Falstoch.

A shuddering cry erupted from more than a dozen spontaneously created mouths. As they sank into the body, a dozen more formed, joining the cry. After them came only one, but that actually formed where a mouth should be.

Indeed, above the mouth was a nose not that different from Safrag’s. Above that nose and to each side of it, eyes of gold emerged from flesh that had taken on a slight azure hue.

Falstoch’s cry altered. It was no longer agonized, but full of primal pleasure. In great globs, the putrid flesh fell away and burned to nothingness. Behind was left a more defined and growing shape, one as tall as the observing Titan. Two distinct legs suddenly appeared, followed swiftly by a pair of sleek, muscular arms that developed sharp hooks at the elbows, and hands with long, tapering fingers ending in deadly, black nails.

Falstoch’s ecstatic cry echoed throughout the library, although Safrag’s magic had assured that it would not be heard. A satisfied smile revealing both rows of sharp teeth grazed the Titan leader’s face as the last vestiges of Falstoch’s torture faded away and a handsome Titan stood with arms outstretched to the ceiling.

“I am whole again!” Falstoch roared, flexing his fingers. He was naked, but in wonder at the transformation. “I am whole again …” He fell down on one knee before Safrag. Falstoch had a distinctive arch to his nose and his chin was narrower, but otherwise his face could have been the other sorcerer’s twin.

“Safrag! My life is yours! Command me, and I obey!” he sang.

Safrag’s smile did not fade, but in cold tones, he replied, “I would not be of such great cheer, Falstoch. It seems as if your redemption is to be short-lived. Observe your right hand.”

Falstoch glanced down at his hand. Where before there had been perfect, blue skin, a small area of deathly white had began to spread. “No!”

“Be not so disturbed by the briefness of it,” Safrag went on, as Falstoch discovered the same blemish stretching over the back of his other hand and on his chest. “It shows that the potential is there. Dauroth’s spell was incredible and likely the work of the High Ogres-”

“Safrag! I beg of you-do something!” Falstoch’s fine mane of hair-only recently sprouted-began to fall off. His form was bloating.

“You know the Fire Rose as well as Dauroth did. Quickly! Did you ever come across a reference to the Vale of Vipers?”

The other Titan’s body began to quiver as if ready to explode. One leg began to tremble, as if the bones within had turned to jelly.

“Vale … Vale … Yesss!”

The last traces of Falstoch the Titan dwindled away, replaced by the nightmarish thing that had first emerged from the wall.

Safrag eyed the Abomination without pity. “Thank you, Falstoch. What would you do for the chance to be whole again? For that, the Fire Rose itself must be mine.”

Aaannnnything. The voice that came from all around pleaded.

“And your fellow sufferers? Them too?”

Yyyyessss.

The Titan smiled, displaying his teeth. “Let us speak with them. I will tell all of you what you must do to redeem yourselves.”