The Fire Rose

VII

The hand reached Ben-ihm without interruption. The settlement had been an important way station during the height of the High Ogre civilization, but had since been virtually abandoned. Only when Golgren had become Grand Lord had the territory been repopulated at his command and resumed some importance.

Ben-ihm was surrounded by a gray stone wall built by the first of those sent by the Grand Lord to settle the region. Mountains to the west protected it from the worst of the winds, but the river that had flowed centuries ago had long ago dried up. Water had to come from the mountains, originally an arduous daily job until Golgren had borrowed from the engineering ingenuity of the minotaurs to bring water to the faraway settlement. Channels dug over the years-first by ogres, slaves, and later by ogres again-enabled the water that gathered in the cold heights to run down to where one stream would meet with another and another, until they formed a river that met another river, until all rushed along one of the greater channels that finally reached Ben-ihm.

The diversion of the valuable water supply from the mountaintops was one of the Grand Khan’s most under-appreciated successes. True, the inhabitants of Ben-ihm knew they could not live as well as they did without those channels, but the rest of the ogre realm considered such engineering feats as nothing compared to victories over a strong enemy.

Even Khleeg shifted impatiently atop his mount as his lord halted the column for a moment to admire the handiwork that had taken so much effort and more than a few lives to accomplish. Even his ancestors, Golgren felt, would have appreciated that kind of victory-at least more than those around him did.

Barech met them on the outskirts of the settlement, a stalwart contingent from his force peeling away to form an honor guard for the Grand Khan. Ben-ihm was not a vast place, and no building rose higher than four stories, but all the warriors and locals had turned out for what was for them an extremely momentous event.

“Grand Khan honors us,” Barech declared, proud of both the occasion and the excuse to show off his grasp of Common. Like many ogres of Kern descent, he had even tried to emulate Golgren’s appearance. Not only were his tusks filed down, but he had had his thick, brown hair oiled so that it bore a reasonable similarity to his lord’s own well-groomed locks. Unfortunately, Barech had a very ogre countenance, with a thick brow and so flat a nose that he almost looked as if he had none. His jaw was wider than average and thrust out as well.

Golgren acknowledged the fanfare. Right at the moment when they reached the rounded, clay-topped buildings that housed the warriors of the hand, he asked Barech, “Your fighters. They will be able to march tomorrow?”

The officer grunted in surprise. “March?”

“Word was sent,” interjected Khleeg with some frustration. “The Skolax G’Ran enter Golthuu!” Although Solamnians and Nerakans were often described by the color of their “shells” or armor, ogres had other names for them. The Knights of Solamnia were called the Shok G’Ran, or “the shelled ones who bite like lions” (with shok being the ancient word for the king of beasts). The Knights of Neraka, on the other hand, were known by the other term because the ogres considered them no better than skolax-an insidious, tiny scorpion with two tails, which often hunted in packs to bring down prey much larger than one could have. Ogres burned their nests whenever they came across them.

Barech grinned, eager for battle. But Golgren corrected the other ogre’s assumption. “Khleeg rides to meet Khemu. Khemu and Khleeg will ride to Angthuul. Barech, your hand rides to the Vale of Vipers.”

“Vale? Skolax G’Ran near Vale too?”

“No. Your Grand Khan goes to the Vale.”

He needed to say no more. Barech saluted. “My Grand Khan rides. I ride with my Grand Khan!”

In the past, the arrival of a Grand Khan would have meant trying to put on the best spectacle that even a poor settlement could manage. But Golgren desired no spectacle. He retired to the quarters normally used by Barech. Khleeg set guards at the door; the Blodian insisted that only warriors who were thoroughly trusted keep watch over the Grand Khan. Khleeg left his lord to find the place beyond the walls where the rest of his force slept.

Inside, the furs were heavily matted and clearly infested. Discarding them, the half-breed ruler stretched on the rock floor. He had slumbered on far worse over the course of his violent life.

But Golgren did not quickly fall asleep. Almost as soon as he was alone, he had a sense that eyes were upon him, eyes that saw not only what he did, but what he thought as well. Suspecting the Titans, Golgren kept his sword close, but no enemy suddenly assailed him. Gradually, the half-breed drifted off.

Even in sleep, there was no escape from the sense of being watched. The uneasiness entered his dreams. Sinister orbs watched him. Some were the eyes of ogres, others of men, and still others were the pupilless golden orbs of the Titans.

A bright light, brighter even than the sun, burned away the darkness of the dream. Golgren found himself standing alone in a beautiful golden land. The lush trees, the rolling hills, all gleamed. In the distance rose an amazing city whose walls and barely seen towers were also gold.

And when Golgren happened to glance down at himself, he saw that even he was not immune from the brilliant hue, which spilled over and through him and colored him.

But his glance was cursory, for the city beckoned to him as if it were a beauteous female. Golgren took a step toward the city and suddenly flew into the air. The landscape below raced past him. The walls grew tall, the towers taller. The Grand Khan could see the turrets on the towers and the glittering stones encrusting everything. He instinctively knew the glitter was of diamonds and marveled at the wealth of the builders.

There were winged creatures fluttering above the city in great numbers, sleek avians who seemed to take little notice of his approach. Golgren paid them no further mind, as he was only interested in flying over the wall and discovering what secrets lay within the mysterious place.

As he drew closer, he suddenly felt an inexplicable desire to halt. It was almost as if some invisible guardian stood nearby, whispering in his ear that he had no right to enter. The Grand Khan peered around, seeking the cause of such an odd sensation, but he found nothing suspicious. Golgren started once more toward the gleaming walls-

The massive flock suddenly turned toward him. As it did, the sleek avians grew larger and thicker. Arms sprouted, and feathers became leathery hides.

A vast swarm of gargoyles plunged eagerly toward Golgren. Their beaklike muzzles opened, revealing long, sharp teeth. Razor claws snatched at the air. They converged on the floating figure-

An astounding warmth suddenly filled Golgren, a warmth that readily burned away any anxiousness he might have concerning his attackers. With a wave of his hand, he sent the entire horde spiraling out of control. With another gesture, Golgren transformed each and every gargoyle into tiny raindrops that pelted the city.

The Grand Khan pointed at the trees below. The trees became warriors of gold, all displaying his face and wielding swords nearly as long as their arms. He turned the gold trees toward the city with the intention of having them storm it, and realized that no wall could stand against his might. He gestured at the city-

The walls, the towers-everything-burst into flames.

But that was not what Golgren had intended. He immediately dismissed the rising flames. Or at least he tried to. Not only did the fire refuse to extinguish itself, but his attempts to put out the flames had a contrary effect. The flames rose higher and stronger, engulfing all before him.

Without warning, his golden warriors raised their swords and charged headlong into the fire. Golgren moved to stop them, but they no longer obeyed. As the flames engulfed them, each melted into a puddle of liquid that pooled together with the many puddles around them. A great burning river formed and poured out into the gleaming countryside.

There was nothing around Golgren save fire. The warmth he had felt previously turned into a heat that seared his flesh. Fire burst from his fingertips. He tried to brush it away, but his actions only seemed to fan the flames.

Golgren suddenly sensed another presence nearby. He looked up to see someone stepping through the all-consuming fire as though it were nothing.

The faceless golden figure.

Golgren woke at last from his fiery dream. He lay on the floor, covered in sweat. There was a pressure on his chest. Immediately, he tugged on a thick chain around his neck, one that he had only removed once as of late-before he had stripped to fight the legionary whose death was used to bless the blades given to Khleeg’s warriors.

The mummified hand came free. It was the same hand he had lost to the current emperor of the Uruv Suurt, when the latter had been an escaped slave. All knew that Golgren wore his own mummified hand to remind himself of his one failure; and the simple fact that he carried it put superstitious ideas into the heads of many of his rivals-just as the Grand Khan intended.

But there was more to the macabre prize. Golgren caught sight of the faint, fading glow. He twisted the yellowed appendage around to better view that which was worn on one of its sharply curled fingers.

It was a signet, a ring of magic created by the High Ogres. The circular signet bore at its center a rune that resembled a double-bladed sword turned upside down. Over the odd weapon arced a half circle, while below the sword had been set a symbol that resembled a wavy line. The last might have represented water, but Golgren suspected it symbolized the opposite: fire.

He had been given the signet by Idaria just as he had launched the assault against the army of undead, but she had admitted that it had been given to her by Tyranos. The wizard had never said where he had gotten the valuable signet from, but he had been eager to take it back after the struggle.

But Golgren had refused to part with the treasure that had helped him survive the f’hanos, as well as Dauroth. Tyranos did not try to force the ogre leader to give it to him, and thereafter, the Titans had avoided trying to strike at Golgren again.

But it was possible that returning the ring might have been the better choice. It was not the first such dream Golgren had experienced, although it was the first that was so vivid.

More to the point, Golgren had only begun to see the golden figure after possessing the ring. First among the ruins of Dauroth’s mad quake, and afterward within Garantha.

Golgren had lived through the dark magic that had surrounded the Lady Nephera, his shadowy ally among the Uruv Suurt after the fall of Chot the Terrible. Emperor Hotak’s mate had been the high priestess of a cult that had spread across the empire. Golgren had shed no tears when death finally claimed her.

It was with some effort that he removed the signet from the finger. His lost hand seemed to cling to the artifact as though it were alive. Golgren returned the mummified appendage to its hiding place and considered just what he might need to do with the signet. The temptation to hurl it away grew strong, and he rose with the intention of doing just that-

But as he clutched the artifact tightly, there suddenly appeared before him a vision.

Eight tall and glorious figures clad in rich, blue and green robes stood with their hands raised high. Their golden skin and perfect faces identified them as High Ogres. They seemed to be situated in a place that was both built of stone and carved from rock. High, fluted columns rose behind each figure. The eight were evenly divided between male and female, with the sexes alternating positions. They were also obviously spellcasters, spellcasters who appeared to be busy summoning something.

And what they were summoning materialized in their midst. Curious despite himself, Golgren leaned closer to see what it was-

But the figures in the vision suddenly turned as one to their left. Their faces grew horrified at whatever they spied there.

A black shadow crossed over them-and the vision ended.

Golgren eyed the signet, but he was no longer tempted to toss it away. Something about the signet had warned him that he had better continue to hold onto it, at least for the moment.

Movement in the darkest corner of the room caught his eye. Although for the moment he wasn’t certain whether it might just be another dream or vision, the half-breed was taking no chances. He reached for his sword while at the same time instinctively stretching forth the hand that held the signet.

And from the object in his hand emerged a crimson glow that filled the room with just enough illumination to reveal what awaited him in the corner. A slight widening of his almond-shaped eyes was the only sign of Golgren’s reaction to what he had just done. But that was his same reaction to the one who stood there.

Idaria.

Tyranos materialized in the vale in the dark of night, the glow of his staff muted. He would have chosen another time to enter the region, but matters were getting more and more out of hand-his hand, at least. Some of that-much of that, he corrected himself-could be laid at the feet of the Titans, whose new leader had taken an avid interest in the item the wizards most coveted.

The Fire Rose.

Too late, the lion-maned spellcaster had discovered that the signet would have been a perfect method by which to track the location of the artifact. It had only been after he had passed it on to Golgren-in most part to frustrate and confuse the Titans-that Tyranos had managed to find a translation for the symbols on the signet.

And only at that point had he realized that he had utterly outwitted himself.

But there were clues enough arising of late that had made him determined to come to that place. The Vale of Vipers was a forlorn place, a valley without green or any redeeming quality. All tales of it that Tyranos had heard spoke only of it as somewhere that creatures of all races tended to avoid, although nowhere could he find a pressing reason other than a lack of natural resources. Yet, minotaurs, humans, dwarves, and even ogres mined in far more desolate places, and the wizard was of the opinion that a knowledgeable prospector would find something of value.

The name alone likely kept some away. Vale of Vipers was a properly ominous title for the place. But Tyranos feared no serpent, and certainly that alone should not have been enough to keep some ordinary souls from journeying there.

The lack of other intruders worked for him and, indeed, encouraged the wizard in some ways. He was of the opinion that what kept the vale so desolate had to do with the High Ogres and the Fire Rose. Tyranos was annoyed with himself, for he ought to have considered that fact much, much sooner. He would not have needed Golgren, not needed anyone.

The burly spellcaster mulled over that last thought as he slowly wended his way along the darkened valley. When he had first sought the Fire Rose-the key to erasing the foul mistake he had made back home-the Titans had more or less commanded both Kern and Blode with impunity. As stealthy as Tyranos could be for one of his size, constantly dodging the fifteen-feet-tall sorcerers had been a very tricky situation.

And Golgren had come-the bane of their existence. He had stepped into the role of Grand Lord just after Tyranos had initially discovered the legend. The wizard had thought nothing of the half-breed, certain that sooner or later Golgren would overstep his bounds and be either executed by his master or turned into a puddle of something grotesque by the powerful Titan leader.

And, not for the first time of late, Tyranos had realized how wrong he could be. Somewhere along the way, Golgren had made a very decisive pact with the powers that had swept over the empire. He had developed a special relationship with Nephera, the high priestess and empress of the minotaurs. She had given him power over Dauroth, enough power to keep all the Titans at bay, at least for the time being. And the wizard had accidentally granted Golgren the means to continue to keep the sorcerers from destroying him. Good luck seemed to smile on Golgren-

Tyranos frowned. If it was luck and not something more.

The wizard shook away such disturbing thoughts. Concentrating on the hunt, he pointed his staff ahead. The crystal flared slightly, a sign of arcane energies swirling somewhere deeper in the vale. With a grin, the hooded figure pushed on. Perhaps, just perhaps, he would not need to concern himself about Golgren for very much longer.

That made him chuckle about something else he had done. Tyranos wondered if the Grand Khan would appreciate the gift he had left for him, a gift that would serve the wizard as much as the ogre.

At first, the only sound that he could hear penetrating the vale was the incessant wind, sometimes soft, more often shrieking like a banshee. Tyranos sniffed the air, vaguely picking up a musky smell, almost as if a herd of goats had gone and died together somewhere deeper in the valley. Perhaps they had come across the mythic vipers, he thought with a smirk.

His staff hinted at more and more arcane energies lying in the same direction. Tyranos wondered how any spellcaster of sufficient ability-a Titan, for example-could have failed to notice. He did not doubt that his own skills were better than most of his calling, though there were also many who were more adept. Certainly Dauroth had been superior, and even if he had never gone hunting for the artifact, the wizard knew all too well that his successor Safrag had.

He hesitated for a moment, uncertain if what he sensed lying ahead was tied too closely to the Titans. That could not be. No. What he pursued was definitely far, far older and therefore more akin to something tied to the High Ogres.

And in the Vale of Vipers, what could that possibly be but the Fire Rose?

Although aware that he had a tendency to make great assumptions when it came to hunting for the artifact, Tyranos nonetheless felt he was finally on the right track. As he climbed over a small ridge and descended into the belly of the vale, his staff’s crystal grew brighter yet. Yes, he was very, very near.

As the thought went through his mind, the wind came rushing again. With it came an overpowering stench, the musky odor multiplied several times over.

For the first time, Tyranos thought he recognized the scent from somewhere.

From the high peaks above, some small rocks suddenly rolled down toward him. The wizard immediately gestured in that direction. A flash of light momentary illuminated the upper area.

There was nothing there, however. Tyranos cursed his anxiety. After a pause to collect himself, the spellcaster moved on.

The wind swirled around him. The musky scent continued to grow until it was nearly unbearable. Yet with the mountains all around him, it was impossible to guess exactly from which direction it emanated. It seemed to drift from all around.

But if the odor was the worst thing he had to face, his task would be a simple one, he thought. With more impatient strides, the powerfully built figure crossed into another part of the valley.

The crystal brightened more than before, and so suddenly that Tyranos let out a curse of surprise and covered his eyes with his free arm until his vision could adjust to the glare.

And when he uncovered his eyes, he sensed that he was far, far from alone.

There was nothing to see in the light cast by the staff, for despite the harsh brightness, Tyranos noticed that the light did not spread to cover more than a few feet around him.

Gritting his teeth, the wizard muttered, “Tivak.”

The air suddenly filled with crackling strands of silver energy that danced in every direction.

That was when he noticed the massive flock of huge, winged beasts perched on the rocks above and around him, their baleful gazes intent on the intruder in their midst.

Gargoyles. More gargoyles than even Tyranos, who knew much about their race, could have imagined clustered in one place.

And there was something else, something barely noticeable at first. There was a gray and black, hooded shadow, with its face bound tightly in a golden cloth that covered all but its eyes. A pair of long, oval eyes, as white as ice.

Tyranos had less than a heartbeat to register the macabre form, which vanished quicker than it had appeared. The wizard could not help but think that those eyes showed a dark amusement with him and his plight.

One of the winged watchers suddenly screeched. The others joined in, their combined cries deafening. At the same time, the silver strands of energy radiating from the staff dissipated.

The wizard muttered another word. The crystal glowed brighter, before returning to a dimmer state almost immediately.

“By the Kraken!” he growled. The command word should have enabled the staff to transport him away from the benighted place.

The gargoyle who had first called out fluttered up off its perch.

Tyranos turned and ran.

In scores, the other winged terrors leaped into the sky. The wizard did not have to look back to know they were pursuing him.

“Saariit!” he shouted, once again calling upon the staff to carry him to safety. Again it failed to do so.

The flapping of hundreds of wings vied with the eager screeches of the flyers, both sounds echoing over and over through the vale. Tyranos did not wonder at the racket. After all, there was no one around to hear, except him and their master.

He sensed rather than heard the first of the gargoyles creep up behind him. Scowling, Tyranos acted uncharacteristically for a wizard: he spun around in mid-step and, gripping his staff with both hands, struck the oncoming beast soundly across the jaw with its crystal head.

There was a flash and the sudden stench of burning flesh, but the force of the swing was as much the reason for the gargoyle tumbling backward as any magic in the attack. Tyranos’s warriorlike appearance was no simple facade. The strength his body hinted at was as real as could be.

A second gargoyle suffered the same fate as the first. A third managed to dodge his swings, but Tyranos, releasing one hand, seized hold of the creature’s thick throat and squeezed.

The winged one’s windpipe caved in with a satisfying snap. Tyranos let the writhing body fall, swinging at another pair of the beasts who had angled around for their own attack.

Although for the moment he was keeping them at bay, the wizard did not go unharmed. There were shredded areas all over his garments and more than a few cuts along his arms and face. Worse, the gargoyles were slowly but surely backing him into a corner.

He batted away another attacker, but when the next drew near, Tyranos freed one hand again and grabbed the winged fiend by the arm.

The gargoyle instinctively flew up. Its vast, leathery wings were so powerful that, with some strain, the creature pulled the wizard up into the air with it.

Tyranos waved the staff to keep another gargoyle at a safe distance as the one that struggled with him continued its haphazard ascent. The towering spellcaster continued to be lifted up as if he were a feather. More gargoyles swarmed around him.

“Let’s try and even the odds,” Tyranos snarled. He beat the gargoyle clutching him hard on the leg with his staff. The creature screeched and flew higher. Tyranos peered around, trying to find some shelter in which he might drop and hide.

More and more gargoyles reached him. They rent his cloak and robe, scoring his legs as well as his arms and chest. The strain of holding tight with one hand was telling on him.

Tyranos had no choice but to force the gargoyle to descend again. Any higher than he was at the moment, and he was sure to lose his grip and die. Tyranos began striking furiously at the shoulder of the winged fury, trying to drive it groundward.

A thundering roar cut through the vale, a roar that could have come from only one leviathan of a creature.

A dragon.

The roar had an astounding effect on the gargoyles. Almost as one, they scattered back the way they had come. Their fear was so strong that the wizard could taste it. His own gargoyle fought to fly off even with him still clinging to it.

As for Tyranos, he had no desire to face a dragon of any sort or size. Whatever color or metal, the thing sounded hungry.

The frantic gargoyle began clawing and scratching at his hand as never before. Tyranos, already weary, could not fend off every scratch.

His grip faltered.

He slipped and plunged.

The ground was not so far away as he had feared, but far enough that when he struck it, every bone in his body seemed to vibrate. Pain coursed through every nerve. None of his limbs would obey his commands, and Tyranos did not know which direction was up. He bounced once and rolled helplessly for several yards before colliding with a rocky outcropping.

He was fair game for even a savage rodent at that point, and Tyranos prepared himself to be the dragon’s meal. Yet several tense moments passed, and only silence filled the vicinity.

At last, the wizard heard movement behind him. For a dragon, the newcomer was soft of foot. Tyranos struggled to rise, or at least push himself onto his back so that he could face his death as his people preferred, but his body continued to betray him. He waited, steeling himself for the first awful bite.

“Not the one for whom I’m waiting,” murmured a cultured voice. “But at least it is one I’ve been expecting.”

A pair of strong hands carefully turned the injured wizard over. Through bleary eyes, Tyranos beheld a shadowed, very human face half-hidden by a dense, dark beard.

“Healing is the special skill of those of Mishakal,” the man went on, reaching for something dangling over his chest. His armored chest. “But my patron might help nonetheless.”

The thing that dangled over the breastplate suddenly glinted with light despite there being no earthly source for it. The wizard beheld what he recognized as a variation of a familiar symbol.

“I know you! You are”-his usually booming voice came out as a croak-“a cleric of Emperor… of Kiri-Jolith!”

“My name is Stefan,” the other replied, nodding. “And I know you too, outcast.”