The Gargoyle King

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The elf felt helpless. Stefan had been the one who had guided them that far. He had had the patronage of a god to aid him. But it was left to her; for Chasm, too, whatever his great strength, had his hands full.

Had that been the forest of Silvanost, her home, she might have turned to Habbakuk and pleaded with the god. It amazed her that he did not feel the wrongness of the forest.

And even as Idaria pondered that, a transformation came over the vicinity. As if some great hand pulled back the shroud that had draped over the trees and ground, the taint receded. A fresh and wholesome green colored the leaves and bushes, and the scent of spring overwhelmed the dank odors of the accursed forest. The trees took on a fresh, vibrant life; all their wickedness, all the Titan perversion, abruptly was gone.

The Titan faltered in his spell. “What-?”

Before he could utter another sound, the transformed area turned on him. Branches fell before his gaze, blinding him. More whirled around as if blown by the wind, striking the gargantuan sorcerer like battering rams. The Titan tried to collect his wits but clearly could not concentrate well enough even to muster a vanishing spell.

The very trap that the Titans had created overcame the lone spellcaster. Roots burrowed out of the freshened soil and seized him. He slashed with his talons at them, only to have his savage nails break off.

Idaria watched in awe, aware that somehow she was in part responsible for what was happening but uncertain just how. The Titan was already on his knees, due to not only the roots that coiled around his torso, but the continual rain of blows by the branches.

The blue-skinned sorcerer’s knee sank into softening dirt. Both legs plunged under, as if some huge beast below the surface were burrowing a hole.

Despite his obvious panic, the Titan glared. He stretched forth a hand at Idaria. “I’ll take you with-”

The ground gave way. With a howl, the fifteen-foot-tall villain dropped from sight.

Tree roots immediately covered the area, churning the dirt like massive worms. In seconds, there was no trace of the Titan even having been in that spot save a slight settling of fresh ground.

Idaria felt her pulse pounding. For the first time, she also sensed a warmth in her palm. Glancing down at it, the elf discovered Stefan’s medallion.

“I know this was not your sphere, Kiri-Jolith,” she whispered to the air, “but thank you.”

“K-Kiri-Jolith,” Stefan muttered. His eyes slowly opened. “Kiri-Idaria?”

She gestured for Chasm to gently lower him. The knight balanced himself, found his legs sturdy enough, and nodded. The gargoyle gave a satisfied grunt but stayed nearby.

“This belongs to you,” Idaria said, handing him the medallion. “But I thanked your patron for his aid.”

Stefan frowned. “I don’t think that’s possible. At least, not the way you say it. I think that another heard your plea through the medallion, perhaps through my patron, and responded.”

She looked at the nearby forest, which was still revivified. There was a permanence about it, she noted, that the rest of the tainted realm would not be able to overcome. A place of respite had been created in a land of darkness.

“Praise be to Habbakuk.” Like many elves, Idaria had lost much of her faith in the gods who supposedly watched over her people. None of them had stopped the invasions-first that of Mina and the Nerakans, then the sweep of the minotaurs-or had kept the forests from harm.

Yet perhaps she and her kind had been too harsh. Perhaps the gods had had no choice.

“Very curious,” Stefan announced, eyeing the path ahead.

Thinking that some other fiend approached, the silver-haired slave followed his gaze. “What is it now?”

“Nothing … and that’s what’s so curious.”

Chasm grunted his obvious confusion. Idaria shrugged, unable to clarify what Stefan was referring to.

Stefan gestured at the forest. “Where’s the others? Why hasn’t anyone come to see what has happened to their comrade? Surely, the rest of the Titans from the sanctum should be confronting us!”

“What do you think it means?” she asked, half expecting more Titans to sprout from the trees.

A slight smile crossed his beaten face. “It could mean that your Golgren has them stirred up elsewhere, especially in the south, since it’s too soon for my people.” His smile abruptly faded. “Or it could mean that Safrag is already the slave of the Fire Rose, and that bodes great ill.”

“Is that so terrible? It will mean dissension among them! They may end up fighting one another for it-”

“And, in the process, destroy others.”

Idaria nodded grimly. “But it means something else, too, does it not? It means that my people may be less guarded than we imagined.”

The knight frowned slightly. “Yes, it does.”

“Then we must take that into consideration, above all.”

Stefan eyed her for a moment then turned and led the way. Idaria knew what he thought of her, knew that at that moment she reminded him of Golgren-Golgren, who would drive resolutely toward his ultimate goal even if others might be harmed or threatened. The elf shrugged to herself; she could do nothing about the Titans and the Fire Rose. That was Golgren’s problem to deal with. All that mattered was releasing her people.

Yes, I have become like him, Idaria admitted to herself. Very much like him.

And oddly, she found herself wondering if that were such a terrible a thing after all.

The morning saw the southern reaches of Golthuu-the area still called the “province” of Blode-aswarm with armored soldiers. The distinctive banners of the minotaur legions fluttered high and proud, even more so because the day found them led not by mere generals, but by the emperor himself.

The legionaries were spread over several miles of shrub-filled wilderness. Contact had already been made with those legions who had advanced after the defunct pact with the false warlord Atolgus. Those soldiers were already settled in and served as the advance guard for the new incursion.

The generals knew the truth about the invasion, that it had come at the behest of none other than the Grand Khan Golgren, so in typical minotaur fashion, they had loudly voiced their opinions about that. However, in the end, Faros had convinced all of them of the necessity. The ogre realm was ruled by spell-casters, and spellcasters, especially ogre ones, had no honor. The spellcasters explained why so many patrols already had perished in “accidents” or had just gone missing. Surely, the next step for the Titans would be to conquer Ambeon. It, therefore, behooved the empire to strike first …

No matter how many legionaries might perish.

General Thandorus, though one of the newest commanders, had been chosen by Faros to be his executive officer. Badger Legion had the honor of serving as the emperor’s personal military force. Thandorus did not mind what some might have taken for a slight demotion; to serve directly under the emperor was, for him, the proudest moment of his career thus far.

Scouts rode ahead of the ground forces, seeking as best they could signs of either sorcerers or the military “hands.” Most of the legionaries hoped for a direct confrontation with their ogre equivalents, as death by weapon was far more desirable than perishing in magical flames or some other distasteful spell, but they were prepared to face whatever was necessary. Minotaur soldiers did not back down merely because the enemy used tactics of which they did not approve.

The foremost ranks bore long lances held slightly upward with both hands. The angle was better for wielding them until an enemy actually stood before the line. The legionaries up front also carried at their sides well-honed, freshly cleaned swords and on their backs powerful, double-edged axes. There were daggers in their belts too. The weight of the weapons and the armor the legionaries wore meant little to the minotaurs; trained from birth for combat, they lived for battle. Their eyes held no fear of death, but rather eagerness to prove their mettle and earn honor for both themselves and their clans.

Behind the lancers came several ranks with long swords and axes. The ranks were there to add additional protection for the first lines, should any foe begin to move too close for the long spears to be effective. They were also ready to charge past the lancers if the situation warranted it.

Stationed at various intervals, mounted units with lances, axes, or other hand weapons kept a diligent watch. On a signal, the foot soldiers would break before them, allowing the cavalry free access for a charge of their own. There were hundreds of warriors on horseback, all chosen for their riding skills and ability to engage in battle while in the saddle.

And flanking the cavalry were the archers. With their powerful bows, they could fire well beyond the front lines. Indeed, should an ogre hand march against the legionaries, the first deaths would belong to the archers.

Great weapons rolled behind-catapults, ballistae, and other mechanical wonders that had rejuvenated the empire and worried the rest of Krynn. The steady advance begun under Emperor Hotak and continued under Faros had enabled the latter emperor to start the machine of war and get it running at high capacity, with only a day or two’s warning. Whatever his own distrust of Golgren, Faros knew that his rival was correct concerning the threat of the Titans to his people. Better a thousand legionaries and more should pay the sacrifice if it gave Golgren the opportunity he desired to reclaim the throne.

Besides, once ensconced in Blode, Faros had no intention of turning back. He would not leave Golgren in control of the enemy realm.

Faros, red-plumed helm set over his horned head, surveyed the advance from atop a massive, brown stallion-Thandorus’s own steed offered by the general to his lord. Thandorus rode beside him, and a score of officers trailed in their wake. The pair was surrounded by Thandorus’s personal guard, who had strict orders to protect the emperor even if it cost the general his life. Such was the intense loyalty that Faros brought out in his subjects. He was seen as the epitome of the storybook hero, rising from battered youth to slavery to rebel leader to emperor. The nephew of the despot Chot the Terrible, he had been an innocent pawn during his uncle’s downfall and execution on the Night of Blood. Hotak had tried to ensure that no blood member of the Kalin Clan would remain alive to seek vengeance, yet Faros had persevered through the fiery mining camps of his own people, the brutality of the ogre taskmaster Sahd, and pursuit by ogres and legionaries alike. To Thandorus and the other officers, he represented the entire brave history of their people.

A bird screeched from high above, drawing the party’s attention. One of the officers raised his arm and made a sound akin to the avian creature’s cry.

The brown, red-fringed bird alighted. It was a small raptor, used for both hunting and messages. The empire’s message network was among the finest in all the known world; the birds were trained to exhibit the same efficiency as their masters.

The officer removed a small note bound to the bird’s leg. Without reading it, he handed the message to General Thandorus.

“The scouts report no sign of any hand or any other ogre force for half a day’s journey. They have three message birds remaining. The next report comes at sunset.”

Faros eyed the rising landscape. “No word of Titans?”

“None.”

“We should assume their presence anyway. The damned spellcasters could be miles away; then they can materialize in a heartbeat, right in front of us if they like.” The emperor glanced over his shoulder. “Or behind us, even.”

“Dishonorable way to fight,” growled Thandorus.

“But still a tactic we must watch for. Make sure the guards in the rear are keeping watch on the path we’ve already taken.”

“Yes, my lord.” Thandorus snapped his fingers. One of the officers nodded, turned his mount around, and rode off to ensure that the emperor’s command was obeyed.

“We’re already deep into ogre land,” Faros muttered. For a moment, his eyes grew veiled, and Thandorus looked away. The emperor was remembering the harshness of his time as a slave and a fugitive. The general had seen up close the many scars covering Faros’s body. Some had come from minotaurs, but most had been delivered by Faros’s ogre slavers. “How deep will they permit us?”

Shielding his gaze, Thandorus rose in the saddle. “Perhaps they don’t think us worthy of notice, my lord. Perhaps all they care about is the half-br-”

Something swift and sharp burrowed through the general’s chest, armor and all. It struck so quickly that Thandorus even had time to glance down at the gap just beginning to grow red before he toppled off the horse.

“Drop!” Faros roared, obeying his own command as he spoke.

The sky filled with hissing darts flying so fast that they were all but invisible until they struck a target. Two more officers fell before the rest could join the emperor. Faros’s mount let out a short whinny before tumbling toward him.

He rolled to the side just before the weight would have crushed his legs. Around him, the emperor heard the screams of the wounded and dying and the continued hiss of death from above.

They were not normal weapons. No ogre fired them. Kneeling beside his horse, Faros saw that they had more or less materialized above a high ridge to the north.

Scores of legionaries already lay wounded, dead, or dying. At the beginning, someone had been aiming for Faros in particular, but the strike had gone awry. Either the Titan or Titans who had cast the spell-there could be no other source for such an attack-had from a distance mistaken Thandorus for the emperor, or something else had saved Faros.

“I will fight my own battles, Sargonnas,” the emperor muttered then shook his head at his own mistake. It was not the customary behavior of Sargonnas, though the god of vengeance had saved Faros in the past. Yet what other deity would see favor in his living?

There was only one other, Sargonnas’s rival for the minotaurs, Kiri-Jolith.

But one rescue did not mean that Faros was immune to death. Whatever god or circumstance had saved him, it was up to the emperor to prove that he was worthy of living.

The catapults were near but not ready for firing. Faros peered around, squinting as the polished armor of his followers at times blinded him.

He snorted.

Seizing one of the officers, the emperor growled an order. The other minotaur nodded and passed on the word.

Within seconds, legionaries turned to present a frontal angle that at first glance appeared crazy, for it made them more open to the rain of deadly missiles. Yet the deaths of some might be necessary to save the expedition as a whole.

Indeed, more than one soldier slumped as missiles penetrated breastplates and helmets.

Then …

The last of the missiles faded in midair. The area stilled; the only sounds were the moans of the grievously wounded.

Faros had judged the light of the sun and the position from which the attack had come and made a desperate play. The many legionaries who had received his orders had turned in such a manner as to shine the light of the sun at the source of the threat. His soldiers had blinded the sorcerers with their combined armor.

The reprieve would not last. Still, Faros understood something of spellcasters and had ordered spies to research the Titans for just such a possible confrontation. The spell that had been cast had been a powerful one and indicated more than a single foe. More important, such a spell must be taxing, which meant that the legions had a brief time to prepare for whatever came next.

“Get the catapults ready!” he ordered other officers. “All ballistae too! We don’t wait! I want the oil wraps prepared for the catapults! We bombard the high territory!”

As the officers moved to relay his orders, Faros rose. He saw with pride that the legionaries around him quickly were reforming ranks as others helped with the dead and dying.

The first strike of the battle was over. Faros knew the next would follow soon. He had to trust to Golgren’s certainty that the Titan leader, one Safrag, would be too caught up in the Fire Rose to reckon the danger of a bunch of minotaurs.

The minotaurs had to survive and trust the deposed Grand Khan. Well aware that Golgren was a hardy survivor, Faros had hope. However, in the end, it did not matter. The empire would have had to invade the ogre realm regardless, sooner or later. If they had waited, the Titans would have been the invaders, and it was always better to take the battle to the enemy.

Faros again surveyed the damage done by the single spell and snorted angrily.

Yes, the emperor thought as he turned to the catapults. It was always best to take the battle to the enemy, even if that meant death and defeat in the end.