The Gargoyle King

XI

Golgren sensed the arrival of the messenger moments before the rider reached Sir Augustus’s tent. The half-breed sat up, certain that a moment of importance was upon him. The clatter of hooves made him briefly bare his teeth, although fortunately there was no one in the tent to see that instinctual reaction.

The voices without muttered too quietly for him to make out what they said. The tone was neutral, which gave him no clue as to the decision of Sir Augustus’s superiors. Golgren stepped from the bedroll, taking up a place at the table. He poured himself a slight bit of wine and held the mug close to his lips. He did not drink, though, until he heard the clink of metal and the movement of the flap, marking the commander’s presence.

“A reply’s arrived, though I expect you know that already, Grand Khan.”

Golgren slowly swallowed the sip then turned toward Stefan’s uncle. “I had some inkling, yes.”

Augustus chuckled darkly. “You’re everything I’ve heard, especially from my nephew.”

Golgren smothered the slight frown that wanted to burst forth at mention of the last. “Your nephew is all I have heard a Knight of Solamnia should be.”

“I believe you actually mean that,” the elder fighter returned. “Thank you. I think so, too.”

“The reply. You have it with you?”

“As you can see.” The knight held up his right hand, which gripped a small, leather pouch. Sir Augustus joined Golgren at the table, where he set down the pouch while he poured himself some wine.

Golgren’s eyes grazed the pouch. It was of fine, strong leather and had been bound with thin, metal string that would prove much harder to cut quickly than any rope. In addition, there was a great wax seal across the flap. That the seal remained unbroken indicated that the commander had chosen to find out what his superiors had decided, together with Golgren. The pouch had been sent with such haste that the half-breed’s sharp nose could still smell a hint of recently melted wax.

“I made a vow of what I would do if they rejected your pact,” Augustus reminded him. “I stand by that vow on the life of my nephew.”

Golgren said nothing. Taking that as a tacit acknowledgment, the knight broke the seal and removed the contents, a small slip of parchment.

Sir Augustus frowned. “I expected a much longer missive. You’ll likely not find this to your taste.”

“Please read.”

Unfolding it, the commander looked over the answer. He grunted.

“Well, it seems we’ve got an agreement after all.”

He handed the brown parchment over to Golgren, who read the response of the high command. The answer was simple enough. The pact was accepted on a temporary basis. Augustus’s superiors believed that because of the threat of the Titans, Golgren should be assisted by a military advance into the ogre realm.

That was essentially it. There were some marks at the bottom-scribbles to the uninformed eye-that the knight had not commented on but that the half-breed knew was a coded addendum to what the main message relayed. Augustus had other orders beyond those to which Golgren was to be privy. Like the Uruv Suurt, the Solamnics undoubtedly had plans to expand their interests in Golthuu whether or not Golgren succeeded.

But all that was as he had expected. Not for a minute had Golgren believed the threat of Safrag and the Fire Rose would be enough for either the humans or Faros to endorse the pact. Both sides wanted to deter any potential ogre uprising in the future.

He handed the parchment back to Sir Augustus. With a hint of a smile that emphasized the elf side of his features, Golgren said, “I am very pleased.”

“News of the minotaurs’ advance in the southern regions was surely a deciding factor,” the Solamnic added. “I believe it helped to speed the reply and influenced the outcome.”

That was no surprise to Golgren; indeed, he had counted on it. The Uruv Suurt and the knights of Solamnia were longtime rivals on the continent of Ansalon. When one was on the move, the other felt nervous and paid special attention.

Then the commander added something that could only have been cited from part of the missive in code. “My superiors also agree to the free movement of all elf slaves from the ogre lands, though we will not permanently care for them. We’ll grant them a short respite, resupply them, and send them on to their exiled brethren, who can care for them more appropriately.”

“Of course.” No one wanted the added burden of the refugees; in truth, not even some of the exiled elves. That would mean too many extra mouths to feed in an already-turbulent time. Still, the knights would not choose to leave the elves in ogre hands.

Nor in the hands of the Titans.

Augustus put the missive back in the pouch then thrust it into the belt that held his sheath. Finishing the last of his drink, the knight rose. Golgren rose also.

“Your men, they must march soon,” the half-breed commented.

“They’ll march tomorrow. We’ve been prepared to move for one reason or another since my nephew came.” The knight eyed him. “And you?”

“I must leave now.”

“Just as I expected. A horse has already been prepared for you with the rations I mentioned. It’s a sturdy animal, one of the largest. Should hold your tall frame just fine.”

The horse would have been available whether or not Solamnia had agreed to the pact, but Golgren simply nodded his gratitude. Even with a swift steed, it would take him far longer than he desired to reach Garantha. He had intended to use Tyranos’s staff, but that was not possible.

Augustus led him out. The half-breed noted a conspicuous lack of knights nearby. At some point the commander had evidently had the area cleared, with even tents and equipment positioned much farther away. The only other Solamnics nearby were Sir Augustus’s own guards and a lone, young Knight of the Crown who held the reins to a dark brown stallion already saddled and packed. The beast eyed Golgren as if it were as distrusting of him as the knights were.

“I’ve a map you can use-” the commander began.

“I have been here before. I know the land.”

Sir Augustus’s brow furrowed. “Do you?”

Golgren accepted the reins from the younger Solamnic. Although the latter’s expression was masked, his eyes reflected both uncertainty and determination. The combination was not contradictory, Golgren thought; Golgren had seen the same thing in the eyes of many a less-experienced warrior. That did not mean, though, that the young knight would not be able to fulfill his role on the field of battle. The better fighters were those who understood their mortality, as Golgren did.

The tall half-breed mounted. Sir Augustus gave him a short nod, which Golgren returned.

The deposed Grand Khan rode off, the dry ground raising a trail of dust in his wake.

His way out of the encampment continued to be devoid of all but a few necessary sentries. Most kept their gazes on the path, but a couple could not help glancing up at the unusual rider in their midst. Golgren acted similarly, all but ignoring them, the half-breed keeping his eyes ahead at most times.

The encampment vanished behind him, and the lost son was returned to the wilds of that part of Golthuu. Golgren urged the mount around a rise, aware of a rough road from years before that would give him a swifter route, at least for the day.

The land was rugged, uneven, and typically arid, but Golgren had no doubts concerning either his or the Knighthood’s ability to traverse it. There were worse areas, where only magic might have been capable of covering the distances.

Magic such as the Fire Rose contained …

Would that I had the staff, Golgren bitterly thought. But it was not his. A slight intake of breath was all that signaled Golgren’s frustration. It must be that it indeed returned to Tyranos.

A warmth touched his hand. He glanced down at the signet ring and frowned to realize that he had forgotten it until that moment. He also wondered why none of the Solamnics had taken it from him. It was not that he thought them thieves at heart, but surely they would have noticed its supernatural qualities.

The ring … Golgren gazed at its fiery markings. Could it help him go where he was urgently needed?

He concentrated on the capital, specifically, the palace. He put all of his energy, briefly, into the concentration.

There came a brief moment, oddly, when the wizard’s staff formed in his thoughts. Golgren tried to shake off the image, but it was burned into his mind regardless of his desire.

In the vision, the crystal atop the staff flared brightly.

Golgren vanished from the saddle.

Tyranos stood perplexed, clutching his staff, in the place where he had first set foot on Ansalon, not far from where he had discovered young Chasm some years after that time. For him it was the place in all the world of the most solace and peace.

Fearsome waves crashed against the weathered shore as he attempted to refocus his thoughts. Seaweed blanketed much of the shoreline. What he had just experienced surely had to have a cause. But he couldn’t explain the staff’s odd behavior. After all, Tyranos had not commanded the staff to do anything.

Island-bound Karthay, northeast of the continent, was far from the complicated dangers of Golthuu and had demanded much of Tyranos and the staff, but the wizard had not hesitated. There was something about the place that always soothed him.

Perhaps … perhaps because it so reminded him of home.

“Doesn’t matter,” he rumbled, referring to both the staff’s odd behavior and his former homelands. “Doesn’t matter.”

For all his peace of mind, there was another reason, the most significant reason, he had come there. He would need all the magic that he could muster, and that meant using his other prize. It was the only means by which he could possibly prevent his most important spell from shattering.

From the eastern shore, the wizard cast himself to the midst of the snow-topped Worldscap Mountains. As he regained his mental balance, Tyranos peered down at the jungles far below that particular peak. There was no sign below of any of the local inhabitants, neither those bound to the ground nor the ones who flew the skies. It was safe to open the passage.

He turned to what appeared to be a solid rock face and drew in yellow light a five-pointed shape. In the center of the rock face, Tyranos then magically etched the crude form of a key.

The key drifted to the very center of the shape then turned on its left side.

The gritty rock face melted away. A slight hint of sulfur rose into the air.

Glancing over his shoulder, the hooded spellcaster quickly entered the portal. He did not plan to remain long on Karthay; the pause by the shore had been necessary, as had been the slumber that preceded it. However, time was of the essence. The empire was surely on the move, and if Tyranos knew Golgren, the Solamnics would within a day be doing the same.

And that meant that the Titans would finally be where Tyranos desired them, the Titans and Golgren, naturally.

The glow of the staff illuminated what had obviously once been an inhabited cave. The artwork, crafted with paint made from variously colored berries, indicated winged beings almost like men. A face had been carved out of one side of the cave, again, a mixture of avian and what might have been elf or human features.

But the kyrie had long abandoned that place, sensing its magic and rightly being disturbed by it. Only someone such as Tyranos would find use for the cave, and even then for only brief moments.

He reached the end of the cave. Small stalactites hung from the ceiling, and deep shadows loomed everywhere. What appeared to be a thick mass of webbing covered the back wall so thoroughly that details of what might lurk behind could not be discerned.

“Da ithan!” the wizard called.

The webbing turned a bright, cold blue. It then broke up into tiny crystals that flew away into the air and dissipated before dropping to the stone and earth floor.

Tyranos smiled grimly. Before him stood that which he had sworn he would never use again. The irony was he felt certain it had been created either by some worshiper of Sirrion or the god himself. Perhaps it was, in its crude way, cousin to the Fire Rose.

It was not crystal. Rather, it was made of some liquid that was a blazing orange-red in color. Although the pattern had a beginning and an end, the liquid looked as if it flowed, but to where, Tyranos could not say. He had dubbed the thing the Soul of the Kraken, the latter part of the name coming from the creature he thought its outline most resembled. The kraken appeared to be stretching its tentacles skyward.

Tyranos had discovered its magic by error, as an exhausted outcast collapsed into sleep at the base of the pattern, after cursing his existence and wishing to change not only his life, but his very appearance too. He had awakened the next day to discover that his wish had come true … or so he had thought. The moment that Tyranos had started to leave the cave, he had reverted to his original state and his original form.

But upon reentering, the transformation had renewed itself. The wizard had been wily enough to understand the source and had, with magical effort, taken from the kraken symbol a living piece of it. Sure enough, combined with his own spellcasting, that had been enough to maintain the illusion that he was Tyranos, even hundreds of miles from that source. If he truly could not be as he desired, then at least he could seem to be.

The wizard touched his chest, and a glow appeared there. It matched the glow of the kraken. Tyranos had discovered long before that the piece he had taken slowly lost its power, but that by returning to that place, he could recharge it. He would need its fullest power if he hoped to succeed with his plans.

Reaching his other hand forward, Tyranos touched the kraken at the center of its “body.”

He let out a groan of surprise as his strength drained away from him. His body lurched. Gasping, Tyranos fell face-first against the pattern. He felt the warmth of it against his cheek.

Then the wizard felt nothing but cold rock.

Confused and anxious, a weary Tyranos pulled back.

The pattern seemed as dead as the rock in which it had been set.

“That can’t be.” Tyranos pressed his hand against the kraken, but there was no transfusion. “You can’t do this.”

The kraken did not respond.

The wizard banged his fist against it. Still nothing happened.

He finally touched his chest. There, he could feel the familiar warmth. At least the original spell cast upon him was still intact. However, that meant there was no coming back … ever. Tyranos either had to work out a new spell that did not rely on the secret source or had to find some other manner by which to make his transformation true and forever.

The Fire Rose could accomplish that, he reminded himself. That was in great part why you wanted it, wasn’t it?

The matter was settled then. Tyranos knew what he had to do, and to do it, he had to help Golgren in whatever way possible. Curiously, the wizard did not find the alternative as unpalatable as before. Golgren, he realized, offered a far better a fate for the ogres-and other races-than the Titans.

And other than Chasm, the half-breed was the nearest thing he had to a trusted friend, the wizard realized.

That last realization, though, made him snort loudly as he reached the mouth of the cave. Golgren … a trusted friend. It would have made his people laugh.

At the edge of the cave, Tyranos went down on one knee. He held the staff tightly and concentrated. What he had never informed Golgren of in the past was that if he exerted his will on the crystal, it was possible to send him directly to a person, not a place. It was how Tyranos had, in the past, come to stand before the half-breed no matter where he was. It was more troublesome than choosing a destination-why that was, the wizard did not exactly know-so the wizard always contrived to conceal the fact that he was slightly exhausted at first.

But as Tyranos imagined Golgren, he found the half-breed’s whereabouts harder to sense than they should have been. It was as if either Golgren were in more than one place at the same time or that his location kept changing very rapidly.

“The damned fool!” Tyranos growled, finally suspecting just where the deposed Grand Khan had to be. “The damned-”

The crystal flared, even though the spellcaster had not commanded it to do so.

Mouth agape, Tyranos disappeared.

From just a few steps behind where the wizard had knelt, an obviously pleased Sirrion chuckled. The god then burst into flames, which not only swiftly enveloped him, but spread rapidly into the cave. The entire interior was scorched black, all traces of ancient habitation and-especially-the kraken, banished.

As quickly as they had arisen, the flames died completely. Of Sirrion, naturally, there was no longer any trace.

The three robed Titans peered down at the approaching legionaries with nothing but contempt in their expressions for the empire’s haughty incursion. As far as they were concerned, the matter could have been finished up very quickly, save for settling the question of blame. One way or another, they looked forward to taking out their frustration over their leader’s recent decisions on the bull warriors. None of them said anything about it out loud, but all three, watching, understood.

The seniormost, Voran by name, began the groundwork for the next spell. As Faros had surmised, they were pooling their forces as much as possible to avoid draining themselves to the point where they would need to rejuvenate. A few of the other Titans near the southern border were already nearing the point of weakness, though none had dared mention that yet to Safrag. True, it was assumed he would help any in need, but everyone wanted someone else to be the first to make that petition.

“No assassination attempt this time,” Voran informed the others. “We sweep across their ranks where their fool emperor marches and take him out with hundreds of others quickly and simply.”

“The other spell should’ve worked,” sang that plan’s creator. “It should’ve …”

Voran and the third Titan present sneered at him. Unable to back up his claim and obviously weaker than the pair, the protester clamped his mouth shut and joined in the spellcasting.

There was a loud crack, like thunder, but it did not come from any spell that they or other Titans in the region had cast. The sound was already familiar to the blue-skinned sorcerers.

A moment later, a heavy, flaming boulder struck a ridge a quarter of a mile from where Voran and his two companions stood. The boulder cracked off a large chunk of rock that spilled back over the ridge.

Voran laughed harshly. “Hezroch and his band are going to have to move again. If anyone needs to beg Safrag for elixir, it’ll be them.”

“The damned Uruv Suurt have a good eye,” the third Titan muttered.

“Which is why we should finish our spell.”

The three stood facing one another. At Voran’s signal, they clasped hands together. It made for the better melding of their power and enabled Voran to better control the direction and outcome.

Voran sang the words of the spell. To the Titans, singing the spells sounded even more glorious than speaking in the Titan tongue. Perhaps it was because, in addition to their richness, the singing words were also filled with magic.

A tremendous cloud of blue energy formed over the trio. Voran uttered the final phrase of the spell.

With a crackle akin to a bolt of lightning, the cloud poured down over the legionaries and their emperor … and dissipated.

“What-?” was the only word Voran got out of his mouth before another familiar cracking sound echoed in the ears of all three.

The other two Titans instinctively vanished. Voran, as the focal point of the spellcasting, was still caught up in both the magic and its startling failure for a fatal breath longer.

Clearing his head, he finally noticed the flaming boulder just as it filled the sky above him.

Then he saw nothing more.

His warriors cheered as the latest boulder reached its mark with perfection that only minotaurs could achieve with their great wooden catapults. However, Faros-again on foot after having lost yet another steed-was not entirely pleased. First, the strike probably hadn’t even dusted the sorcerers’ elegant robes. The catapults probably had done little except buy the advancing force a few more steps toward their prize.

And although it should have lightened his heart, Faros was also disturbed by the strange dissipation of the Titans’ spell. Not for the first time, the sorcerers’ handiwork had failed. The legionaries believed the cause was the inefficiency of a dishonorable weapon-magic-but Faros suspected the interference of gods.

“I ask no god to fight my wars for me!” he growled under his breath. “I say again to you, Kiri-Jolith, we win or die on our own merits!”

Even as he spoke, something on the ground ahead glittered. Drawn to the object, the emperor paused to pick it up.

It was a medallion, one he was certain had not been there moments earlier. One of the legionaries would have plucked it up, if not him, because its metal was valuable. It was made of steel.

It was a medallion bearing the likeness of a bison-headed god.

With a snort, Faros tossed it away.

Immediately, there came another glitter from the ground just ahead.

Bending, Faros discovered it a second medallion or, just as difficult to credit, the first again. With a defiant shake of his head, the former slave strode past it.

And, for a third time, his gaze was distracted by another glittering object in his path.

In frustration, Faros seized it up again. Although there was no such sign on the god’s image, the minotaur felt as if the visage mocked his efforts. He started to throw the medallion away-then, resignedly, finally thrust it beneath his breastplate.

“A shield I’ll accept,” Faros grudgingly muttered, keeping his voice low as another legionary trudged past him toward the front. “But only a shield. Nothing more.”

“Nothing more,” the other warrior agreed as he strode past, his back to the emperor.

Faros’s eyes widened. He rushed forward to catch up with the legionary, but somehow lost track of him and didn’t know who he was, even though there was no place for the other to have gone.

Thunder roiled, thunder without clouds. Faros glanced up, recognizing the start of another Titan attack.

This had better be for the best! he silently warned both the vanished god and the absent half-ogre who had talked him into that mess. This had better be for the best …

Letting out a shout, Faros urged his soldiers on.