The Gargoyle King

XII

The slavering meredrake hissed, tugging hard on its rusting iron chain and sending spittle flying everywhere as it tried to reach the figure that had suddenly materialized in front of it. The great, green and brown reptile snapped eagerly at the intruder, despite having been recently fed. Meredrakes were always ready to eat, for in the wild, one never knew where one’s next meal would come from or whether one would become the next meal of something even bigger.

A single gesture silenced the fearsome creature, a gesture only one person could make. Golgren eyed his pet, somewhat interested to see that it was still alive. Nothing remained of the palace that had stood for ages, much less his own brief reign, other than the lone meredrake. He pondered its continued presence in a place that Safrag had clearly remade to his own desires, pondered it and came up with only one answer: Wargroch.

Why his traitorous officer would have kept the meredrake was a question that could wait for later or even forever. If given the opportunity, Golgren would feed his pet the other ogre and Atolgus too. There was no possible redemption for either; they had willingly sided with, or been seduced by, the Titans, which in the end, meant the same thing: betrayal.

Golgren peered around. He recognized nothing about the chamber in which he stood save that the image of the Titan’s leader, Safrag’s image, was everywhere. His godlike image stretched across the iridescent pearl floor; it stood tall in each perfectly executed statue that doubled as a column. Wall-sized profiles of the sorcerer gazed toward an arched throne that looked as if it had risen out of the floor. It had been designed not for an ogre, though, but clearly a Titan. Atolgus and Wargroch might believe they would gain their own glory for bowing to the sorcerers, but it was clear who would rule from there.

Golgren sniffed the air. Other than the meredrake’s heady carnivore scent, there was nothing unusual. No one had been in the chamber for at least a day, assuming that it had even existed that long. It was a wonder that the lizard had not perished during all the many abrupt changes.

Golgren’s brow furrowed. He glanced at the beast again then realized his terrible mistake.

The meredrake stood on two legs. Its shape was more that of an ogre. The muzzle was as long and as fearsome as ever, perhaps even more fearsome, with a hint of something slightly ogre.

Safrag had not left the meredrake safe out of any interest in the huge lizard; he had arranged a trap for Golgren just on the off chance that the wily half-breed would escape his eternal prison.

And Golgren had obliged him.

He instinctively reached for a sword that was not there. Sir Augustus had not provided him with any weapons. If Golgren had carried a sword, one of the sentries might have challenged the half-breed before his departure. That meant that Golgren had only a paltry dagger which he knew would not penetrate the meredrake’s scaly hide.

No longer apparently recognizing its master, the transformed meredrake tugged forward. The thick, metal chain easily snapped.

Golgren had no choice but to retreat. He drew the dagger despite its questionable value and kept at least part of his gaze on the creature at all times.

The chain dangling from its throat, the meredrake trudged eagerly toward the smaller figure. Despite having just become half-ogre, the meredrake moved as if perfectly comfortable with its two-legged form.

Brandishing the dagger, Golgren let out a hiss that was one of the commands he had taught the reptile. The meredrake hesitated, its crimson-tinged orbs blinking twice.

Then, tongue darting out, the monster lunged.

Golgren leaped aside as the huge figure dropped. The meredrake crashed into the elaborate marble floor with such force that it cracked part of Safrag’s grand image.

The half-breed immediately jumped onto the meredrake’s back. However, before he could attempt to use the dagger, the beast shook him off.

The force of the creature’s movement sent Golgren tumbling across the chamber, where he collided with a towering column shaped into a beatific Safrag who seemed to be smiling down smugly on his rival. Golgren had barely time to recover from the collision, for the meredrake was already in pursuit.

The creature came closer to catching him. Golgren rolled under its grasping paws and menacing, long, sharp claws. The meredrake barreled through Safrag’s stone effigy, shattering it and sending large chunks flying everywhere.

Rising, Golgren sought the nearest escape. It was not that he feared the transformed reptile so much-although death was likely if he continued to combat it-but rather that the monster was a delay he could ill afford. The longer Golgren was forced to remain in that particular location, the greater the chance that others would come to see what the commotion was.

The half-breed raced toward a side corridor, but the meredrake, rising from the dust, whirled and followed. The corridor was narrow but not enough to truly impede the beast on his tail. Golgren sought to grab something to hurl at or slow his foe, but in creating anew the palace, Safrag had evidently “grown” everything out of the main body. There was nothing unattached. Everything-the statuary, the banners, furniture-was part of the whole structure. It was almost as if he were inside a living thing rather than any building.

The meredrake lunged, but its enthusiasm caused it to slide too far to the right. Its side crashed into the wall, buying Golgren a vital extra breath. He dared not slow his pace, though, for the reptile moved on its two legs and used its new arms.

Then Golgren spotted another passage that was just wide enough to admit two guards side by side. Without hesitation, he dived toward it.

The meredrake mimicked him-only to find the fit was too snug for its huge form. The beast thrust itself forward as much as it could, but succeeded only in becoming stuck.

Furious, it snapped and hissed at the dwindling figure safely ahead. Golgren paid the meredrake no more attention. His mission was to find his way out of there and locate Safrag.

That he had as yet faced no guards did not surprise him. It was possible that they were too wary of the shifting form of the palace. It was also possible that Safrag had dismissed them and that he was patiently waiting for Golgren to reach him.

The hisses of the mutated meredrake echoed far behind Golgren. But he had to contend with a new threat, which while not immediately dangerous, had even more potential than the beast to turn his plans awry. Safrag’s palace had become a veritable maze of corridors, many of them without windows. Golgren had to rely on his innate sense of direction, which was being taxed to its limits. The longer he spent time running around in circles, the more confused and exhausted he was bound to become.

Finally he detected a voice far ahead. What it was saying, Golgren could not tell, but he went in that direction. He gripped the dagger tightly, aware that he was at a clear disadvantage; any guards would be wielding huge axes or long swords.

The voice grew louder and more familiar. For one of the few times in his life, Golgren felt a rage rise up in him that he was barely able to control. He knew that voice, and he had expected to hear it again eventually, but it was too soon.

“Go!” roared the speaker in Common. There was then the clatter of armored figures marching off at a rapid pace.

Golgren peered around the corner, saw that his quarry had his back to him, and thus, he was able to slip up behind the figure.

His dagger’s point pressed against the side of Wargroch’s thick throat.

“So good to see so loyal a warrior,” Golgren whispered, also in Common.

“Grand-” Wargroch’s voice halted as the point dug into him, causing a slight dribble of blood that descended onto the officer’s armored shoulder.

“A single sound that I do not require will mean your death. Understood?”

Wargroch silently nodded.

Although his prisoner could not see his face, Golgren bared his teeth as he asked, “And Khleeg?”

The Blodian swallowed hard before murmuring, “Dead.”

“And it was Wargroch who slew him, yes?”

To his credit, Golgren’s traitorous follower did not lie. “Yes.”

“There is much blood on Wargroch’s hands, dishonored blood. I should slay Wargroch here and now, but there is value in your life … if you obey.”

“Grand Khan-” Again, the heavier warrior broke off as the dagger dug a little deeper, adding to the tiny, crimson rivulet of blood.

“A whisper only, good Wargroch.”

“Grand Khan, I have no honor. I am a traitor, as you say. But I swear on my ancestors to serve you now.”

Golgren let the dagger trace a line toward the back of the ogre’s neck. “So you did once before. Only one pact now is between us. Wargroch will take me where I wish and I will perhaps not execute him. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Safrag … he is here in the palace?”

“No.”

Pressing the dagger harder, Golgren repeated his question, only to receive the same answer. What Wargroch did not realize, though, was that the half-breed was reading the officer’s composure or lack thereof, a trick he had learned long before.

So at least as to the question of Safrag’s whereabouts, he accepted that Wargroch was telling the truth. On the other hand, Wargroch’s oath to serve Golgren again had too much bad history behind it to make it trustworthy under any circumstance.

“Where is Safrag?”

“Don’t know. Morgada and Falstoch are here. They watch the city for Safrag. There is also Atolgus-”

At mention of the former chieftain, Golgren touched the point to a different part of Wargroch’s neck. “Is Atolgus near?”

“No. He waits for the female Titan in his chamber. He always waits.”

Aware of the dark enchantments of the lone female sorcerer, Golgren was unsurprised. Atolgus was no more than a hound, then, willing to do whatever she commanded of him and, thus, whatever Safrag desired. Which made him yet another danger.

But Safrag’s absence was something Golgren had not expected, and he had to decide what to do. “Morgada is here.” Golgren smiled to himself. “Lead us to her, then, good friend.”

The Blodian stepped forward, but Golgren pulled him back.

“Betray me and you will die even if I forfeit my own life, Wargroch. Your life is bound to mine.”

“As you say,” the officer replied. “My sword?”

Golgren had noted that Wargroch carried next to him a sheathed weapon. It was not the one the former Grand Khan had awarded him, but rather another that Golgren was familiar with. The markings on the hilt showed it had once belonged to Atolgus.

“Leave it.”

Wargroch said nothing. Golgren lowered the dagger to a place where it could be thrust through a slight separation between the front and back plates of the officer’s armor, while remaining hidden from the view of any approaching the pair. He then tapped Wargroch with the blade to let him know to move.

Although shorter and wirier than Wargroch or most other ogres, Golgren had no fear that the other would turn on him. Wargroch knew his former lord well, especially the legendary agility and speed that had enabled the half-breed to bring down foes of even greater might than the Blodian.

“Many guards?” Golgren asked as they walked slowly, close together.

“Few. They are not comfortable here and not needed much.”

“But Wargroch is very comfortable here, yes?”

The Blodian dared turn his head slightly toward Golgren. “Grand Khan, you should not come here! You seek Safrag but Safrag also seeks you! We thought you dead, but Morgada told us that Safrag sensed you alive! Since then, he has waited! You and the Fire Rose, the two of you are all he thinks of!”

Golgren’s expression remained masked. “This I am aware of. Lead.”

With a defeated grunt, Wargroch continued walking. Golgren glanced at the signet. He counted on it to help him against Morgada or any of the other Titans. The risk was great, but Golgren had not risen to Grand Khan without great audacity.

Then the sound of footsteps racing down the hall forced Golgren to drag Wargroch into a side corridor. The oversized, arrogant countenance of Safrag, decorating the wall, mocked the half-breed as he and Wargroch pressed against the opposing side.

Half a dozen well-armed ogres trotted down the main hall. They wore murderous gazes, and Golgren felt certain they were hunting for him.

“You must leave Garantha,” whispered Wargroch just after the small band passed.

Golgren did not reply, for more warriors could be heard racing down the hall.

There were nearly a dozen in that group. Unlike the last set, they slowed, as if seeking their quarry in a more methodical fashion. One paused, about to peer down the side corridor, when a harsh voice ordered him to move on ahead.

The Grand Khan bared his teeth as Atolgus stalked past.

The former chieftain was barely recognizable to him. His skin already had a blue tint to it, and his eyes were golden and without pupils. He was also much, much taller than the last time Golgren had seen him, at least two feet taller than the brawniest of his guards.

Atolgus gestured to an unseen follower, revealing in the process that he also sported short but no-less-wicked talons like the Titans. Golgren, who was somewhat familiar with the process that turned an ogre into one of the towering sorcerers, was morbidly fascinated by the unique, gradual transition.

The former chieftain drew his sword-the sword Golgren had originally presented to Wargroch-and followed after his warriors. The half-breed waited for several seconds before deciding that it was safe to continue.

He had no special fear of Atolgus; but Golgren had to keep his concentration on finding Morgada. He felt that she was an essential part of his plan if he hoped to confront Safrag.

“Lead on,” he murmured to Wargroch.

The Blodian hesitated. “She may not be where I remember, Grand Khan.”

“And it would be foolish for you to see her anyway,” remarked another, familiar voice.

“Tyranos,” Golgren returned quietly in a low hiss. “Your coming was expected earlier.”

Both turned to face the brawny wizard. Although like Golgren, Tyranos was much shorter than Wargroch, there was something in the spellcaster’s steely gaze that frightened the traitor.

“Yes, of course you were expecting me,” Tyranos countered with more than a hint of sarcasm. “I’m ever at your beck and call.” He pointed the head of the staff at Wargroch. “Just like this one used to be.”

Wargroch gave an unsettled grunt. “Do I know you, human?”

“Excellent Common. No, but I know you, ogre. I am surprised you didn’t slit his throat as soon as you found him, oh great Grand Khan.”

“Wargroch still has his uses, as do you.”

Tyranos shook his head. “I think you mistake my reason for locating you. If you want the Fire Rose, the last place you should be looking is here in the palace! All you’ll end up with here is your hide decorating one of the walls”-the wizard sneered at the nearest relief of Safrag’s face-“with this creature forever leering at your fate.”

They were interrupted by the sound of rushing feet and the clatter of weapons and armor; all were coming back from the direction that Atolgus and the guards had taken earlier.

“I can promise you that doom is on the way,” the wizard growled low.

“Take us from here,” Golgren decided.

“Just like that? I planned for more argument and subterfuge on your part-” Tyranos broke off as the sound of the oncoming ogres neared. “Hold tight!”

Golgren suddenly realized something. “Wargroch comes-”

He and the wizard vanished, appearing elsewhere before the half-breed could finish. Paying attention to nothing else, Golgren immediately pressed his maimed limb to Tyranos’s throat.

“Wargroch should have come with us. There was still possible need for him. The Titan Morgada-”

“Welcomes you.”

Both males turned. Tyranos scowled. “This was not where I intended us to be!”

They stood in what was clearly some inner chamber in the transformed palace. Safrag’s countenance was everywhere, as if spying on them. The chamber was otherwise opulent, with golden walls and glittering crystal lamps and arched wings hovering above the pair. The lamps didn’t evidence any link to the ceiling or any other source of light. They resembled starbursts more than anything and burned within as if alive.

The scent of oleander filled the room, the scent of the flower of a plant that was itself very poisonous. A vast, round bed of down with lush cushions and long, silken sheets-all some variation of the same colors as the walls-was the centerpiece of the chamber. Its occupant had an arresting presence. Gracefully sweeping back her long, dark hair, the towering female smiled at the newcomers. Yet her teeth could barely be glimpsed between the full lips, her way of obscuring their sharpness.

“The Grand Khan Golgren,” Morgada cooed, “and an unexpected but certainly interesting friend.”

Tyranos wielded the staff upright, like a sword or axe. “How you seized control of my spell, I don’t know, but you’ll find that’s the end of your good fortune, Titan!”

“Why, I don’t know what you mean. I didn’t seize your spell, human.”

The wizard snorted but Golgren sensed that, as incredible as it might seem, Morgada sounded as though she spoke the truth. With that surprise in mind, the half-breed recalled the signet.

“No, it was not her; it was this.”

“That damned thing plays too many games! It’s as bad as that ghoul controlling the gargoyles!”

Golgren eyed the markings. “Small wonder, as both have pasts that intertwine, I think.”

“High Ogres, you mean.” The spellcaster, his fierce gaze not for a moment leaving the sorceress, shrugged. “I thought as much, but in this case a High Ogre still alive.”

Morgada chuckled lightly. “Alive in some sense, at least.”

The eyes of both males widened in understanding.

“Yes, I know exactly of whom you speak.” Morgada suddenly spun, whirling so fast that she immediately became a blue blur. As she spun, she also shrank in size, quickly becoming less than half her height, slightly smaller than they.

“So much better,” the female Titan commented. She stepped up to Golgren and the wizard, her every movement enticing.

Tyranos let out a low growl and backed slightly away. Golgren did not budge, not even when Morgada stretched forth a hand that almost but not quite stroked his cheek.

“Watch those delicate nails,” the spellcaster murmured, although whether he spoke to her or to the half-breed was not clear.

“I find this height far more to my liking. What about you?” Morgada asked. Despite the fact that she spoke Common instead of the tongue created by Dauroth, her voice was musical. Seductive, deadly music. “He prefers it too. High Ogres were not so tall as Dauroth once led us to believe. In fact, they were about your height, Grand Khan. Certainly, he is.”

“You know him very well,” Golgren stated bluntly.

“Xiryn? Yes, I know him, and I know what he wishes of both of us.”

“Xiryn.” Tyranos’s eyes narrowed. “I know that name. I read it somewhere … in one of the tombs.”

“Xiryn is the lord of the gargoyles,” Golgren said, staring directly, fiercely, into Morgada’s eyes.

Though she still smiled beguilingly, it was she who looked away. “Yes, and so much more. He knows the Fire Rose better than any of us, for it was he who first accepted it as a gift from the god Sirrion.”

“How can that be?” Tyranos demanded. “That was long, long ago! Centuries upon centuries! The only things left of the High Ogre race are their tombs and their decadent descendants! No High Ogre could live so long, save perhaps if he wielded the Fire Rose all that time, which he hasn’t, it appears.”

The temptress laughed at him. “Xiryn is very clever and so very, very determined. Even death fears him.”

Golgren suddenly realized something. “He made you. He is why you are a Titan.”

“Oh, yes. He manipulated the fool who was already one and used him to gain access for me to Dauroth, who found the notion of finally creating a female Titan intriguing, of course. Dauroth had not done so before because he did not want nature to take its course; all Titans were to be his creation, not the cause of a union. That would have lessened his grip on them if they discovered their children would gain from them.” She gestured impatiently. “But what really matters is that he accepted me, just as Xiryn intended! Xiryn works to ensure that nothing will keep him from the Fire Rose!”

The deposed Grand Khan bared his teeth. “But he and you are mistaken if you think I will let him have it.”

His remark only made Morgada laugh again, louder, but still seductively. “Oh, but you are the one mistaken! I’ve no intention of letting Xiryn have it … not at all!” The sorceress placed one soft palm against Golgren’s chest, her talons grazing him so lightly that they almost tickled. “I want to help you.”