The Gargoyle King

XV

Wargroch had informed no one about Golgren’s presence. He prayed that his former lord’s wizard companion had had the sense enough to take the half-breed far, far away from Garantha. Only death awaited Golgren in the capital.

The Blodian was uncertain how to proceed. His own drive for vengeance had faded with the cold realization that the Titans represented a danger to his people. He had watched Atolgus become more and more monstrous even by ogre standards, and he understood that it was likely to be his fate as well. That went against the fearsome, independent spirit of his kind. Golgren, on the other hand, had always encouraged individual spirit, cultivating the best to become his officers. The Titans desired nothing but puppets, acting as extensions of their will.

If Golgren were slain, there would be no hope of preventing the Titans’ desires.

Wargroch owed the deposed Grand Khan a blood debt. That was how the ogre viewed things. For his many betrayals, Wargroch had to make amends, even at the cost of his own life.

There came shouts from one of the lower corridors. Wargroch drew his sword-Atolgus’s sword-and rushed toward the noise.

The ogre expected to find Golgren battling the guards, but he beheld a different sight, something he could not have imagined ripping into the hapless ogres trying to fend it off. It was almost an ogre, yet a creature also distinctly reptilian.

And it was quickly disposing of more than half a dozen warriors.

Wargroch plunged into the fray. He saw no reason not to. A beast such as that one could not be part of any ploy by Golgren; it had the stink of Titan spellcasting around it. Safrag was probably experimenting again without regard for his own people.

The fiendish monster had seized an already-wounded guard by the arm and was dragging him close. Great, toothy jaws already dripping with blood opened then snapped shut over the guard’s head. There was the gruesome sound of bone cracking and sinew tearing.

With a hiss, the beast pulled back from its prey. The headless body quivered. The powerful jaws crunched down twice. Then, swallowing its grisly morsel, the creature released the body and turned toward the next foe. The headless corpse wobbled a few steps in what was almost a comical dance then collapsed.

Wargroch let out a roar and lunged under the monster’s paws. His blade sliced against the scaled torso, leaving a scratch from one side to the other but didn’t penetrate.

The reptilian fiend slashed at the ogre, but Wargroch had been expecting its attack. He literally slid on his belly past the reach of his horrific foe, letting momentum take him out of range of even its long, dangerous tail.

As Wargroch turned, he saw that, from the rear, the creature’s resemblance to a meredrake was unmistakable. That verified his suspicion that the sorcerers were to blame for the foul creation. Wargroch added that to his list of failures. More ogres were perishing because he had enabled it to happen.

The transformed meredrake climbed over a lifeless ogre as it lunged toward the remaining guards. As it did, the huge monster slipped on the mangled corpse, momentarily falling forward.

Seeing his chance, Wargroch charged. As he reached the beast, he jumped for its shoulders.

The brawny ogre landed atop the creature’s back. With a roar, the meredrake twisted around. Great talons raked the nearby, well-stained walls, but the monster could not quite grab Wargroch.

However, the ogre was faring poorly. Although Wargroch managed to hold on, he could not do much else. The meredrake slammed him against one wall then the other, trying to dislodge or crush him. It was all Wargroch could do to maintain a grip on his sword, much less wield it with any efficacy.

His daring attack had at least drawn attention away from the beleaguered guards. Some withdrew to bind their wounds while others regrouped. Two more guards arrived, axes at the ready.

The newcomers drew the meredrake’s attention. The monster ceased battering Wargroch.

The Blodian immediately slashed as best he could at the back of the meredrake’s neck. In the old days, before Golgren, it was likely that his sword would have been so rusty that it would have snapped in two upon striking such a hard surface. The meredrake’s scales were far thicker than before, however, another of Safrag’s “improvements.” The polished blade left only a shallow, red line that could not possibly have injured the lizard, but at least Wargroch had recaptured its focus.

The meredrake once more sought to grasp his burden or smash it against a wall. As that happened, the guards moved in again.

“The throat!” Wargroch shouted, staying with the Common tongue even in the midst of the struggle. Other than the inside of the mouth itself-an almost impossible target-the throat was surely the most vulnerable place to strike.

But the meredrake, although taller than the ogres, kept its head bent low as it snapped angrily at its adversaries.

Still, the guards did their best to stab at the creature’s face. One dived in eagerly, his axe grazing the lower part of the throat.

The meredrake let loose with a fierce roar. It slashed with its claws across the ogre’s chest. More blood splattered the combatants. The warrior’s innards spilled out, and the corpse tumbled into the monster, who almost casually shoved it aside.

Wargroch used the distraction to try to climb onto the creature’s shoulder. Just as he hoped, the meredrake twisted its head around in an attempt to better see what he was doing.

The ogre officer drove the point of his weapon into the creature’s eye. Blood and a yellowish fluid gushed from the ruined orb. A fetid smell filled the ogre’s nostrils.

The monster roared in pain. It threw itself against the wall, pinning Wargroch’s leg. The ogre let out a howl.

From somewhere beyond the meredrake, a voice boomed a command that, in his agony and struggles, Wargroch could not understand. The meredrake shifted, slamming against the other wall. The Blodian lost his grip. He slipped to the moist floor, his sword flying away.

Wargroch expected his death to come shortly, and he welcomed it. It would be an honorable if gruesome demise and would make some amends for his betrayals.

But the creature paid him no mind, instead focusing on someone ahead. Wargroch raised himself up enough to see.

His eyes widened as he beheld Atolgus. The warlord faced the meredrake alone. Atolgus wore a mad, gleeful expression, a berserker’s face that twisted his handsome, Titan features into something awful. He wielded only the sword that had once belonged to Golgren.

Despite Atolgus being nearly as tall as the meredrake, Wargroch still thought the Titans’ puppet must have gone insane to try and face such a threat alone. Yet Atolgus laughed as he attacked and feinted, attacked and feinted. It was as if the warlord saw the battle as a game, not a struggle to the death.

Then Atolgus lunged with swiftness that was beyond any ogre naturally born. The blade shimmered as he struck the monster on the chest, and where other weapons had failed to penetrate, his sword performed with only slight hesitation.

The meredrake shivered as Atolgus withdrew his wet blade, again laughing. The creature let out another pained roar as it sought to clamp its great, yellowed teeth on Atolgus’s forearm.

Again moving more swiftly than Wargroch thought possible, quicker than even Golgren, Atolgus not only avoided the bite, but turned the scaly monster’s lunge into a counterattack of his own. As the jaws sought him, the warlord thrust his sword into it again.

Propelled by a combination of sorcery and Atolgus’s enhanced strength, the blade bore through flesh, muscle, and even bone to burst out of the back of the meredrake’s skull. Hot ichor drenched Wargroch.

The creature let out a pitiful moan. Atolgus readily removed the blade. Eyes bright with pleasure, he stepped back to admire his handiwork.

The scaled monster dropped in a heap. Its tail swept toward Wargroch. Only a quick jump saved him from an embarrassing fall.

Raising his sword, which flashed one more time, Atolgus let loose with a wild war cry. The surviving guards quickly joined him. Wargroch wisely did the same.

Atolgus’s golden eyes fixed on the Blodian. In eloquent Common, Atolgus remarked, “A brave and clever assault, Wargroch! I commend you for softening him up for me!”

Atolgus had never spoken Common so well, not even the last time Wargroch had seen him. Safrag’s experiment was continuing even without the lead Titan to guide it.

“But the death blow belongs to Atolgus,” Wargroch replied, using his best Common in turn. With his weapon, he saluted the warlord.

However, rather than look pleased, the warlord’s face darkened. “He has infiltrated Dai Ushran.”

Although at first taken aback by that phrase, Wargroch was able to puzzle out what the sorcerers’ puppet was referring to. He hid his dismay, he hoped, at Atolgus’s discovery. “You think Golgren is in Gara-Dai Ushran?”

It was still difficult for most ogres to remember that the capital had been renamed.

“The meredrake was his pet!” Atolgus laughed, revealing teeth sharper than Wargroch remembered. “The great one set it as a trap should the mongrel return, which he, of course, dared!”

“Then the beast has killed Golgren?”

The altered ogre’s golden eyes blazed. “Do you think him that easily slain?” Before Wargroch could summon a response, Atolgus added, “The mongrel’s still here somewhere. Come, let us hunt him down.” He chuckled. “I’ll give her his head! She’ll reward me for that.”

Wargroch again hid his churning emotions. He glanced at the small band of guards following them. “We do not need these, Warlord.”

Atolgus turned and gave him a sinister grin. “True! We are the Titans’ greatest servants! We can do it by ourselves!” He dismissed the other ogres with a wave of his hand, saying, “Clear the corpses! Search the outer levels!”

The guards obeyed. The warlord nodded to Wargroch. “Now! We will find him for her!”

Wargroch nodded agreement. Sword gripped tightly, he followed Atolgus, letting the sorcerers’ puppet take the lead.

Morgada had not yet returned. Tyranos had reminded Golgren of that fact more than once. The wizard paced back and forth, while the half-breed continued to sit with his eyes closed, his thoughts concealed from his companion.

The wizard’s pacing suddenly stopped. Golgren’s eyes opened to slits.

Staff held before him and his other hand flat against his chest, Tyranos appeared to be readying a spell. However, the hooded figure hesitated at the last moment, which brought a slight smile of understanding to Golgren’s lips. The smile vanished and the eyes closed again before Tyranos turned back to observe him.

“Are you going to just sit there?”

“We cannot leave, so, yes.”

Shaking his head, the spellcaster growled, “And yet you insist you must reclaim your realm. Just how will you do that sitting there?”

“I have been … considering.”

“‘Considering’ what?”

Before Golgren could reply, the walls shimmered. Golgren immediately rose to his feet even as Tyranos gripped his staff with both hands.

“Someone other than Morgada seeks entrance,” the half-breed murmured.

“Someone who’s also a Titan,” the wizard added.

One wall suddenly heaved inward, as though it were clay softening. It receded then heaved in again, almost like some great beast breathing.

“I warned you,” Tyranos said.

Golgren said nothing, instead striding to the vast bed and ripping off one of the shimmering silken sheets. Expertly, the half-breed used his single hand to twist the sheet around and around until he could readily grip it.

His companion snorted. “Are you planning on trying to strangle someone? Won’t you need another set of fingers for that?”

Again, Golgren did not reply. His focus was on the wall.

A black stain suddenly spread through the shifting wall, as if some unseen wound caused it to bleed black blood. The smell of burning ash filled the chamber, causing Tyranos to start coughing. Small tendrils of smoke snaked upward from wherever the inky stain spread.

The wall began to melt, pooling into molten slag on the ground.

A gigantic figure burst through. Golgren tossed the sheet toward the intruder. The sheet opened as it flew, just as intended. It spread, immediately enveloping the looming figure of a Titan.

Momentarily distracted, the sorcerer stumbled. He let out a curse that caused the sheet to turn to cinder.

But Tyranos, finally understanding what Golgren had planned, had already charged forward. Swinging the staff like a mace, he struck the Titan in the stomach.

A black flash erupted where the crystal touched the sorcerer. Both he and Tyranos were hurled in opposite directions. The Titan flew against the ruined wall, accompanied by another fearsome black flash. The wizard simply crashed.

The Titan did not immediately move, but Tyranos managed to rise. He touched his chest then stumbled toward Golgren.

“I think-I think I can transport us away now that the wall’s breached! Hurry!”

The half-breed leaned into the wizard, helping the latter to maintain his balance. Tyranos concentrated.

The Titan stirred. Golgren recognized the Titan’s face, although he had not seen it for a long time. When last he confronted him, years earlier, it had been just before he had vanished, apparently the victim of Dauroth’s ire.

“Falstoch,” the half-breed muttered.

The crystal flared. Golgren’s surroundings grew murky.

And suddenly the half-ogre found himself falling to his knees in a corridor. Tyranos was nowhere to be found. An angry sound from his left warned Golgren that he was not far away from the Titan. He pushed himself up and peered in that direction; the part of the wall that Falstoch had destroyed stood only a yard away.

Falstoch himself had not discovered where Golgren had landed, although surely some spell of his was responsible. The half-breed had no time to concern himself with Tyranos’s fate, for the Titan already was turning toward the opening.

Golgren jumped through the hole, crashing into Falstoch before the Titan knew what was happening. Despite the sorcerer’s immense size, Golgren was used to ighting larger adversaries. Falstoch landed hard. The Titan let out a grunt and, for the moment, lay still. Taking no chances, Golgren planted his maimed limb across the fallen sorcerer’s windpipe.

A rasping sound escaped Falstoch as Golgren pressed. The Titan raised a hand.

A shock ran through the half-breed. He tumbled back, his body quivering from brief but intense pain.

“I knew she couldn’t be trusted,” Falstoch gasped in Common. “I never truly trusted her, although I pretended to do so! She was always too close to the master, always using her devilries on him! She went so easily from worshiping damned Dauroth to bedding Safrag!”

Golgren tried to rise, but a backhanded gesture from Falstoch sent him slamming to the floor once again.

“Only I can truly be trusted by the master! Safrag gave me back my glorious self after Dauroth punished me for daring to disobey him by searching for the Fire Rose! My life is Safrag’s now, and any who betray it must pay!”

Golgren could move his hand but could not find no weapon. “I was a prisoner of Morgada,” he managed.

The sorcerer shook his head, his expression eager. “Oh, no! If that was true, she would’ve brought you to him right away! That was his command! If one of us found you, we were to bring you, dead or alive, directly to him.” A sinister grin spread across the blue countenance. “I choose dead.”

Still unable to do anything to help himself, Golgren stalled for time. “And so clever is Falstoch! How did you know that Morgada hid me here?”

Falstoch loomed over him. One glowing palm faced Golgren, continuing to keep him flattened. “Yes, I am clever, so don’t try to stall. Abandon all hope. Your wizard friend has gone wherever he planned, and he won’t be able to return here! It would require far more power than a mere creature like he has.”

“Then tell me of your cleverness and finish me.”

The monstrous spellcaster grinned even wider. “I knew she was up to something! Always hovering around Safrag and then vanishing into one of her lairs, either here or in the great sanctum! Even great Safrag could not detect her duplicity!”

Golgren had slowly managed to slide one foot over closer to Falstoch’s. The Titan prevented him from rising but not from moving sideways. The half-breed braced himself. It would take all the might he could muster to trip Falstoch or push him off balance.

“Then only a short while ago, I sensed her working subtle spells, seemingly insignificant ones by themselves, but together acting to shield something in her chamber! I knew that the master would not notice, not with the artifact radiating such power around him! I had to take the chance, wait until she was gone from the palace, to discover what was so very important to her that even Safrag must not know. It turns out that she was intent on betrayal, with you as her ally.”

The irony was that Falstoch was half right; before that day, all Morgada’s secrecy had concerned her service, however treacherous, to the gargoyle king. Golgren bared his teeth in a predator’s smile at that knowledge. Falstoch was ignorant, in so many ways.

The Titan hesitated. “You’ve no reason to grin, mongrel! I’ve granted you the irst part of your wish, and now give you the second! I doubt the master would mind in the least if I brought you to him entirely flayed and perhaps, after all, still breathing.”

Golgren shoved his foot against the Titan’s leg.

The force caused Falstoch to slip forward before he righted himself.

Fury overtaking him, Falstoch snarled, “No more of your pathetic tricks.”

The sorcerer shrieked. He stumbled back wildly. As he did, something so bright that it forced Golgren to shield his eyes burst through the Titan’s chest from behind.

It was a familiar, five-sided crystal.

Black ichor poured out of Falstoch where the crystal had emerged. The sorcerer continued to shriek. His entire body shook, and as his ingers scraped at the horrific wound, he turned to the side, revealing the true cause of his torment.

“Get … moving … Grand Khan!” Tyranos blurted, the wizard appearing to be suffering nearly as much as his victim. Sweat covered him and his eyes bulged with strain. Tyranos was surrounded by the same glow that emanated from the crystal.

Golgren turned to go then shook his head. “No, wizard, we go together.”

“A fine-a fine time-to turn noble!”

Falstoch clamped his mouth shut. Black, burning tears coursed down his cheeks, the unearthly handsomeness of the Titan completely leaving. He gripped the crystal with both hands and frantically began singing in Dauroth’s magical tongue.

Tyranos shrieked. However, the powerfully built mage did not slow his own attack. Like Falstoch, Tyranos clamped his mouth tightly shut and forced his pain into his attack. Energy flowed from his chest into his arms then into the crystal.

Glancing from one to the other, Golgren threw himself at the Titan. The same forces encompassing the two spellcasters surrounded him. Even as searing pain coursed through him, he used his strength and leverage to twist one of Falstoch’s hands free.

The effect was immediate. Falstoch’s spell faltered. The Titan screamed again. He flung Golgren aside then fell to his knees.

The wizard fell with him. As Golgren stopped his fall, the half-breed witnessed not one, but two fantastic transformations.

Of the two, the most grotesque, most terrifying, was that of Falstoch. The Titan first began to shrink. At the same time, his body started to lose cohesion. Parts of Falstoch dripped onto the floor.

With a roar, Tyranos threw more effort into his spell. His own shape had become broader and more animalistic in form. His face stretched forward, as if seeking to leave his skull.

Yet that was still nothing in comparison to the sorcerer’s fate. There remained in him little resembling a Titan. Falstoch was an amorphous mass that exuded a nauseating odor like that of a bloated carcass. His fine raiment had faded. The Titan’s cry had been reduced to a pathetic, bubbling sound.

Even then, Tyranos pressed on. Unlike Falstoch, his robe had filled out with the changes in his body. Course, dark brown fur covered any visible skin, including his face. The brow ridge had grown thick; the nose and mouth formed a sleek muzzle. Two long ears thrust out of his hood. The wizard was still roughly the same height as before but even more muscular.

And although Tyranos lacked a pair of horns, Golgren could not mistake the realization, which would have been clear to anyone who witnessed the transformation, that the wizard was an Uruv Suurt … a minotaur.

A terrifying final hiss arose from the blob that had been Falstoch. What remained of the Titan stank even worse than earlier. The flesh had a horrendous green tint to it. As Golgren approached, the last of Falstoch melted to liquid, which spread over the once-immaculate floor and even under the half-breed’s very feet.

But Golgren no longer cared about Falstoch. Instead, he stepped over to the mage, who held the dimly lit staff to his own chest. Tyranos’s breathing was ragged, but he still managed to look up at Golgren with defiance. The hood slid back slightly, and only then was it revealed that where there should have been a fine pair of yard-long horns thrusting up, only two cauterized nubs remained.

That was the sign of a minotaur marked for dishonorable crimes among his people.

“So now you know the truth,” Tyranos rumbled, the timbre of his voice exactly the same as always. “Now you know what I am.”

“This was no secret to me for some time.”

The Uruv Suurt snorted. “No, of course not! You’re Golgren! You know everything and whatever you don’t know, you figure out! Of course, you knew what I was all the time.”

Golgren shrugged. “What you are does not matter. What use you provide does.”

Tyranos finally began to catch his breath. He used that breath to laugh harshly. “And that truly is the Golgren I’ve come to know so very well.” The minotaur grimaced from pain. He gazed at the staff. “I think … I think I can manage to restore it now.”

The crystal glowed slightly brighter. The glow gradually spread to Tyranos, enveloping him.

Once again, his shape began to change. He reverted to the human form so familiar to Golgren.

The effort left Tyranos gasping again. “Hard enough … hard enough to use so much power to get back here … without having to … to do all this!”

Golgren assisted him with standing. “There was no need to use more precious magic to change to this illusion.”

The wizard glared. “Yes. There was. There always will be. Now you know one of the main reasons I want the Fire Rose so badly. I refuse to remain what I was born, not if I can help it. Better to die pretending to be human than live as something I curse each day.”

The half-breed did not respond except to ask, “Can you take us from this place?”

That question stirred a brief and sardonic grin from Tyranos. “Changed your mind about leaping into the fire with Safrag?”

“No more than you.”

The smile faded. “You’re right there. I think I need a moment more, but then I should-”

Both were suddenly struck by a fearsome force. Tyranos was slammed against the far wall. He crumpled like a rag doll; whether unconscious or dead, it was impossible to say. Golgren, who at the last moment sensed danger, received less of a blow. However, it was still enough to send him rolling across the chamber.

Through tearing eyes, he saw that the attack had not been instigated by some resurrected Falstoch, but rather another familiar figure.

Atolgus peered through the gap, his expression akin to a mad beast. There was both fury and pleasure in his expression. He wielded Golgren’s former sword, only its blade was surrounded by an aura. The warlord’s other hand glowed with a similar illumination.

The transformation to whatever variant of Titan Safrag expected of Atolgus was all but complete.

“You taint her chamber!” the sorcerer’s puppet declared. “For that alone you should die! I’ll bring your head to her! She’ll reward me for this!”

He stepped inside. Only then was a second figure revealed standing behind him, one known even better to the half-breed.

Wargroch brandished his own weapon. His look grim, he rumbled, “It is a good time to die, oh Grand Khan, a good time to die.”