The Gargoyle King

XVII

A very good time to die,” agreed Atolgus. “My ascension is nearly complete! I’m a true Titan now! Equal to her and, therefore, worthy of her!” He took a step closer to Golgren. “And with your head as a gift, worthy of her love.”

Golgren did not argue with the crazed warlord. Atolgus was too far gone and too much of a threat to the half-breed.

The deposed Grand Khan readied himself for a desperate leap at his adversary. The advantages all belonged to Atolgus.

As if reading Golgren’s mind, Atolgus laughed again. “Come to me, mongrel! Come to-”

Atolgus gasped. His back arched, the warlord bending so much that his face looked to the ceiling. The sword fell from his trembling hand, and he whirled in a half circle.

Another sword was buried in his spine.

The sword wielded by Wargroch.

“Flee, Grand Khan!” the Blodian shouted. “Hurry!”

Atolgus tried in vain to reach the blade lodged in his back. Meanwhile, Wargroch desperately fended off Atolgus’s other hand. Despite the tremendous wound, Atolgus was still very much alive, his stamina enhanced by the magic within him.

Indeed, Morgada’s puppet, with a furious roar, seized Wargroch by the throat with his other hand. The Blodian grappled with him, grabbing Atolgus around the waist and wrestling as best he could with the much larger figure.

But Wargroch had again underestimated the altered Atolgus. Wargroch’s powerful grip meant nothing to the larger ogre. Ignoring Wargroch, Atolgus added his sword hand to the Blodian’s throat.

With what was almost a casual twist, the warlord broke the other ogre’s neck. Wargroch let out a short gurgle then went limp in Atolgus’s grip.

But as that happened, Golgren barreled into his back, the half-breed using the force of his jump to shove the sword deeper.

Atolgus grunted. He fell to one knee but still fought. Shaking like a wet amalok, he dislodged his slighter foe. Golgren landed hard but managed to roll to his feet.

The transformed chieftain’s hands glowed darkly. The golden orbs burned with menace. “I will-will-”

The severity of his wound momentarily seized the gigantic warrior. He faltered.

As Wargroch had risked himself, so Golgren threw his smaller form into Atolgus’s arms. Unprepared, the warlord caught him in an awkward grip. The energies Atolgus had been summoning burned Golgren’s skin where his hands touched the other, but the half-breed clutched his larger foe’s neck.

A laugh escaped Atolgus. The Titans’ puppet seemed undaunted by his punier foe.

But Golgren had no intention of trying to choke Atolgus. He had only one attack, one attempt, left to him.

Opening his mouth as wide as he could, the half-breed bit into Atolgus’s throat.

Hot blood spurted over Golgren’s face, but he continued to sink his teeth in as far as he could. Ogres had much stronger jaws and harder teeth than elves or humans, and even Golgren’s mixed parentage had not moderated that one trait.

With effort, Atolgus finally pushed his smaller foe away. However, in doing so, he enabled Golgren to rip away a good portion of the flesh.

A river of blood gushed from the gaping wound. Even more than the sword in his back, the torn throat took a toll on the Titans’ puppet. Atolgus staggered. He tried to say something, but only a wheezing sound escaped from him.

The former chieftain fell first to one knee then both. His golden orbs lost their evil radiance. Atolgus fell dead.

Golgren wiped his mouth as clean as he could. His gaze strayed to Wargroch. He gave a grunt of satisfaction at the Blodian’s final honorable actions then turned to Tyranos.

Once again, the wizard had reverted to his true form. Golgren leaned down to check on the minotaur.

Tyranos opened his eyes. Immediately, he saw his own hands. He snorted in anger.

“I won’t let this be!” the mage growled.

“What matter is it?” Golgren responded dismissively.

“My kind turned their back on me for my crimes of ‘magic,’ and so I turned my back on them! Humans are far more adaptable; I will be one of them, and the Fire Rose will see to it.”

Their argument went no further, for the sounds of battle had drawn guards to their vicinity. The ogres, obviously fearful of intruding wherever Titans were concerned, tentatively peered inside.

Several gaped at the sight of Wargroch then doubly so upon sighting Atolgus. There was no one to tell them that the former had sacrificed himself to wound the latter, so to their minds came the logical conclusion: Both had perished at the hands of Golgren.

Then they saw Tyranos, and the discovery of an Uruv Suurt in their midst made them forget all else. The first of the guards charged through the hole.

“Can you transform yourself quickly?” Golgren hissed to the wizard.

“Yes.” And with that one word, Tyranos became a human again.

Golgren nodded and stepped forward to confront the guards. He did not strike a battle stance; instead he simply stared.

The ogres faltered then stopped.

“Lower your weapons,” the half-breed commanded as if still Grand Khan.

The guards hesitated.

Golgren frowned. His eyes narrowed in anger.

One guard obeyed. That was enough to make the rest follow suit.

A light flared behind Golgren. Without glancing back, he said to the guards, “This is no Uruv Suurt. This is a human. A curse made him appear to wear the wretched skin of an Uruv Suurt.”

The guards looked perplexed. It was not that they did not understand Common-and Common was what Golgren had chosen to speak to them because it reminded the ogres just who he was-but they were obviously uncertain whether a human in their midst was any better than one of the horned ones.

“I suggest that now is a good time to leave this place,” Tyranos whispered in his ear. “If that isn’t asking too much, oh Grand Khan.”

Giving him a slight nod, Golgren said to the guards, “I leave you now, but I will return shortly to bring order back to Golthuu.”

Tyranos cast his spell. The pair vanished before the awestruck eyes of the ogres.

Idaria prepared for the worst, but then the Titan’s laugh became a howl of rage. He doubled over, stricken.

Despite the elf blood at his command, the Titan had underestimated the power of the medallion … or rather, of Kiri-Jolith. The sorcerer clutched his throat and chest as if unable to breathe.

“Reject your evil intention!” Stefan shouted to the Titan. “Reject it and your pain will pass!”

However, either the spellcaster did not hear Stefan’s offer or he refused it, still thinking he could overwhelm the medallion. The Titan gritted his teeth and raised one hand as if to cast a spell.

Instead, he let loose with a new, more terrible roar. Unable to endure, the sorcerer collapsed into the frightened and confused throng.

Fearful for her people, Idaria pressed toward where the Titan had fallen. However, she had taken no more than a step when she noticed a sudden and ominous change over the elves gathered ahead. The fear and confusion had vanished, replaced by an emotion it took her a moment to recognize.

Fury.

Instead of moving toward the entrance, many of the elves suddenly reversed direction. A muffled shout arose. Several slaves raised fists then swung them down.

“No!” Stefan called from the other side. “Don’t fall to his level!”

The mass of elves paid him no mind. More and more swarmed to the spot where the Titan had fallen. The sorcerer, already stricken helpless by his own treachery, howled as the slaves pummeled him.

The cleric turned to Idaria. “My lady, make them stop! This isn’t right!”

But Idaria instead watched grimly as her people struck out at one of their great tormentors. A part of her-a small part of her-urged her to do as Stefan pleaded, but the rest of Idaria had witnessed too much of the atrocities of slavery.

The other elves were in a frenzy. The Titan managed to raise one hand-whether to plead or seeking to attack, it was impossible to say-but then he sank back in defeat. Elves who had been driven to the brink of starvation and exhaustion found the strength to vent their anger.

And though she might still have been able to stop them, Idaria remained silent and still.

It was over quickly. With bloody hands, the attackers shambled back, giving both the Idaria and the knight a glimpse of what remained of the Titan. There was little recognizable of the once-handsome sorcerer. His face was smashed in; his chest had been crushed. It was an unforgettable sight, and yet it was not the most terrible that Idaria had witnessed since the fall of Silvanost.

Stefan was the only one to express horror. He looked from the other slaves to Idaria. “This was wrong! You’re not Titans, not ogres! You’re elves!”

Idaria answered for her people. “And you have never been a slave.”

The cleric’s eyes widened. He looked again at the sea of embittered, beaten elves. His voice mirroring his own exhaustion, he muttered, “Kiri-Jolith forgive us.”

“He did not stop us,” she responded as harshly as before. Turning to her people, Idaria commanded, “The entrance … and hurry!”

The elves flowed on. As promised by the dead Titan, the way was open. By the scores, the slaves vanished from the dread chamber.

Idaria joined the exodus. She did not look back to Stefan. Whatever gulf lay between them, the silver-tressed slave could only think of her fellow prisoners …

And think how she more and more acted like Golgren.

Outside, the corridor was filled. The moment Idaria stepped through, eyes turned and fixed with desperate hope on her.

Pushing to the front, she wasted no time. “This way.”

Murmurs arose as the elves journeyed through the sanctum. It was not the same structure through which they had been marched. Idaria paused long enough to tell them that it was no concern to them. All that had to happen was for Safrag-or any Titans, for that matter-to return and the escape would fail.

Idaria gave thanks when the exit from the sanctum came into view, even though that meant they had to traverse the sinister forest. However, compared to the evils of the Titans’ underground chamber, skeletal ogres and such paled.

That did not mean that the throng could travel blithely through the wooded area. Once outside, Idaria quickly organized the slaves into groups, with those who looked healthiest becoming part of a defensive force. True, they had only their hands, but that would have to do. Older and injured elves were taken within the ranks, where they could be better protected.

Stefan finally caught up with her. He still did not look pleased with what had happened inside, but the medallion was around his own neck. There were no signs of blood upon it.

He nodded satisfaction with her arrangements. “You could be a Knight of Solamnia.”

“Or a Nerakan?” she could not help retorting.

He grimaced. “I’ve no right to put myself above those who’ve suffered so greatly. Let’s now concern ourselves with getting your people to freedom.”

A face abruptly filled Idaria’s thoughts. “Sir Stefan, I must ask one thing. Do you know where Golgren is? I must know because I realize now that I must stay away from him.”

“But why?”

She studied the dark forest, her thoughts on both the past and the future. “Because the gargoyles’ master indicated that I still had some role he wished me to play. I will not be his puppet.”

“As you wish. The path I intend for us will take your people toward Solamnic-controlled lands and, coincidentally, far away from Garantha. Is that to your satisfaction?”

Idaria stiffened. “Yes. Thank you.”

The cleric shrugged and, without another word, walked to the front of the makeshift column. Brandishing his sword, he pointed at the forest. “Stay close to one another, and ignore all sounds and images. The Titans are distracted, but we must get as far as we can from this place! The forest is dangerous, but with our numbers and faith in Kiri-Jolith, we will prevail!”

Some of the slaves looked doubtful, but they nonetheless followed the Solamnic. Idaria took up a place at the back of the column to make certain no one was left behind.

The column proved far more lengthy than Idaria had expected, and yet not nearly so great as the elf had once hoped. So many slaves had died, and more were likely to perish before journey’s end. Idaria fought back tears.

There was at first a sinister silence when the refugees entered the dread forest, as if the elves had trespassed upon some realm of the dead. The silence was broken only by the ominous sound of the rustling of leaves. The escaped slaves huddled close to one another. The stronger ones kept a wary watch, although what they would do if the forest attacked was a question no one could answer and all prayed would not be necessary to discover.

Curiously, there were no signs of the skeletal guards. In fact, there was no sign even of those that had sprouted from the sanctum grounds. Nor was there any hint of Chasm’s fate. Neither Idaria nor Stefan had spoken of Tyranos’s servant when they had stepped out of the Titans’ lair. What both believed was that the gargoyle had given up his life for them, and all they could do was prove themselves worthy of the winged creature’s sacrifice.

The party moved on for hours. They had no food, no water. They had not dared stop to look for any inside the sanctum. One benefit of the terrible spell cast upon them had been that they were no thirstier or hungrier than when they had first been made prisoners, but that would not be enough to see them through their ordeal.

So when the column came to a sudden halt, Idaria knew why. She quickly joined Stefan, who looked as pale as the elves and seemed in some unsettling manner even less substantial.

“Are you all right?” the elf asked in concern.

“I’ll last,” he responded. But then he added, “We need to feed them, and I fear this is as far as they’ll be going this night. We made good progress, though not nearly so much as I wished.”

Idaria gazed up at the trees. “But what can we do for sustenance here? Or water, even? Anything in this forest would surely be poisoned or worse. Do you have some miracle in mind?”

“If there’s a miracle this time, it’ll be your doing.” He removed the medallion then handed it to her. “You were able to touch some part of the forest the last time you wielded this. Perhaps you can do so again.”

“I will certainly try.” However, Idaria did not know how to begin. She awaited instruction from the cleric, but Stefan only smiled ruefully. The forest was not the domain of his patron, although Kiri-Jolith had already done much for them.

She walked a short distance away from the column, giving her just enough seclusion to concentrate better.

“Habbakuk,” Idaria whispered. “If it is you, please hear me. I do not know if you can help us, but I must ask. You have every right not to listen, but if you could merely show us food and water, or how to acquire them, it would greatly help us.”

Her father would have reprimanded her for such an inglorious prayer, lacking in ornate verbiage and so sparse. But both he and that time were long dead.

Nothing happened. Idaria turned to Stefan, but he stood in silence. Focusing again, she repeated her makeshift prayer and waited.

Still, nothing happened.

Frustrated, she walked back to Stefan, the medallion already stretched toward him. “There is no point, it seems. Neither Habbakuk nor any other power heard-”

Idaria stopped as she noticed first the Solamnic’s expression then those of the refugees nearest the pair. They were all staring past her.

She looked where they gaped and saw several tiny, gleaming pools of water. Each was the size of a footprint and illuminated their immediate surroundings. That they were the size of a footprint turned out to be the least part of the surprise. For each pool had evidently been created by her returning steps.

But the pools remained so small for only a moment more before gushing up and spilling over toward one another. As they spread, the area around them grew brighter yet, and a loving warmth that Idaria had not felt in ages radiated toward the party. The scent of fresh spring flowers wafted toward them even though none could be spotted.

Before she realized what was happening, elves were streaming past her to reach the glistening water. Idaria started to warn them to be careful then decided that there was no reason to be concerned.

Still, the crowd grew so swiftly that she and Stefan had to step to the side. The elf even had to press against a nearby tree, something that she would have considered very dangerous before but, in the presence of the swelling pool, bothered her not in the least. All of the nearby trees seemed harmless, as if they, too, had been affected by the miracle.

“We have water, at least,” she commented. “Perhaps we’ll find food before long-”

“Your hand!” the knight interrupted, indicating the one touching the trunk.

She eyed her hand, expecting to see that it had been infected by some sinister poison in the tree. Yet at first glance Idaria saw nothing wrong.

Then her gaze shifted to the tree itself. There, her hand print radiated a lush green from which began to sprout small stems. As the two stepped back, the stems became full branches. At the same time, the lush green spread over the tree. The other branches took on a healthy appearance akin to the new ones.

And from the branches, small, red fruits began to sprout. At first they were the size of peas, then cherries; then they grew to be on par with the largest apples. They were a type of fruit, though one that no one there could recognize.

Idaria was the first to dare pluck one. Without hesitation, she bit into it. Rich, sweet juices spilled down her chin as she devoured the succulent delight.

With the first swallow, her weariness began to abate. She felt revived, fresh.

“It will nourish us well!” the elf declared to Stefan. To her people, she called, “Everyone! Come and partake of this fruit!”

“Will there be enough?” the knight asked.

In answer, another fruit began blossoming from exactly where Idaria had plucked the first. Within seconds, it was already nearly as large as hers.

“There will be enough,” she responded with a smile.

Elves who had been waiting their turn by the expanding pool turned to the tree. Idaria worked to organize the lines so no one suffered too long a wait. Soon all were drinking and eating, in turn.

“All will share fairly,” she insisted as she cautioned patience.

Among those who finished drinking and eating, Stefan began choosing the strongest to rebuild the column’s defenses. The forest had not attacked them thus far, which was both encouraging and suspicious.

Idaria finally returned the medallion to the cleric. He accepted it gratefully.

“You have used the gift of life, my lady. I had faith in you.”

“I am grateful to Habbakuk or whichever god granted me these miracles, and that is all.” Seeking to change the subject, she said, “I did not see you eat or drink.”

“When matters are settled for the night, I will.” He looked around. “We’ve been very fortunate … too fortunate. Either the Titans are extremely distracted by what Golgren sought to put into motion or …”

She understood immediately. “Or the gargoyles’ master has begun to play his final hand.”

“There is a third possibility. Safrag may be choosing his own course of action that goes against what his followers know.” Stefan grunted in dissatisfaction. “Forgive me, my lady. Best if I return to the task at hand. With an unoccupied mind comes too much second thought. That’s all it is.”

Idaria watched him in concern but said nothing. She returned her attention to seeing to her people. Though refreshed in one way, they still needed sleep. There was no thought of continuing onward.

But as the freed slaves began to settle down, thoughts of Golgren rose to the forefront of her mind again. The elf shook her head; she had her people to save. Golgren was no more concern of hers, nor was the fate of the ogre realms.

And yet …

Idaria suddenly walked off toward the glistening pool. A few remaining slaves bowed gratefully to her as they finished sipping from the water. Idaria herself was not thirsty; she had come there to contemplate matters that nagged at her mind.

Kneeling by the pool, she peered into it. Despite the darkness surrounding the region, the water itself perfectly illuminated her face. Unfortunately, that meant that it also revealed her worried, almost fearful expression.

Then the pool revealed something else. A winged form that darted among the trees. Smothering a gasp, Idaria carefully turned her gaze skyward.

A hulking form dropped from among the branches, seizing her by the shoulders. It hefted her into the air before she could even make a sound.

The winged fury soared above the forest. By then the elf knew what had her in its clutches. It could only be one creature, a gargoyle.

But it was not just any gargoyle; it could be but one: Chasm.

It was difficult to tell, but to Idaria the gargoyle appeared unhurt, despite the desperate struggle with the undead. The gargoyle’s wings beat hard as he not only ascended, but headed farther and farther away from Stefan and the refugees.

Finally collecting her wits, Idaria shouted, “What are you doing? Why did you take me?”

His voice sounding even more gruff than usual, the gargoyle answered, “My master … he tells me in head that Golgren … he needs you.”

Idaria struggled with conflicting emotions. “No! I should not get near him! That would be dangerous!”

Chasm did not look down at her. “My master … he says Golgren is dying.”

The words struck Idaria sharper than a sword. All concern of the possible danger, of falling prey to the sinister machinations of the gargoyle king, all melted away. Golgren was dying.

A ray of hope filled her. “I may … I may be able to help.” She did not have the medallion, but surely Habbakuk would hear her appeal nonetheless. Surely Habbakuk would help her somehow. “If we do not arrive too late.”

“Will not,” assured the winged creature.

Idaria spoke no more. Stefan would guide her people to freedom. All that mattered was reaching Golgren …

Nothing else.

“My lady?”

Stefan searched the area of the pool, even though he had already done so twice. The elves with whom he had spoken had insisted they had last seen her in that area. The knight knew Idaria well enough that he did not think that she would go wandering off into the forest, at least not without good reason.

Clutching the medallion in one hand and keeping his sword ready in the other, Stefan finally took a few steps deeper into the dank forest. The refugees did not know that their chief benefactor was missing, and Stefan didn’t care to inform them. If they found out she was gone, there might be mass hysteria.

As he walked, Stefan prayed to his patron for guidance. As a Solamnic Knight, he was not one to ask for aid at the slightest inconvenience, only when absolutely necessary. If there was any clue, however remote, to Idaria’s disappearance, he needed to find it and know it quickly.

Kiri-Jolith-who Stefan knew had many other battles to fight-responded. The medallion glowed a little brighter as the cleric turned northward. What that meant, he did not know, but he silently thanked the deity and pushed on.

The forest was still wrong there. Stefan could sense that it desired to strike out at the refugees, but something held it back.

The path grew narrower, more treacherous. Although the forest did not attack him, it tried to hinder his progress. Stefan impatiently chopped away at tangling branches and roots. All the while, the medallion indicated he was on the right path.

“May she be unharmed,” he prayed. “I’m already fallen; at least let her be unharmed, my lord.”

A shape in the darkness caught his searching eyes. At first, it looked as if it were pressed against a tree, but as Stefan neared, it became evident the figure was snared, branches wrapped around the body so tightly that only the outline could be discerned. If not for the medallion, the knight would not have noticed it.

“Have no fear, my lady!” The Solamnic moved in, expertly slashing at the branches, thinking of nothing but freeing the elf.

The tangling branches fell in pieces; a moment later, their captive, finally released, also fell. Ragged breathing informed Stefan that he had found the tree’s prisoner still in time.

But the one that the knight had rescued was not Idaria.

It was a badly beaten and scratched Chasm.