The Gargoyle King

I

Golgren clutched at the harsh, black rock with his lone hand, climbing as nimbly as most others would with two appendages. The re-creation of his right hand through the power of the Fire Rose had not lasted long enough for him to forget the training he had gone through to survive with just the left. The half-breed still had questions regarding Sarth’s reasons for removing the new limb, the ancient ogre shaman having uttered that “to possess is not to own” and that “the gifts of gods must always be questioned … to see if they are gifts at all.”

He had even more questions concerning the withered figure. They included not only Sarth’s unexpected appearance in the middle of those forsaken mountains near the Vale of Vipers-far southeast of the capital-but also his equally mysterious vanishing after freeing Golgren and the healing of the half-breed’s foul stab wound.

There was far more to the shaman than Golgren had ever suspected, but Sarth was not a worry. Thus far, he had shown himself to be an ally.

The half-ogre bared his teeth at the thought of the fate intended for him by Safrag. After their struggle for the Fire Rose, the Titan leader had left him encased in some crystalline substance so Golgren would become a monument to his own failure. If not for Sarth, again, it was likely that Golgren would have fulfilled that role quite permanently.

Shadows from a greater mountain covered Golgren as he reached the top of the low peak he had been ascending for most of the day. The relative coolness the shadows offered did not soothe the half-breed. His efforts thus far had yielded too little. Golgren bared his teeth, an act that evoked the brutish side of his background even more than usual, despite the fact that he had long before honed his tusks down to nearly invisible nubs.

Still, no one would have mistaken him for a true ogre, not when he stood only seven feet tall as compared to the average nine feet, and also, he was far slimmer of build. Golgren looked more like the elves of Silvanost, from which his mother had sprung. Yet despite a rough handsomeness and features that also inclined toward that other race, no elf would have accepted him as one of their own, especially as he was one of those most instrumental in the fall of the elven realm.

Golgren impatiently brushed back the thick, sweat-drenched mane of dark hair that he generally kept washed and brushed to conform with the elf side of his lineage. With almond-shaped eyes of a penetrating emerald-green, the deposed Grand Khan peered down into the valley ahead, surveying the dark rock, the few withered weeds, the parched landscape. A slight grunt was the only sound that gave hint to his frustrations. He had seen that valley before. He had traversed it only the day before.

Golgren was not merely traveling in circles; some magical force was purposely turning him away from his ultimate goal.

He stood there, considering his choices. A bedraggled ruler, he was. Gone was his shiny armor. Only the dusty kilt with the metal tips remained. His sandals were worn, almost useless. He was naked from the waist up, the remnants of his garments long discarded. For weapons, he had only his hand and his wits. They had served him well in the past, and they would serve him well again if he ever managed to reach his destination.

Exactly what his destination was, Golgren could not say. He knew only two things. The gargoyles had descended to that place ahead of him, the gargoyles who had watched and harassed him for months. Their mysterious master was surely there, waiting. Even more than the Titans, Golgren desired a confrontation with the shadowy figure.

And the second thing he knew and knew well was that Idaria would also be there.

She was an elf slave, his personal slave. She obeyed his commands and served him as no other could or would. Yet she was an elf and, thus, expendable. There had been others before her. They had proven expendable. Idaria Oakborn was no different.

Yet she was as much the reason for his determination as anything else.

With nightfall less than two hours away-and the shadows of the higher peaks bringing darkness long before that-Golgren began his descent into the valley. He had survived thus far on small lizards and rodents that he had caught and eaten raw-the trappings of civilization easily tossed aside under the circumstances-but he was almost dying of thirst. He had had only a small trickle of water since the night before. However, if it was the same valley, he knew where he could at least locate that water source.

Sure enough, just as the growing shadows enshrouded his surroundings, the half-breed found the tiny spring. Even then, Golgren did not stumble madly toward it. Instead, he approached it with the caution of the predator stalking his prey while wary of other threats as well. He sniffed the air but found only the fresh scent of the spring.

The trickle of water sounded like a rushing river to him. Golgren bent low to drink, his gaze ever searching elsewhere.

The ji-baraki rose up from the ground as if blossoming there. Its rough-hewn, scaly back had enabled it, when lying flat, to blend into the rocky, uneven ridge. The reptile stood on two hind legs designed to enable it to run at swift speeds; the forelegs were wielded as weapons, a pair of paws with long, sharp claws. The long muzzle was also full of daggerlike teeth designed to rip into the tough hides of tasty meals. Ji-baraki ate just about anything that had flesh to it, including carrion.

No ji-baraki was going to pass up the sort of sumptuous meal Golgren offered. Standing nearly as tall as the half-breed, the reptile slashed out with its claws. The attack was a feint, though, designed to distract Golgren from the true threat.

The second ji-baraki lunged from behind the half-breed, snapping at his neck. However, as the toothy maw shot forward, Golgren turned halfway. His right arm wrapped around the long neck of the beast as his left seized the head of his attacker. The fetid breath of the carnivore filled his nostrils.

With a strength that his lithe form belied, he gave the head a twist. The snapping of the ji-baraki’s neck echoed through the valley. Saliva and blood dripped over the half-breed’s chest.

Golgren threw the already dead reptile forward, using it as a shield against the first. Born battling to survive, the deposed Grand Khan had made a thorough study of his potential enemies, be they beasts or otherwise. There was little that Golgren could thank his ogre father for, but learning the treacherous behavior of the ji-baraki many years past was one of them. There was never just one of the monsters around; they hunted either in mated pairs or in packs, and one always distracted the prey for the other.

Fortunately for Golgren, he faced only a mated pair. In those dank environs, he had calculated that would be the case. The area could not support packs of the ji-baraki, especially with such a large flock of gargoyles also hovering nearby.

The surviving reptile hissed furiously at him as it struggled past its dead mate. Golgren was aware that he could not outrun a ji-baraki. However, escape was not what he had in mind.

He scooped up a rock. The piece was just small enough to fit into his palm. As a weapon, it looked highly inadequate for bashing against the hard skull of a ji-baraki, but that, too, was not what Golgren had in mind.

The second reptile dived for the half-breed. Its mouth opened wide.

Golgren turned on the savage beast and thrust his fingers forward. His timing had to be precise, otherwise he would be without both hands.

He jammed the stone into the ji-baraki’s maw then pulled his spittle-soaked hand away. The startled reptile shut its yap but too late. Still, the close call left jagged, red cuts along Golgren’s wrist and hand.

The ji-baraki hacked and coughed, seeking desperately to dislodge the stone. However, its prey had shoved hard, and the stone was deep in its throat. The reptile rocked back and forth furiously.

Golgren was not willing to rely on the stone alone, though. He observed the ji-baraki for a moment then maneuvered around toward the struggling beast’s back.

The half-breed leaped onto the reptile, wrapping his maimed arm just under the ji-baraki’s jaw. His lone hand locked onto the ruined limb. Golgren pulled back as hard as he could, using his full weight.

The monstrous reptile’s head bent back. It was not enough to break the neck, but the angle made impossible the ji-baraki’s attempts to shake loose the stone.

The scaly hunter spun in a circle as it reacted to the new threat. It staggered, the obstruction in its windpipe at last taking its toll.

Claws sought to scrape at Golgren but to no avail. The ji-baraki’s upper limbs were not designed to reach that far back.

The toothy beast fell forward. As it landed, it rolled onto its side.

Golgren released his grip. The ji-baraki, too weak to rise, flailed around on the ground, its wild throes almost succeeding in knocking the half-breed over.

Finally exhausted, the reptile could do nothing more than hack pitiably. Golgren came up behind the head of the creature and quickly grasped it and snapped the neck.

Taking a deep breath, Golgren returned to the water. Without a glance back at the two dead predators, he drank his fill. The presence of the ji-baraki precluded any other fearsome beasts nearby, save perhaps gargoyles.

His thirst finally sated, Golgren stepped back from the spring.

Despite the dark, something caused a glittering reflection in the tiny stream of water.

Golgren looked behind him and saw nothing. Yet the silver glimmer had to have some source. With renewed wariness, the deposed Grand Khan studied the surrounding area again. At the same time, he returned to the nearest of the scaly corpses.

Crouching next to the dead creature, Golgren seized one of the upper limbs. With his gaze kept on his surroundings, the half-breed dug with his one hand at the base of the claws. He ripped and twisted at it, ignoring the blood and flesh on his fingers and the stench of stomach gases escaping from the limp body. Ogres survived in their harsh environs by being willing to stoop to whatever was necessary, and Golgren was no exception.

With one last rip, the talon came free. It was not much of a weapon, but it was a weapon.

There was still no hint of the glimmer’s source, but Golgren did not assume for a moment that it had been a figment of his imagination. The half-breed was not prone to false imaginings.

With the bloody nail gripped tightly, Golgren moved toward where his instincts impelled him. He sensed nothing but if ji-baraki could blend so well into the shadowed landscape, so, too, could other things, especially those wielding magic.

It could not be one of the Titans. Golgren was fairly certain they still thought he was a living statue. However, it could very well be that the figure he sought-the mysterious lord of the gargoyles-had come hunting for him. Golgren was eager for a confrontation with the lord of the gargoyles on his own terms.

A second silver gleam at the corner of his right eye made him whirl in that direction.

Again, there was nothing and yet …

The half-breed frowned. He felt as if he had almost but not quite glimpsed a familiar figure, the Knight of Solamnia named Stefan Rennert.

Golgren clutched his makeshift weapon tighter. Stefan Rennert, assuming that he was alive, would not play games of hide and seek with him. The Solamnic was a man of unshakable honor who had first come to the half-breed as a prisoner; his own party, infiltrating the ogre lands, had met with disaster. If he were there, he would have stood in the open and faced Golgren.

Yet the former Grand Khan could not shake the feeling that it had been the knight whom he had glimpsed. He stepped toward the spot then, still seeing nothing, looked left and right.

And as he turned to the right, he saw a crooked gap between the mountains that he could not recall having seen before.

The half-breed bared his teeth in a humorless smile then strode forward. The gap seemed to spread wider as he entered it, and ahead he saw the darkened outline of a vast, jagged mountain. The mountain spread to each side as Golgren continued forward until it filled his gaze as nothing else had.

Yet it was not the mountain itself that seized his attention as much as something high above on the slope facing him. At first, Golgren was not entirely certain that what he saw was real. It was so much a part of the high, murky peak that he had to focus hard to make out the barest details.

Then he realized he had stumbled upon the sanctum of the gargoyles’ master.

The sinister citadel appeared to have been carved from the very rock. Its outward walls still bore the roughness of the mountain’s skin. There were two extremely narrow towers, one on each side. The towers were topped by long points that reminded Golgren of great teeth. Something had once been carved across much of the structure, but time had eroded it, and it was no longer legible. As he squinted, the half-breed also noted a lone triangular window on each tower and two side-by-side on the main body.

However, there was no sign of any normal entrance. In fact, Golgren could see no route by which to ascend to the mysterious edifice, which was what he greatly desired.

With renewed anticipation, Golgren wended his way toward the mountain castle. He was not averse to climbing a great height to reach his goal, even with only the one hand. He had conquered far worse. That his adversary likely watched and waited also did not bother the half-breed; the overconfidence of his enemies had more than once played well into Golgren’s plans.

A chill wind howled through the area. The only other sound was that of occasional falling rocks. Golgren paid great attention to the latter; avalanches were not uncommon in such places. He had already witnessed one. Golgren also noted that the wind had brought with it a heavy, musky scent that matched that of the gargoyles. If there had been any doubt that that was where they lurked, it was forgotten.

The citadel seemed to rise higher as he drew near the mountain. The slope was harsh, almost completely vertical. It would be possible to climb but at tremendous risk.

There came a long, mournful wail. Golgren glanced up but it was only the wind again. Otherwise, all was still quiet. The citadel remained as dark as the shadows swallowing it. To the naked eye it looked abandoned.

He thrust the claw into his tunic and started to climb.

Despite only one hand, Golgren pulled himself up at a steady pace. Sharp eyes sought out the best handholds and places where he would have good footing. The elf part of his blood made him more nimble, more capable of locating a way up, than a much bulkier ogre could have done.

At one point, his footing faltered. Golgren clutched the rock tightly, certain he was going to drop.

Something seemed to stop and hold him, though, enabling him to readjust. He felt as if strong arms had kept him safe. He also felt as if metal pressed against his body, metal such as the armor a warrior might wear.

Yet the sensation quickly passed, and though Golgren looked over his shoulder, he was not at all surprised to find nothing there. A creature would have needed wings to be close behind him, and there was no sign whatsoever of a single gargoyle.

That in itself was significant. There should have been many, many of the leathery beasts about. Their odor was strong.

The citadel drew within range, though the windows still remained well out of reach. Golgren found a slight ledge and paused to take a breath.

Suddenly he no longer stood alone. A golden-maned figure in dark brown robes and hood materialized next to him. Although human in appearance, the figure stood nearly as tall as the half-breed, and his shoulders were much broader. Indeed, though obviously a spellcaster, the newcomer had the build of a powerful warrior. His features had a leonine touch to them, and at that moment, they were set in an expression of utter frustration.

“Hold tight!” Tyranos immediately roared.

No sooner had he spoken than from above came familiar cries. Gargoyles by the scores shot out of the windows. The shadowed forms were nearly as big as either of the two clinging to the ledge. They beat their leathery wings hard and opened wide their beaked maws as they descended toward the duo.

Tyranos thrust out his hand, in which he held a short staff whose head was a five-sided crystal the size of a fist. There were runes etched on the wood. The crystal glowed silver. The spellcaster muttered.

“No,” Golgren whispered.

But it was too late. The pair vanished from the ledge only to reappear at the base of the mountain a moment later.

“What by the Kraken?” Tyranos snorted angrily. “This isn’t where I wanted to bring us!”

“Return me to the ledge,” Golgren commanded.

The gargoyles, gathered in greater number, were nearly upon them. Tyranos’s leonine face turned angrier yet.

“We’ll just see if you know all my tricks!” he growled in the direction of the citadel. He quickly drew a circle before the two of them.

A hole opened up. Golgren sought to step away, but a terrible suction seized hold of him. He saw the same was happening to his companion.

Grinning, the wizard roared, “Ha! Here we go!”

A cry rose from just above Golgren. The first of the gargoyles was nearly upon them, its taloned paws grasping for the half-breed.

Golgren stretched his hand toward the gargoyle … and was sucked into the hole.

Idaria Oakborn witnessed Golgren’s vanishing, although she had neither watched from outside the dire citadel nor peered from one of its gaping windows. Instead, the elf slave had stood frozen deep within the confines of the citadel in what had once possibly been a throne room. All around there were cracked and ruined statues of a race whose ancient beauty made her feel shabby and as grotesque as her ogre captors. A crumbling spiral staircase led to one of the twin towers. Ancient reliefs worn away by time or covered with immense webs adorned the walls.

The pungent stench of generations of gargoyles made the dusty air even more stifling.

Then there was the throne itself, a high-backed, stone chair with three jutting points at the top, in which the master of the gargoyle legions that roosted there sat, gazing, like her, at where Golgren had stood before he vanished.

The sphere floating before them stood as tall as an ogre. In it, Idaria watched the gargoyles that had been sent to seize the half-breed, at the very moment that the wizard Tyranos had materialized next to him. The creatures looked both furious and fearful; they knew their master might punish them for their failures and they rightfully dreaded his wrath.

But instead of anger, amusement seemed to fill the gargoyle king’s mood, despite the loss of his prey. The low laugh coming from him sent chills through Idaria but not merely for herself. She worried for Golgren; she was an elf fearing for the life of an ogre-or, at least, a half-ogre. She was also concerned for Tyranos-despite the distrust between them-and for his faithful servant, Chasm, a prisoner there like herself.

There had been another prisoner among them, the Solamnic Knight Stefan Rennert, but for him Idaria could only mourn. He lay dead in the citadel, slain foully as he had come to her defense; and then he had been disposed of like so much refuse.

Moving like a wisp of wind, the gaunt figure rose from the time-scarred throne. He appeared more ghost than living, his gray and black robes drifting as if the lower half of his form were nonexistent. A deep hood covered most of his head, and a golden cloth was wrapped tightly across the face, obscuring all but the two long, oval eyes as white as ice … or death.

My Idaria … came his words in her mind, his tone mocking, as he aped the endearment of Golgren. Have you enjoyed the little spectacle? Do you draw any conclusions from it?

She did not reply. During the short time of her captivity, the elf had already seen that her captor had a propensity for twisting matters to satisfy his desires. Whatever her words, they would come back to haunt her somehow.

The hooded form drifted nearer. A pale, almost fleshless hand stretched out to stroke her long, silver tresses. Idaria looked as if she had only recently come into womanhood, but looks deceived where elves were concerned. She was much older in mortal terms, being more than twice the age of the Grand Lord Golgren. That had made her think herself the wiser one when she had entered his life. What a fool she was, Idaria had discovered.

He is thoroughly under your spell… continued the gargoyles’ master. And perhaps you a bit under his.

She said nothing, continuing to stare at the scene of many winged forms desperately scouring the area for the half-breed. However, knowing Tyranos as she did, Idaria was certain that they were far from the vicinity.

And far away from her.

The hand moved from her hair to cup her chin.

So well I chose, finding the perfect ivory skin, the slight nose and red lips and crystalline blue eyes to mask the blind obsession within.

Idaria wanted to pull away, but could only stand there, frozen in the remnants of her low-cut green gown-Golgren’s favored garment for his slave-as though she were one of the statues or worse. She had only the ability to speak and move her eyes.

Yet while Idaria had nothing to say to her captor, she spoke volumes to herself, silently berating herself. She had truly been that creature’s pawn, falling prey to his guise as a Nerakan officer, a leader among the black knights whose hostile domain bordered part of the ogre realms. So determined had the elf been to free her people, no matter what the cost might be to her, that she had agreed to volunteer for slavery and degradation. In return for acting as a spy for Neraka, she had been promised that the knights would guide the elf slaves to freedom once they gained the advantage to seize the ogre capital.

In retrospect, Idaria had recognized many flaws in the plan, flaws that from the very beginning she should have understood. But the elf knew in hindsight that she had been played, just as Golgren had been played. She had been chosen to make the half-breed malleable for the fiend’s plots, and she had performed exactly as her puppet master wished.

She sensed other forms shuffling behind her. One crept into the edge of her vision. The ghoulish figure stood taller than she, though not quite as tall as Golgren. It was clad in the time-ravaged remnants of a once-regal robe whose original color could not be identified because it was so faded. Bits of decorative and possibly magical jewelry still adorned the skeletal hands and the barely shrouded chest. Straggled pieces of hair hung limply from the skull. There was only a veneer of parchment skin covering the face. The scent of death was well upon the cadaverous creature.

Yet it was not dead.

Idaria had believed otherwise when she, Stefan Rennert, and Tyranos’s gargoyle servant had been attacked. The knight’s sword had shattered some, even; but the bones merely pulled back together, as had happened with the army of skeletons-f’hanos-that had attacked the ogre capital some time back. She had looked into the eye sockets of those who seized her and realized the awful truth. Those beings did indeed live, if by a definition of that term that Idaria had never before imagined.

Their presence nearby chilled her, although it was not as bad as that of their leader. She had suspicions concerning exactly what the strange creatures were, yet she could not fathom how they could have come to such a monstrous state. Clearly, though, her captor had been deeply involved in their creation.

And there were plenty of genuine undead around her too. Several rotting gargoyles kept watch on her from a staircase nearby. Even in death, the creatures were subservient to the masked form. The undead who had attacked Garantha likewise must have been part of the plot of the gargoyles’ lord.

Only recently had Idaria come to understand what he was after. Like the Titans and Golgren, he sought the glistening crystalline artifact whose shape and burning energies gave it the name of Fire Rose. He had told the macabre throng of living corpses that, with the help of that artifact, he would “set the world right.” What he might do with the Fire Rose, the elf could only guess, and those guesses filled her with great fear. She had witnessed the Fire Rose transform landscapes, change the shapes of creatures, play tricks with time, and much more.

That it had such abilities was not so surprising, though. It was the creation of Sirrion, god of fire and alchemy, and the artifact embodied attributes of both those elements. Legend said that the Fire Rose had been given to the last of the High Ogres when they had pleaded for something to help them save their kind from its descent into the beasts that they were. Yet in the end, its magic had done far more harm than good, and the powerful artifact had been hidden away by a few stalwart survivors, keepers of its secrets but no longer.

As the icy eyes of her worst nightmare stared unblinkingly at her, suddenly Idaria wondered if her captor had been reading every thought she had just formed. The elf forced her gaze away, which only brought another chuckle from the shadowy figure.

The pale hand pulled back into the recesses of his robe. The gargoyles’ master looked to the image again, where his pets continued to seek Golgren, continued seeking in vain.

Return, he commanded and the gargoyles suddenly swooped upward. As many as were manifest in the vision, Idaria knew that countless more awaited the master’s every command.

But she took heart in the fact that, despite so many weapons at his command, her captor had failed to capture Golgren. There was hope yet.

Do you think so? the hooded form suddenly asked in her head, verifying that he did share her thoughts. All goes as it should, my Idaria.

He chuckled again, clearly enjoying her distaste at those two words. My Idaria. Each time he called her so, it sounded exactly like Golgren. The Grand Khan always spoke of her possessively, but he also gave those words a rare devotion.

The gargoyle king made a slight but mocking bow. So deep emotions still stir within you. Fret not, for soon you will be reunited with your precious master. It is the least I can do for one who has served me so excellently.

Idaria struggled to move, but again to no avail. Her fury at herself surged; she had unwittingly helped manipulate Golgren for that beast. If not for her-

If not for you, there would have been other ways, my Idaria. You were simply the most desired tool, and your manipulation was merely the culmination of a lifetime-his lifetime! You still do not understand it, do you?

More and more of the ghastly, living corpses collected around the shrouded figure. They clearly hung on his every word, as if those words were what gave them their mockery of existence.

He gestured at the vision, which revealed only the empty mountainside. There is nothing about the half-breed that is not the result of my manipulation! the shadowed form declared with more vehemence and triumph. From even before birth, from before his very conception, he was mine! How many elf and ogre breedings do you know of, my Idaria? How many?

She knew of only one, of course, only Golgren.

At that moment, if Idaria could have gasped, she would have shown her amazement.

He chuckled again to hear her thoughts, and even worse, she could sense amusement flowing through his monstrous entourage. There was surely little that gave those strange beings pleasure, but her sudden realization of what should have been obvious, of what she should have guessed long before, did amuse them.

Yes, my Idaria, the gargoyle king verified in her head. He is mine even more than yours. He has been mine since before his birth. There would be no Grand Khan Golgren but for me, for it is I who made possible the impossible.