The Gargoyle King

II

Wargroch was having second thoughts. The brawny warrior from the dry hill region of Blode, the southernmost of the two ogre realms, had journeyed from his distant village to Garantha, capital of the half-breed’s land of Kern, to serve the same master attended by his two brothers in times past.

But those two brothers, Nagroch and Belgroch, had died for their loyalty. One, Wargroch had discovered, because he had failed to sufficiently serve his master in a certain task. Golgren himself had struck the blow that killed Nagroch. Belgroch had also perished under mysterious circumstances that had convinced the youngest brother that he, too, had been wronged by his master.

Much of that he had learned from the Titan Safrag, who had come to report to him personally. Safrag had not been leader of the sorcerers then; he was merely second apprentice to the Titans’ founder, Dauroth. He spoke of his visit to the Blodian as part of Dauroth’s campaign to see justice done-and justice in ogre terms meant the death of the guilty party. Wargroch had easily fallen into line and, being clever for an ogre, had proven himself in the eventual downfall of the half-breed.

Looking back, Wargroch was not so certain that had been the right course.

The grim ogre marched through the palace with anxiety. He was concerned that Safrag might follow another whim and transform the great edifice yet again. Such wholesale alterations strained the courage of even the most hardy warriors.

With a toadlike face and a round, stocky form, Wargroch did not resemble the Kernian ogre guards, who were taller by a few inches, had flatter features, and were more gaunt. For generation upon generation, the two realms had been at war, but the larger guards stood at attention as though Wargroch were Grand Khan himself. Indeed, for a short time, he had been master of Garantha-or rather Dai Ushran-in the name of the Titans and their puppet warlord, Atolgus.

Wargroch could not hold back a disturbed grunt. Like him, Atolgus-once a young nomadic chieftain who had been an ardent supporter of Golgren’s-had participated in the half-breed’s downfall. However, where Wargroch had harbored a desire for vengeance from the beginning, Atolgus had been seduced into his traitorousness by the female Titan, Morgada. She could make him do anything she desired, including slaughter his unsuspecting family and followers in their sleep as proof of his adoration for her.

For his reward, Atolgus not only served as the sorcerers’ hound, but he had already become kindred to them. He did not wield spells yet, but he had grown taller and more handsome in the manner of the Titans. His skin even had a hint of blue to it. All that was part of a gradual change that Safrag appeared to be causing as part of a personal experiment meant more to amuse the Titan leader than because it bore any ultimate purpose.

Such a transformation should not have bothered Wargroch since the Titans had promised that all ogres would become part of the new, beautiful, and powerful race, yet seeing Atolgus and what he was becoming made the Blodian question whether such a future was desirable. Atolgus was a fanatical servant of those who considered themselves above the rest of their kind. Not for a moment did Wargroch believe that would change, ever. The Titans would always be the supreme masters, and with the artifact they wielded, those like Wargroch would exist only to obey.

A savage hiss and a burst of hot breath stirred him from his darkening thoughts. A chained meredrake snapped at the ogre commander as he passed. The brooding guard who controlled the huge lizard eyed Wargroch with less respect than his predecessors.

Wargroch realized he had reached his destination, the throne room. He straightened and stared the guard in the eyes.

After a moment, the other ogre tugged hard on the chain, forcing the massive beast back. The meredrake was sandy brown with hints of green here and there, and the creature was approximately the height of a newborn foal. The adult reptiles tended to grow to the size of a mature horse. Ogres used the beasts for guard duty and battle.

Despite being brought under tight control, the meredrake still made one half-hearted snap at Wargroch. With teeth already as long as his small finger and claws three times that size, the creature could have ripped him apart with ease. Wargroch was thankful that neither the Titans nor their puppet knew of his ruminations.

He hesitated. Perhaps that was why he had been summoned to the warlord.

His expression revealing nothing as he stepped up to the two golden doors that, after the latest transformation, led to the throne room. On each of the arched doors was posed a magnificent, robed figure with arms upraised, wearing an expression like that of some beatific god. It was a Titan, naturally, and Safrag in particular. That was the one constant thus far in the series of unsettling renovations of the capital. Safrag always reminded his people that he was the hand that actually held the power. Even the other sorcerers bowed to him.

The guard with the meredrake made no move to open the way for him. With a grunt, Wargroch reached for one of the doors.

Both swung inward with no sign of anyone pulling them from the other side.

The Blodian paused again. Despite all the magic and sorcery he had witnessed, as an ogre, he had an inherent distrust of even minor spells. The fact that such forces were bestowed on a lone guard was an intimidating reminder of the power of the new masters.

Wargroch’s misgivings mounted but there was no turning back. During the final takeover of Garantha, he had betrayed and assassinated Khleeg, Golgren’s second-in-command, and that alone meant he was bound to the Titans. Khleeg’s stunned face, resembling his own since both were Blodians, haunted Wargroch at night.

The chamber was lined by curling columns that resembled flowing water. The room itself was golden, with crimson accents at the edges. An unearthly glow illuminated Wargroch’s surroundings, yet one with no discernible source. Rather than the smell of sweating ogres and hungry meredrakes, the soft scent of some herb wafted through the air. Titans did not tolerate the inherent odors of their people.

Five guards flanked the chamber. The colors and illumination played off their shining breastplates, giving the armed ogres a supernatural aura.

“Welcome, Wargroch,” said a voice speaking not Ogre, but perfect Common, the language used among the other, more “civilized” races for most dealings.

He went down on one knee. “Atolgus summons! Wargroch comes!”

Intent as he had been on other things, including the protection of his own hide, the Blodian had not yet looked directly at Atolgus. It was far more important to show homage by gazing at the floor as he bent down onto his knee.

Wargroch looked and gasped.

Atolgus was taller yet, a good foot taller than just the other day. Moreover, his features had become less ogre and more Titan. However, that was not the most startling development.

His eyes were not only gold, but they were without pupils.

There was no trace of the old Atolgus anymore. His face looked like that of some unique elf. He did not yet resemble a Titan, but surely that was only a matter of time.

The Titans’ warlord sat upon a throne that resembled a great, taloned hand thrusting out from the floor. The “fingers” were spread out as if grasping at the occupant.

Atolgus grinned. When he did so, his resemblance to an elf faded and the Titan in him grew pronounced, for his teeth were nearly as sharp as those of the sorcerers.

“I am growing more like her every day!” he declared gleefully to the Blodian. “Soon we will be equals.”

The former chieftain’s obsession with Morgada had grown with his constant physical change. Atolgus, though, could not see what was obvious to Wargroch: that he would never be more than a pawn to her.

So the Blodian said nothing. He desired to keep his head on his shoulders at all costs, and saying anything unpleasant to Atolgus or disagreeing with the warlord would not be prudent.

“The gifts of the Titans are truly astounding,” Wargroch finally uttered, for he knew that Atolgus expected his agreement. He knew Common as well as Atolgus did, for both had been granted that ability by the sorcerers. However, in Wargroch’s case, the Blodian had already achieved a fair grasp of the language before Safrag’s rise to power because it was widely known that Golgren favored those who could better speak the language. Safrag had merely enhanced the warrior’s skill.

Common was used instead of Ogre for a different reason than the one initially decreed by the half-breed, however. The Titans cared even less for the barking, grunting language of their people, a poor shade of the elegant communication skills of ancient times. Better to hear Common than that babble. Besides, when all were transformed into the new race, it would be the glorious tongue of the Titans they spoke … or rather sang.

Wargroch grunted. Perhaps that was why he had been summoned. Perhaps the time was finally approaching.

Instead, Atolgus said, “The Shok G’Ran. The Titans would know of them.”

It was all that the Blodian could do to maintain an indifferent expression. “What would they know from Wargroch?”

Atolgus rose. He still wore the cloth, metal-tipped kilt of a warrior, but he had disposed of the shining breastplate first given to him in service to Golgren. It simply no longer fit. Wargroch wore his full uniform plus a helmet clamped on his squat head.

The warlord reached to his left side and drew a long, well-crafted sword with gems in the hilt. The weapon had once belonged to Golgren, who had gifted it to Wargroch after the warrior had proven his loyalty to the half-breed. Wargroch, in turn, had given it to Atolgus upon the triumph of the capital’s takeover. In fact, the blade that the Blodian wore at his side had been awarded to him in exchange by the imposing Atolgus.

“They would know from the general of my armies if he would choose to be warlord of Solamnia.”

The suggestion was so unexpected that Wargroch could only gape. Warlord of Solamnia?

Golgren’s sword was extended upward in Atolgus’s hands. Wargroch slowly moved forward. Yet it was not death that Atolgus offered to him; it was a role as astounding to Wargroch as the power Safrag wielded in the crystalline artifact.

“We are to eclipse our ancestors, the High Ogres, Wargroch. We are to offer the golden age not to merely our own kind, but to also the lesser races.”

“To all?” Wargroch managed to gasp as he knelt again, that time under the raised weapon.

The warlord cut the air just above the Blodian’s head then brought the tip to Wargroch’s left cheek, touching just enough to draw a single drop of blood from the flesh. It was an ancient ogre anointing ritual. Wargroch had just been promoted, his loyalty to Atolgus and the Titans marked by the drop of blood.

“It will be offered to all-humans, dwarves, Uruv Suurt, and even elves. They will know the great wonder of Titan rule.”

Titan rule. Not ogre or High Ogre rule. Wargroch noted that distinction.

“And they will all be made new?”

“As she and Safrag see fit.” Atolgus lowered the tip of the crimson-touched blade to Wargroch’s mouth.

Wargroch kissed the bloodied area, the traditional gesture of acceptance and gratitude for the tremendous honor his superior had granted him. Atolgus then sheathed the sword. He reached out and seized the other ogre by the shoulders, raising Wargroch up again.

And as Atolgus’s fingers clutched him, the Blodian felt the coarse fur on his body tremble and spark as though some terrible lightning storm swept through the chamber.

“This is the first of many rewards, loyal Wargroch. She promises that.”

Atolgus’s Titan eyes glowed.

To his credit, Wargroch did not flinch, buth rather steeled himself. When Atolgus released him, the Blodian did not even exhale in relief. He pounded his fist against his chest in formal salute.

“How soon?” he rumbled, referring to the action he was supposed to take against Solamnia.

“Very soon,” was all Atolgus would reply.

The future warlord nodded. Keeping his head low and his fist on his chest, he backed out of the chamber. Under his thick brow, his gaze remained on Atolgus. The warlord had once more seated himself with a gaze of longing and devotion. If there was nothing physically left of the chieftain he once knew, Wargroch saw that there was also very little remaining of that which had been Atolgus’s old spirit. What sat on the throne was entirely subservient to the desires of the female Titan.

The doors shut of their own accord again. Wargroch straightened. He gave the guard handling the meredrake a sharp look, and the other ogre showed more respect. With the doors open, the guard had heard of Wargroch’s impending glory. Like Atolgus, Wargroch was clearly favored by the Titans.

Paying the guard no further mind, the Blodian strode on as if headed to another important meeting. Instead, though, his mind raced. Two things bothered Wargroch, indeed warred within him. One was the honor the sorcerers had bestowed upon him through the changed and changing Atolgus. He was to be ruler of all Solamnia. He was to have a rank almost as great as Atolgus himself.

The hardened warrior finally shivered. An image of himself as Atolgus, as Atolgus had become, disturbed him and would not leave his thoughts.

But while the possible promise of his own transformation set Wargroch ill at ease, it was further compounded by a second concern, concern over a pouch delivered by messenger to Golgren just prior to the seizure of Garantha. Golgren had been absent, so Wargroch, left to guard the capital, had naturally taken the message from the ogre courier.

And though it would have made sense for Wargroch to turn the pouch over to Atolgus or the Titans, he had, for some inexplicable reason, kept it to himself, burying it in a safe place just beyond the city walls. Considering the Titans’ constant alteration of the capital, that choice was fortunate.

The only other soul who knew of its existence-the original courier-would not betray him. Wargroch had taken it upon himself to kill that ogre. He had decided to keep the pouch’s existence a secret. At the time, he had not known why he had acted so out of character, merely that he felt impelled.

It was a decision that, if discovered, would mean an awful fate for him. Wargroch had fought bravely in many a battle and slain many a foe, but he had placed his fate in the contents of a pouch that had, though he had not realized it immediately, planted the first seed of the doubts that assailed him constantly.

It was a pouch with Solamnic markings.