The Gargoyle King

III

The moment that he felt solid ground beneath his feet, Golgren tore himself free from Tyranos.

“Return me to the citadel,” he demanded of the wizard in a low growl.

“That doesn’t seem like a good idea to me just now,” Tyranos returned with equal vehemence. He glanced around, also furious, but for another reason. “We’re still in the damned mountains! We should be beyond them!”

“Good.”

The brawny spellcaster snorted. “Oh, not good at all! His power’s strong here, and if he seizes you, he’ll be stronger yet!”

His comment briefly distracted Golgren from his own ire. “Speak more plainly … if you can.”

Tyranos did not look at all willing to give explanations. “First we leave; then we talk.”

The crystal on the staff glowed. Tyranos reached for the half-breed.

Golgren dodged him. The deposed Grand Khan readied himself to fight hand to hand with the human, aware that Tyranos was one person who might be wily and strong enough to defeat him.

“This is hardly the place for this foolery!” the hooded wizard snapped. He pointed the crystal at Golgren.

The half-breed started to move but halted as he caught sight of a figure who had materialized beyond Tyranos. The armor alone, with its silver sheen and intricate sword symbol on the breastplate, would have been enough to identify the newcomer even if the face of the figure were not somehow visible despite the gloom. The proud face with the short beard running around the chin and jaws was uncommon among Solamnics, who tended toward thick mustaches. There was only one Knight of Solamnia whom Golgren knew who wore his facial hair in that fashion.

“Sir Stefan Rennert?” he whispered.

Tyranos faltered. He spun around and looked where his reluctant companion was staring. “Rennert?”

But there was no one standing there. Golgren’s eyes narrowed.

“That was a juvenile trick, well beneath you, oh Grand Khan,” the wizard began as he slowly turned back. However, upon noting Golgren’s bewildered expression, Tyranos paused. “Or was it?”

Golgren stepped past Tyranos to better see where the knight had supposedly been standing. However, it was exceedingly obvious that no one was there.

“You’re not one to imagine things,” the spellcaster went on. “And that cleric does have a tendency to pop up when least expected.”

“Cleric?”

“Ah, that’s right! You don’t know. Our friend became a cleric of the bison-headed one.”

That made Golgren’s eyes narrow further. “Kiri-Jolith?”

The robed figure chuckled. “I see we share one thing in common, a particular distaste for meddling gods.” Tyranos paused. “Speaking of which, have you come across a more fiery one of late?”

“I have.”

The bluntness of the statement caused Tyranos to grimace. “Then it more than ever behooves us to leave this wretched place-”

“No.”

“Golgren-”

Suddenly the half-breed darted past the wizard. Golgren recognized enough shadowy landmarks to know in which direction the citadel lay.

Tyranos materialized in front of him. The spellcaster sounded exhausted but determined. “We are leaving.”

The two grappled.

The staff flared.

“What by the Kraken?” Tyranos barked, involuntarily letting Golgren know that it was no action of his.

The pair vanished again and materialized a breath later in a place that the half-breed had never expected to see again.

The eight desiccated figures sat around the long, wide table in the exact same poses in which Golgren had last observed them. Standing, each would have been about the height of the half-breed. They were evenly divided between male and female, not that the differences mattered much anymore, not after so many centuries dead. All were clad in dust-covered rags merely hinting at the rich green and blue that they once were.

But the faded color of the ancients’ robes meant little in comparison to the obvious glint of gold remaining on the dried skin still wrapped tightly about their skulls. Golgren already knew who the eight were-what they had been long past-but for Tyranos their appearance was a shocking revelation.

“High Ogres!” the wizard gasped, forgetting the half-breed. He pushed past Golgren to approach two of the corpses. Placing one hand on the iridescent pearl table, he leaned close to a male figure whose face still bore the remnants of a star tattoo under its right eye.

“The lost nine.”

“Except there are eight,” Golgren pointed out.

“There should be nine,” the leonine Tyranos insisted. He studied the parchment skin, stared into the empty sockets. “The writing said the nine who fled …”

Golgren momentarily lost interest in the citadel. He knew that place, that sanctum buried deep in a mountain of the chain that led to the Vale of Vipers. With Idaria, he had discovered it through an artifact-a signet ring-that Tyranos himself had bequeathed to the Grand Khan through the elf. The ring had led them along a trail through the mountains and beyond more than one magical portal to that very spot. Unfortunately at the time, they had also been pursued by dripping monstrosities and Safrag.

“The signet brought me to this place once,” Golgren informed his companion without recounting the rest of the events involved.

Tyranos looked up at him. “Did it now?” He frowned. “I brought it from the tomb of another of these.”

“The ninth, perhaps?”

“No. The death of that one came before then, but of course they must be bound in some manner to the tomb’s occupant. I remember an image of a beautiful female.”

The wizard quickly glanced at the other corpse closest to him. After a moment, he impatiently shook his head and went to the next.

At the long end of the table, Tyranos came to a halt. He stared at a withered figure. It was a female, and it still had long, flowing hair that when viewed close seemed to fluctuate between gold and silver. The long tresses draped well over her shoulders. Even after centuries, there was enough of her small nose, the curve of her cheekbones, to give some hint of what had once been an astoundingly beautiful face.

“This was her. I know it though I could never recall her beauty perfectly. Yet this was her. She was their leader.”

The half-breed’s brow furrowed. He indicated the male seated at the other end. Seven of the figures, including the female of whom Tyranos had been speaking, sat almost peaceably, as though they had simply passed away in their sleep.

The same could not be said of the male, however. His expression was contorted, enraged, and a bit fearful.

“What of him? Is he not the leader?”

“Ogre prejudices against female rulers aside, while he was likely second among them, she would have been first.” Tyranos gazed off into the empty air. “I know her. I’ve seen her.”

That information only slightly clouded Golgren’s previously conceived notions about the eight bodies. “It’s obvious he suffered his death differently than the others.”

“And he’s also facing the direction from which I would guess someone might enter this place. Am I correct?” When Golgren nodded, Tyranos explained, “He saw their doom coming. The others perished utterly ignorant of it. A simple reasoning.”

“Yet he knew who it was who brought their deaths,” the half-ogre added.

“Hmm? How do you mean?”

“It is in his face. He knew who was coming to slay and the betrayal involved.”

Tyranos moved over to the High Ogre and peered at the macabre expression on the dead one’s face. “Be damned if I can see that, but it makes some sense, I suppose.” He rubbed his square jaw. “The ninth, perhaps?”

While the wizard’s suggestion also made sense, Golgren shook his head. “I do not think so.”

“Oh? And what makes you say that?”

Golgren only shrugged, not as fascinated by the subject as Tyranos. He surveyed the chamber, eyeing the runes upon the wall, the arched ceiling. All was the same as he had last left it.

Circling the table of the dead to reach Golgren, the wizard remarked, “I’ve never been here, but you have. Therefore, this has to do with you, as so much else does.”

“You speak in many riddles, wizard,” Golgren returned. “So much else, you say? Enlighten me, please.”

The sound of movement made both suddenly turn back to the table. The pair eyed the sinister tableau, but the cause of the sound did not reveal itself.

Pointing the staff in the general direction of the table, the spellcaster growled, “I’ll say again, oh Grand Khan, that it’s by your doing somehow that we’re here! You may not be cognizant of how you are involved, but it’s true, nevertheless!”

“I do not disagree about that.” Golgren frowned slightly. Something was different about the eight figures, he realized. Some very minor-yet it must be major-change.

He focused on the male at the one end. When Golgren had last been there, that figure was wearing a talisman adorned by the griffon symbol. Golgren had removed the talisman, putting the object in Idaria’s care. He had not been certain if the piece was valuable but thought it best not to leave it behind. When he removed the talisman, the corpse had pitched forward, the top half of its broken body sprawling on the table.

Only moments later, however, when Golgren had happened to look back at it, the figure had returned to its upright position.

It remained that way, unchanged since that incident. Yet something about it burned in Golgren’s memory.

“Just what are you doing now?”

Ignoring the wizard, Golgren took a step closer to the male corpse, studying it intently.

He realized what was different. One hand was pointing toward the opposite end of the table. That had not been the case before.

And at that end sat the female whom Tyranos had spoken of as the true leader of that desperate pack of ancient spellcasters.

There was something different in her pose, too, Golgren noticed as he stared at her. But he could not place it. He wended his way over to the second corpse, while Tyranos impatiently but silently watched.

Golgren had not paid as much mind to the female corpse as he had the male, and so it was more difficult to decide what had altered. As the wizard offered no advice or comment, Golgren knew that Tyranos had not noticed anything amiss.

He leaned with his one hand on the shimmering table as he peered closely at the face. He could see that she had been outwardly beautiful, far more so than an ogre and, yes, even Idaria.

Then something flickered in the High Ogre’s eyes.

A startled grunt escaped Golgren before he realized that he had imagined it. The eye sockets were as empty as those of her companions. Only darkness stared out from them. Only-

A beautiful pair of eyes the color of the sun met his own. They were different than those of the Titans, for in them there resided life, love, and hope, not utter arrogance and domination.

It happened so quickly and without warning that the half-breed instinctively pulled back-or tried to. Something secured his hand to the table, anchoring it there no matter how hard he tried to pull it free.

A hand barely covered in cracking skin clutched his own-her hand.

Golgren looked back into the dead one’s eyes only to discover that the sockets were dark and lifeless again.

The pressure on his hand ceased. He glanced down and discovered that the High Ogre’s hand again rested on the table, where it had been earlier.

“What happened?” Tyranos broke in from behind him. “Did you see something?”

The questions clearly indicated that the wizard had not experienced the same startling thing. Golgren bared his teeth at the mysterious corpse, and only then did he notice that there was something beneath his palm. He scooped it up.

It was a signet ring. The very same signet ring that the half-breed had last witnessed sinking into the earth during his struggles with Safrag over the Fire Rose, in the chamber where the dead High Ogres had secreted it.

There could be no mistaking the artifact. It was circular, with a rune resembling a double-bladed sword with the point down at the center. Above the weapon arced a half-circle, and below the sharp point lay a symbol that reminded Golgren of flames. However, the design alone did not tell him that was the very same signet. No, that was a sense, a feeling, that coursed through him as he gripped it. Yes, to be sure, it was the lost artifact returned to him.

To him. As Golgren savored that thought, he sensed the spellcaster approaching.

With great dexterity, Golgren manipulated the ring onto his finger just as Tyranos reached for it.

“You’ve no need of that, anymore.”

Golgren nodded toward the female High Ogre. “She believes otherwise, wizard.”

Tyranos snorted. “That thing nearly cost you your life before!”

“And saved it many times over.” The half-breed pretended to admire the artifact’s beauty. “It is a gift I will accept.”

The two stood frozen at the edge of struggle. Tyranos had the staff pointed at his supposed ally. Golgren kept the signet facing the robed figure.

With another snort, Tyranos lowered his staff. “Who am I to argue with the ancient dead and a comrade as well?” He bared his teeth in what might have passed for a grin or possibly a grimace. “And so we seem to at least find why we were drawn to here.” He studied the chamber. “And while I would cheerfully spend some time investigating what else is here, I believe we are better off leaving for somewhere far, far away, just as I planned.”

Once again, though, they were at odds. Stepping away from the spellcaster, Golgren replied, “We part here, wizard. I am going back.”

The crystal glowed brightly. “We’ll just see about that.”

The signet also abruptly glowed, the runes ablaze.

“Oh, damn-” Tyranos began.

A great, fiery light surrounded both, and they vanished once more.

She was alone; alone save for a single gargoyle watching over her. The gray-scaled creature perched in front of her, more interested in scratching its long, toothy beak with one paw than in keeping an eye on a prisoner who had no way of escaping.

The shrouded figure and its horrific companions had departed soon after the other gargoyles. Where they had gone off to, Idaria would like to know, but more important was that it was her first opportunity to gain her freedom.

She had been released from her frozen position only to be carried off by her current guard to a chamber deeper in the mountain citadel. There she had been locked in a darkened place that, to her discerning eye, had possibly once been something so simple and yet so grand as a great bedchamber. A few shreds of what appeared to have been fine draperies still hung on the edges of the windows, but that was the only definitive clue. The blackened rubble that lay collapsed in one corner no longer resembled any identifiable piece of furniture, so long had been the passage of time.

The citadel’s shadowy lord had said nothing more to her, not even when banishing the elf to that place. Whether he had thought to make her more or less comfortable was a matter of debate. She had only a few rotting furs upon which to sit, and the only light came from a small, glowing, white stone set in the ceiling. The light was just strong enough to let Idaria see that, aside from the still-useful iron door, there was no other exit. The windows overlooked the mountain heights. Stone met her gaze everywhere else.

The gargoyle in charge of her captivity was not the most powerful of the vast flock. Indeed, it was one of the least, a sign of its master’s confidence that Idaria was at his mercy. The creature began gnawing on an old amalok bone-the fearsome herd animals being the winged creatures’ most common prey-and looked extremely bored. And why not? What hope could the prisoner have of escaping?

But there was hope. Dangling just out of sight under her garments was the pendant with the griffon symbol that Golgren had placed on her. At the time, Idaria had shown none of the deep revulsion she had felt instinctively, when Golgren had taken it from the ancient corpse and hung it around her neck.

Her hair hid the chain. There had been moments at the very beginning when she had feared that her captor might notice the upper edge of the pendant peeking out, but he had not.

Idaria might have given little thought to the pendant, if not for the gentle warmth radiating from it since her capture. She recalled some of Golgren’s experiences with the signet and wondered whether his chance decision to give the pendant to her had been mere chance after all.

With casual movements, she tried to draw the pendant out without the gargoyle noticing. But despite her attempts to do so, the winged creature noticed her activity almost immediately. With a warning grunt, it half hopped, half walked to her.

So close, the carnivore’s breath, enhanced by bits of rotting meat between its yellowed teeth, was potent. One paw grasped the hand holding the pendant. The artifact came loose, falling against her breast. As it touched her skin, the warmth increased, and to Idaria’s surprise, a faint, blue glow radiated from the griffon symbol.

However, instead of growing suspicious, the gargoyle cocked its head and stared in fascination at the pendant.

Idaria quickly seized on its reaction. “Is it not pretty? Do you like it?”

The gargoyle nodded.

“What is your name?”

The creature leaned back, looking not so much angry as frustrated. “No name.”

The voice was deep, definitely male. Often, because of their similar builds, it was impossible to tell if some gargoyles were male or female. The only sure way in such cases was to get much too close or listen to the timbre of the voice.

With the identification of the gargoyle’s gender, it became a he. That was to Idaria’s advantage.

“No name?” she innocently asked, aware of why a gargoyle would not have a name. It showed that one had a very low rank in the flock. Gargoyles were limited in their use of names. Only when one of the elder ones passed away was a name made available to those existing without one.“No name.”

She thought for a moment. Somewhere far in the past, the creatures had learned enough Common to take upon themselves names that reflected their primitive civilization. Chasm was an example, though in his case he had likely been named by Tyranos, who had raised him. Gargoyles that lived in the mountains most often chose names that indicated stone or geological features.

“I shall call you Stratum,” the elf slave finally decided. “It is what we call a layer of rock.” It was the first word that she could think of that might work for the gargoyle and that also was likely not to be already used among his kind.

“Sssstratumm … Stratum …”

She did not have to see how his eyes widened in pleasure, for his voice alone readily revealed how he felt about his christening. The gargoyle began to hop up and down, repeatedly calling out his new identity. Dust clouds rose with each hop as he crowed, “Stratum! Stratum is me! Me is Stratum!”

Before Idaria could prepare herself, the gargoyle wrapped her in his thick arms and hugged her. The elf struggled to breathe, pretending she felt no pain.

Stratum finally released her. Only then did Idaria realize that she had given him far more than she had even intended. It had been her hope that finding a name for the gargoyle would make him feel somewhat more friendly toward her. The elf saw that the thing almost felt like her slave, so grateful was he.

And all that for a single word, a marking of self, she thought.

Yet there was one threshold that Stratum might not cross. With as much delicacy as she could put into the question, Idaria asked, “Stratum, will you help me?”

His answer was without hesitation. The crooked beak bobbed up and down. “Stratum help friend!”

While his enthusiasm was encouraging, that did not necessarily mean he would betray his master for her. Idaria had to be cautious. She had always had an affinity for animals, even more so than many other elves. Some said she was favored by the Fisher King, known to the Solamnics as the god Habbakuk.

The pendant continued to glow slightly. She noted Stratum’s gaze constantly flicker back to it. “Would you like to touch it?”

Again, the beak bobbed up and down. There seemed no reason it would not be safe to let the gargoyle examine it closer. Idaria held it forth.

Stratum put two tentative digits on the face. A low sound that resembled the cooing of a dove escaped the brutish creature. It was like a purring of a child.

As the gargoyle marveled at the artifact, Idaria delicately murmured, “Would you help me see my other friend?”

He did not pull away, but his gaze narrowed. “Other is chained above. Master command so.”

Feeling somewhat guilty for tricking the simple creature-even if he did serve such a vile lord-Idaria implored, “Please. He is my friend too. I would just see him. Stratum …”

Cocking his head, the gargoyle mulled it over. “Come,” he finally said, turning toward the door.

For Idaria, the way out was locked by some magic spell, but for Stratum, that was apparently not the case. He swung open the ancient door, which stirred up more dust and squealed much too loudly for the elf’s tastes, then hopped out into the passage beyond.

Nearly unable to believe her quick success, Idaria followed.

The corridors through which they passed had all been carved from the mountain and still retained the rough texture of it. They were wide enough for two gargoyles to move with wings half extended. The halls were also lit, albeit just barely, by blue crystals embedded at even intervals in each wall.

They also passed other closed chambers, none of which concerned Idaria other than the potential threat behind their doors. However, despite the low grunting Stratum made as he hurried along, no one emerged from any of them to investigate.

At the end of the third corridor, they came to a spiral staircase that had at some point in the past collapsed. As a frustrated Idaria peered up, Stratum suddenly seized her with one arm and, revealing the astounding strength of which even the least of gargoyles was capable, easily bore her aloft.

They passed one level then another and another. Idaria, who had caught only glimpses of the outside from the vision the gargoyle’s lord had summoned, wondered if they were in one of the towers.

At the next level, Stratum suddenly veered to where a railed landing still precariously tipped over the fallen staircase. The winged creature landed on a solid area, where the blackened floor of another corridor gave them firmer footing.

The end of the corridor lay just ahead, its short length further indicating that they were likely in one of the towers. Idaria looked around for any guard but spied nothing.

Stratum hopped down the neglected path. The elf followed. At the other end, they came upon a rusted door akin to the one from her own cell. The faint and ironic outline of a rising sun etched into the door still remained.

With an almost casual show of strength, the gargoyle ripped open the door.

Immediately, a frustrated roar erupted from within. There came the rattling of chains, many chains, and the sounds of struggle.

Idaria’s companion let out a frustrated hiss and urged her inside. As she obeyed, she saw the source of all the unwelcome noise.

Chasm was larger and broader of shoulder than Stratum. He was nearly the size of a tall human and broader of build than either Golgren or Tyranos. His maw was less pronounced than Stratum’s, and he was a duskier gray. Under a thick brow ridge, blazing eyes that bespoke of intelligence stared at the newcomers. If the gargoyle beside Idaria was among the least of his kind, then surely Chasm was among the most powerful.

But as powerful as Tyranos’s servant and the elf’s friend might be, even Chasm could do nothing against the many chains in which he had been bound. The gargoyle was wrapped tightly from head to foot, with his legs folded into his torso and his arms tucked behind him to further add to his torture. His wings were folded around his shoulders and limbs. Increasing his misery, he hung from a single chain emerging from the ceiling, which kept the gargoyle roughly three feet off the ground. In such a state, Chasm could not even roll back and forth, seeking leverage.

The chamber was otherwise empty save for decaying refuse that indicated that some of the monstrous flock had in the past used it for living purposes. Arched windows well above were the only reason that it did not stink more than it already did.

Stratum hissed something to Chasm, who growled back as best as his bound jaws could manage. Idaria moved past the smaller gargoyle to let Chasm see her.

He quieted instantly. She sensed the hope and trust in his eyes. Idaria stroked Chasm’s head to soothe him then made certain not to forget Stratum. If she hoped to escape, she needed the smaller gargoyle’s help.

“Stratum, I thank you for bringing me to him, but please, can you not help me let him down?”

Stratum hissed uneasily. He scratched at his beaklike muzzle, his mind clearly conflicted. “Master not like,” he finally began. “But you give Stratum name, make Stratum be Stratum.”

The gargoyle suddenly took off, fluttering upward. As Idaria watched, Stratum seized the chain. With a heavy grunt, he tore at one of the thick, oval links.

The link tore. Before Chasm could strike the floor, Stratum held tight to the lower portion of the chain. With amazing care, he lowered the larger gargoyle safely down.

Idaria rushed to Chasm. As she fought with the chains, Stratum rejoined her. He slipped his jaws around one part and bit down.

The chain snapped in two. With a tremendous growl, Chasm flexed.

Other chains flew away, one barely missing Idaria. She fell back as Tyranos’s servant finished freeing himself.

The two gargoyles faced one another over the elf. The tension and distrust was palpable. Idaria moved to defuse the situation by stepping between them. “Chasm, Stratum helped you. Stratum, Chasm is also my friend and, therefore, your friend too.”

Neither appeared completely convinced, but they calmed. Idaria exhaled. She stood at the threshold of freedom.

There came from elsewhere within the citadel the cries of many angry gargoyles.

Hissing, Stratum hopped toward the door. He peered into the gloom beyond.

“Coming,” he warned her.

Chasm seized the elf and indicated the windows. “We go!”

She looked to the smaller gargoyle. “Come, Stratum! Come with!”

He started to hop toward her then paused. She could read by his actions what he planned to do, all for her having given him a name.

“No, Stratum! Come with!” Chasm gripped her tightly then lifted her from the floor. However, he did not leave but hovered, awaiting the smaller gargoyle.

Stratum hissed. “Go!”

With a grunt, Chasm took off with his struggling charge. The flapping of wings and the shrieking of animalistic voices encroached from the corridor.

Chasm carried Idaria to one of the open windows. As they neared, a lone gargoyle landed there. However, Chasm barreled into the other creature, releasing the hold of one paw long enough to use his claws on the throat of the would-be attacker. Blood spattered Idaria, who was staring at the lone figure standing below.

Gargoyles poured into the chamber. Stratum let out a hiss and threw himself at them.

The rending sounds that came as Chasm flew into the dark, open sky echoed monstrously in Idaria’s ears. The wind blew away her tears.

Chasm carried her away from the mountain citadel with more than a score of gargoyles already in hot pursuit.

The gray and black figure materialized in the chamber where Chasm had been held, causing the gargoyles there, including the ones that had ripped apart the hapless Stratum, to pause in their blood-soaked efforts. The leathery beasts bowed their heads low.

The white orbs surveyed the slaughtered Stratum, the bodies of the two larger gargoyles he had managed to slay, then the chains that had held Chasm prisoner. The eyes then looked up to the window through which the two escapees had flown.

Yes … came the amused voice in the heads of the assembled beasts. Go … go and serve me well again, my Idaria.