The Gargoyle King

IV

The power of the Fire Rose surged to life again, the crystalline artifact filling Safrag’s sanctum with a glorious gold and crimson light. The leader of the Titans stood in the center of the wide, stone chamber, all his other long-collected artifacts shunted aside earlier by a single, indifferent spell. Nothing mattered more than the wondrous creation held tightly in his right hand, not even the fact that it burned his flesh as if truly made of flame.

The Fire Rose was just more than a foot in height and had earned its name in part due to its design. It had a thick base that halfway up suddenly broke into a dozen different-sized projections jutting at various angles though always aiming upward. There was a definite resemblance to a flower and, because of its fiery hue, it was a more stunning rose than any other.

Legend-and truth, so Safrag believed-said it had been created by the god Sirrion. The High Ogres had fallen out of favor with the gods, for their hubris had caused them to believe they were the greatest of all creatures on the face of the world called Krynn. They had gone from the creators of art, magical miracles, and high learning to sadistic, decadent overlords of all the younger races. Yet not all had fallen so far, and some thought that, if one god granted their appeal, the end might be prevented.

And Sirrion, the last deity they had expected, had answered. He was one of the neutral gods, those who let time and chance be the deciding factor of lives and souls. Neither good nor evil, but often choosing to ally with the former for the sake of saving the world from destruction, Sirrion and his kind generally had little personal contact with mortals, save for those who acted as their clerics.

But the god of fire and alchemy found much of interest in the words of the High Ogres. They sought something to reshape their terrible destiny and insisted they were worthy of retaking control over their existence. Give them the means by which to restore what they had once been, and they would prove that they were worthy of being Krynn’s first and most beloved people.

Sirrion did just that. He forged the Fire Rose from the deepest, most primitive energies, those with which the world and all beyond it had been created. Into his gift he poured the pure notion of alchemy, of ultimate change at the very root of existence and reality, and of the unique ability that would enable one person to wield that power.

The sorcerers to whom Sirrion had presented the Fire Rose were grateful bordering on tears. They immediately saw the potential of the artifact and how it could not only save their kind, but make them even greater.

However, Sirrion left them with one last message. Almost cheerfully, he said, “The choice is always yours as to how my gift is used-good or ill or doing nothing. What becomes of you and yours through it will be your decision.”

The High Ogres paid that message scant mind, for each was certain that he or she knew the right thing to do, and therein lay the foundation of their failure. None could agree which of them was the best candidate to set hand on the artifact and make their desires come to fruition. They began to war over Sirrion’s gift.

The Titan knew only fragments of what had occurred after that. Tales said that one hand or another briefly commanded the Fire Rose, only to have some treachery cause another to grab it. The original hope, to bring the race back to its glory, was lost. The degradation of the ogres ensued. From the most beautiful and intelligent, they had become the most horrific and brutal race.

And somewhere along the way, a pitiful handful of survivors had made the foolish decision to hide away the Fire Rose from all who came after.

However, Safrag held the precious artifact. He wielded it, for the sake of the Titan dream, naturally.

The Fire Rose continued to glow brightly. Safrag could not help but keep gazing in wonder, reflecting on all the betrayal it had caused, all the slaying by his hand. When he had first come into the ranks of the Titans, he had not thought to strive to be Dauroth’s apprentice, much less his eventual successor. Only a chance reading of an ancient scroll he had found among his master’s collection had stirred those desires. It had shocked him that Dauroth could know that such a miraculous thing existed and not want to find it. It had stunned him further to discover, when told by his master, that Dauroth possessed a tiny fragment of the Fire Rose and still resisted its glory.

That had been when the change had come over Safrag. Dauroth could not see the future as it was meant to be; he was blind to what had to be done. He was, therefore, lacking in the vital qualities that the Titans needed in a true leader.

And so Safrag had found the manner by which to destroy his fault-ridden master and his one rival to his cause, Dauroth’s senior apprentice, Hundjal. It had proven simple to trick Dauroth into believing that Hundjal was the one seeking the Fire Rose, a quest punishable by death. Once Dauroth had slain the other apprentice, the Titans’ founder had ensured his own demise. Dauroth had realized that in the end, but too late to prevent it.

But all was as should be. Safrag controlled the Fire Rose. The ogre race was his to shape, with the world to follow. The mongrel who had dared sit upon the throne and who played at being Grand Khan was presently a frozen monument to both his folly and Safrag’s inevitable victory.

Caught up in the artifact’s splendor, Safrag paid little mind to subtle changes taking place around him. The thick stone walls bubbled and breathed, changed shade and texture, sometimes seeming as if turning to flesh. Scrolls and tomes on the shelves shivered and flared bright red. A few of the former uncurled as if alive and possibly hungry. Other arcane artifacts shifted position or looked to be melting. A vial transformed into a glowing, green crystal. Small creatures of light-literal fireflies-formed in the air, danced, then burned away.

All that was lost on Safrag. His eyes grew wider and more pale with hints of snow. His skin also paled, remaining blue but with a touch of gold. His features shifted slightly, as if he were becoming another person, one with more ursine traits. Even his garments did not remain untouched, for they flowed as if living.

Also lost on him was the fact that, despite having sealed his sanctum from even those most in his favor, Safrag was no longer alone. Behind him, several of the fiery lights suddenly swirled together. They coalesced into a tall, blazing form-a figure of flame. The flames then stilled for the most part, revealing a watcher who stood not quite as tall as the Titan yet loomed over him like a giant. There was in his face a semblance of elf, human, ogre, dwarf, even kender, and yet in no manner was he related to any of those races. His face was long and angular, and his skin was the color of ash left by a terrible blaze. He wore a mane of rich, red-orange hair that flickered and danced as if wild fire.

But most arresting were his eyes, burning orbs that were long and narrow like those of Safrag, but ever changing of color. They were gold like the sun, red like the deepest blood, brilliant blue, and finally utter white. They were all the colors of flame and shifted from one to the other as rapidly as fire burned.

The god Sirrion watched with amusement as Safrag continued to be mesmerized by his creation. The fiery figure casually stretched his hand to the side. A yellowed scroll flew into his palm. As it landed, it burst into flame. Within less than a heartbeat, there were not even any ashes remaining.

Sirrion’s expression mirrored that of someone who had just devoured a tasty meal. He gave one last cheerful glance at Safrag then became a scattering of tiny fiery forms that dissipated a moment later.

Only at that point did Safrag stir. The Fire Rose dimmed. Most but not all of the transformations faded away with it. Here and there, including on Safrag himself, there were still slight alterations, but only the discerning eye would have noted them.

The lead Titan glanced around as if expecting to see something or someone. When that did not happen, he returned his attention to the care of the artifact. With a gesture, the chamber around him shifted, the walls moving here and there and a doorway suddenly appearing on one part of the sanctum.

All that surrounded Safrag had once belonged to his master. Safrag had worked long and hard to know all the secret chambers hidden by Dauroth’s sorcery. Before him lay the most important, for it was where he kept the Fire Rose when forced to part from it.

As the iron door swung open, a chill wind flowed from the other side. Ignoring it, Safrag stepped through. He stood in a frost- and snow-covered room. Safrag thought of it as the Chamber of Ice. It was the one place where he could be certain that the Fire Rose would be not only safe, but subdued.

More than twenty tall mounds resembling stalagmites dotted the floor of the unsettling room. Safrag eyed the first of the snowy piles, each rising more than ten feet in height. As he approached, one hand rose in anticipation.

And at that moment, the nearest mounds shook from within. Snow and ice broke away. A set of grasping, flesh-less fingers burst from one then another. The mounds shattered.

Four skeletal ogre warriors stood with weapons ready. Bits of armor and skin still clung to the yellowed bones. The eyes were nothing but black sockets that fixed upon the Titan.

One of the undead raised its rusted but still serviceable axe.

“Asymnopti isidiu,” sang Safrag.

But the skeletal guards did not return to their mounds as commanded. Instead, the first took a menacing step forward, its actions immediately mimicked by the other four. A fifth and sixth mound shook.

“Asymnopti isidiu,” the lead Titan repeated more sternly.

The undead had the audacity to continue to menace him. The two new warriors followed the example of the four. In the background, other mounds began quivering.

Safrag started to gesture then thought better of it. Instead he grinned and held up the Fire Rose.

His desire alone stirred it to raging life. Awash in its glorious light, the skeletal guards hesitated.

The Titan made his wish be known to the artifact.

The Fire Rose blazed.

As one, the skeletons curled into themselves. Their bones became fluid, wrapping around and around until each was bound by itself. The tightening of the bodies forced the skulls to gaze up.

A thick, white substance secreted from the bones, spilling over the undead guardians. It caked the bones until nothing remained but a smooth, white column of ivory the size of each warrior.

Safrag found himself panting not from exertion, but more from excitement. Not only had the skeletons converging on him been altered, but so had those not yet stirring. The Fire Rose had been very thorough in carrying out his wishes.

Why the guardians had not obeyed the original spell only then occurred to Safrag. They had been created to heed only the voice of Dauroth. Safrag had always used his power to perfectly imitate his former master, but in the afterglow of using the Fire Rose in his sanctum, he had forgotten.

The mistake was no longer important. The guards were not needed anyway. Safrag had installed other safety measures far more insidious.

The Titan leader turned back to the doorway then recalled that he had entered to put the artifact away. With great reluctance, Safrag wound his way around the hard mounds to where a black, iron chest lay half buried in the ice. With a wave of one hand, he opened the chest. Within, a clear, thick liquid untouched by the cold slowly rippled.

Safrag bent down, holding the Fire Rose just above the surface. Dauroth had created that liquid to subdue the primal forces of a fragment of the Fire Rose, and Safrag used it with the same goal in mind. However, he hesitated, thinking that perhaps he might wield the crystalline structure one last time, just to be certain that he understood its functioning.

At last, fighting the temptation, Safrag set the artifact in the chest. As he reluctantly pulled his hand free, not one hint of moisture remained on him.

His return from the pocket realm to his main sanctum was greeted by a slight red shift in the outer chamber’s illumination. It was a silent signal cast by Safrag to inform him when someone sought entrance to his lair.

He had no doubt exactly what the visitation concerned. His expression masked, Safrag had the door open before him.

There were six of them, six of the more persistent objectors, including three from the inner circle. Kulgrath was among those and most likely the instigator of the confrontation. Safrag noted that for later.

“Great Master,” the instigator sang with a low bow. Behind Kulgrath, the others followed suit.

“Kulgrath. Gadjul.” Safrag acknowledged the names of the other four as well. His pointed naming of each made two of the lesser sorcerers visibly shrink. None wanted to earn Safrag’s wrath.

Kulgrath eyed him oddly. “Master, you are well?”

“Should I not be?”

Kulgrath quickly abandoned whatever stray notion had caused him to ask the impertinent question. “The Fire Rose … we felt its majesty. We felt it call out.”

“I made some tests of its abilities,” Safrag said with a slight nod. “That’s what you felt.”

“And all was in order?”

The lead Titan’s eyes did not betray his impatience. “Of course. It was to be expected.”

Kulgrath steeled himself. “Then it is now our chance to wield it? Under your guidance, naturally?”

“Not yet.”

His answer came so quickly and with such finality that the other sorcerers visibly started. Kulgrath’s eyes flared ever so briefly before the other Titan recalled himself. Bowing low, he replied, “But surely very, very soon. The artifact is straightforward in its use.”

Safrag turned from him; the lead Titan was bored with the conversation. “There are intricacies. You must all learn patience.”

“The populace is growing restive, Master,” interjected Gadjul. “They await their great ascension.”

“And they, too, must learn patience,” the Titan leader replied without looking back. “They, too, must learn patience.”

He continued down the corridor as if they no longer stood there. The other Titans glanced at Kulgrath, who did not hide his mounting frustration from them.

“We must learn patience,” he muttered. “First from Morgada, now him. Patience …”

Kulgrath glanced at Gadjul then made a brief gesture for the others to follow. Kulgrath and the group journeyed down the corridor in the direction that Safrag had gone.

All, that was, save Gadjul.

With one last look at his disappearing companions, the lone Titan quickly drew a circular pattern in front of the door to Safrag’s sanctum. The pattern was a complicated one with smaller, curved figures within the main body that represented a mirror image of the larger. Gadjul drew the pattern with ease, clearly having practiced it for some time.

Once finished, he stepped back. There was no hint in his expression of concern that he might be caught. Rather, Gadjul exuded confidence.

Under his breath, he sang a single word, the key to the pattern’s function. The pattern shimmered then drifted to the door.

A blue haze surrounded the entrance. The blue shifted to green, then red, then finally white.

The sorcerer smiled. The hidden protections had been temporarily nullified.

Gadjul gestured at the door.

Iron tentacles shot forth from the door, seizing the startled Titan. They wrapped around his limbs and torso, even his throat. Gone from his expression was the arrogant confidence; only utter fear was on Gadjul’s face.

Titans were powerful not only in sorcery, but also in physical strength. Gadjul gripped the metallic tentacles around his throat and right arm and pulled with all his might. Yet his efforts barely slowed the attack.

He blurted out a short spell. Moisture suddenly drenched the monstrous limbs. They began to rust. The change was accompanied by creaking.

But just as quickly, a gray aura spread over the tentacles. In its wake, the aura left the tentacles pristine again.

Gadjul let out a gagging sound that was as much due to his astonishment as it was to the tightening around his throat.

The tentacles dragged him toward the door. In desperation, the Titan dug his heels into the floor, but Safrag’s sinister guardian relentlessly pulled him closer.

Gadjul desperately thrust a hand against the door.

The hand plunged in. Worse, when the sorcerer attempted to pull it free, it would not come out.

One foot also sank in, followed by the rest of the one arm. Gadjul’s nose touched the door.

With one final, almost indifferent tug, the tentacles shoved the hapless Titan into the door. Gadjul was able to let out only a desperate murmur before he vanished.

The door resumed its original appearance. Silence reigned.

A moment later, Gadjul went flying out as if spewed from a giant mouth. He collided with the opposing wall and fell to the floor.

The door once more stilled.

A thick, iron-gray sap caked the shivering, wide-eyed sorcerer. Gadjul managed to stumble to his feet. Half mad, he stared first at the door then down the corridor where Kulgrath and the others had long vanished.

Mouth agape and still shivering, Gadjul fled in the opposite direction, grateful merely to be alive.

He had not escaped. Gadjul knew that he had been released. He had survived only at the mercy of Safrag, who had hidden that spell-protected magical minion in the door for just such intrusions.

But the departing Gadjul knew one other thing: The next time someone sought uninvited entrance to the master’s lair, they would not be as fortunate as he.