The Fire Rose burned hotter. The ground swirled, spinning the two combatants and their disputed prize around and around. The hill that had just formed melted, before becoming a small grove of fantastic trees with spiked leaves and blossoms as white-gold as the sun. Golgren and Safrag suddenly found themselves on another hill overlooking the grove. An orange-red glow covered everything, including the two opponents locked in struggle.
“But like you, the spellcasters were shortsighted! A fear arose in them as they began to use the Fire Rose! Instead of accepting it as a miracle, some of them decided to bury it forever for fear of what their own ambition would cause it to do!”
The Titan’s eyes flashed with fury. Golgren felt his feet grow numb. He stared into the Fire Rose, silently commanding it to serve him and him alone. He was no spellcaster, yet for some reason, even without the signet, the artifact responded to him.
Golgren threw his willpower into the effort.
The Fire Rose stirred.
Not only did the flames rise up again, but the very ground beneath them turned into molten lava that spat and churned as if eager to devour the loser of the struggle. The Grand Khan did not for a moment think that he would be the loser, though the pain and heat and numbness spread and enveloped him.
Golgren had to have the Fire Rose. The desire was stronger than ever.
The numbness suddenly faded. Golgren stared up triumphantly into Safrag’s dark visage. The Titan tried to shake him off, but the half-breed held tight.
Their surroundings continued to shift, with the tide of their battling minds. Hills rose and fell, lakes blossomed and dried, plants of all shapes and sizes sprouted and withered to dust. Whether they were momentary creations of the Fire Rose or would have remained permanent changes, Golgren neither knew nor cared. Such was the might of Sirrion’s gift.
As the combatants were caught up in their clash, the sky darkened. Both looked up and saw the return of a common foe.
The gargoyles dove down in greater numbers than before, the winged monsters seemingly oblivious to the hot treacherous landscape beneath them. They skirted the rising flames with ease and fell upon the area where the Titan and the Grand Khan battled.
A jutting hill shot up at first, sprouting into existence with such swiftness that the gargoyles slammed against it at full speed. The crack of bone briefly overwhelmed all other sound.
Those behind the unfortunate first group immediately ascended. Yet the hill continued to grow until it reached the gargoyles, earth and stone subsuming a number of the hapless creatures.
It was impossible to say if it was by Golgren’s will, Safrag’s, or both in conjunction somehow. But surely the Grand Khan and the sorcerer were joined in their desire to keep the gargoyles from claiming the trophy. The pair looked around, seeking to counter the dangerous attackers.
“You’ll not have it!” Safrag roared at more of the oncoming fiends. “Neither you nor your master!”
Black bolts of lightning shot not from the sky, but rather up from the ground. Each struck their target with deadly accuracy, searing the flesh of the gargoyles and leaving nothing but charred bones that clattered to the ground.
The landscape shifted anew, with Golgren and the Titan raised to soaring heights. They stood upon a towering peak, so high, and such an astounding transformation of the landscape, that it almost made the Grand Khan fumble his grip.
The gargoyles, which had been diving in relays, had to beat their wings hard and veer to extreme angles to compensate for the change. The gray beasts hissed as they swooped again, reaching with clawed paws for the Fire Rose and its wielders.
“It is between us, mongrel,” Safrag said, glancing around at the gargoyles without looking at Golgren. “We’ve fought for the precious artifact, not sent hounds to steal it afterward!”
Golgren said nothing, though his silence was agreement enough. The pair held onto the artifact as one.
“Think of what the House of Night truly honors. Think of the iSirriti Siroth, the Burning of Day!”
The Grand Khan understood and followed his rival’s lead.
The Fire Rose blazed brighter than ever. Both Golgren and the Titan cried out in pain, so white-hot was the artifact.
But if they found it hot, the gargoyles found it deadly. As if the sun itself had swallowed them, the aerial attackers were disintegrated to the last one by the sudden blast of heat. They barely had time to shriek their deaths. Their winged forms were suddenly outlined by the blinding light and they simply vanished. Not even a trace of ashes marked their passing.
Safrag’s hand immediately came around to the Grand Khan’s chest.
He gripped the obsidian dagger.
Golgren tried to twist away at the last moment, but the only way he could truly escape would have been to release the Fire Rose. Even threatened death could not make him do that.
The magical blade bore through all obstacles without hesitation, sinking between Golgren’s ribs up to the hilt.
The half-breed let out a rasping cough. He squeezed tight, trying to hold his grip as he struggled to overcome the mortal wound.
Safrag pulled the blade free and struck Golgren hard under the jaw with the hilt.
Golgren’s fingers slipped from the Fire Rose.
Idaria could not move. There was space around her, but only above her head and chest. Her legs and one arm were pinned. She was buried in a tiny gap under tons of rock and earth, the remains of what had once been the chamber of the altar.
She was going to die.
Elf notions of death had changed considerably since the fall of Silvanost. They were much starker, less transcendent due to all the tragedies falling upon the race. Idaria did not fear death, but neither could she peacefully embrace it.
The elf struggled to no avail. Her body was fairly intact but only served to mock her efforts with its impotence.
Her concern shifted to last minute thoughts about her people. There was no chance for them. Safrag said that the Titans had the slaves from the stockade, and she had no doubt he had spoken the truth. Whether their blood was presently being drained for the foul work of the sorcerers, or they would suffer some other heinous fate, all their deaths would be on her head.
She had erred grievously in trusting the Nerakan officer with whom she had made her pact. Idaria tried to recall either his name or face, but no longer could, such was her daze. All she could see was a vague figure in the hated ebony armor. The elf had only gone to Neraka when she had met no hope elsewhere. Indeed, the Nerakan had actually found her and offered the deal; information on the movements of the Grand Khan-known for his fondness for elf women-would be utilized for the advancement of Neraka. In return, the knights would free her people when they invaded the ogre lands, sending them on their way. Neraka had no use for the elves, the officer had said with enough conviction to persuade her despite her initial distrust; all the better to burden Solamnia and other neighboring areas with more refugees.
Idaria had not cared for the reasons why the Nerakan would help her, only the arrangement offered hope. The slaves were in that sorry a state. She agreed, and they had made their plans.
As she scraped at the rock above her, Idaria found herself repeatedly trying to recall other details about the Nerakan. Elves usually had exceptional memories, but although she could remember what they had said to one another, she had no luck picturing the human himself. As deadly as her predicament was, Idaria wondered why.
It grew harder to breathe. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the elf knew she was running out of air. Death was coming for her.
Sleep. Sleep and dream, her mind thought. Sleep and dream.