“The battle is over?” Wargroch asked before the other could speak.
The guard nodded. “Hand commander dead. Warriors surrender.” He took a breath and added, “Atolgus comes.”
His task done, the treacherous officer hurried to the front hall of the palace. Barely had he arrived than a large, armed party met him coming through the great outer doors.
At their head strode Atolgus. He was taller than when Wargroch had seen him last, taller and mesmerizing. Unlike most, Wargroch knew something about why Atolgus looked different, and why someone who had only been a minor chieftain and loyal follower of the half-breed would suddenly become Golgren’s great nemesis. Wargroch knew Morgada, and understood her tremendous powers, both magical and otherwise.
But Wargroch himself had no need for such temptations. He had desired Golgren’s blood ever since learning of his older brothers’ deaths. Khleeg’s death was one step of that plan.
Atolgus acknowledged him. “Khleeg?”
“The meredrakes feast.”
The new warlord grinned wildly. “Good. She will be pleased.”
Displaying his sword, Wargroch abruptly knelt before Atolgus. “Garantha is secure.”
Atolgus accepted the great blade. “Golgren’s …”
It had been presented early on to Wargroch as a sign of favor from the Grand Khan. “No, Atolgus’s.”
The warlord grinned again. He sheathed it and presented Wargroch with his own sword. “Yours.”
Beating his fist on his breastplate, Wargroch stood and embraced the offering. “Great is Atolgus! Great is his power!”
But Atolgus shook his head. Still grinning, he replied, “No. Great is the power of the Titans.”
Morgada and the Black Talon had observed the entire tableau from their safe sanctum far, far away. They and every other Titan were exhausted; the tasks given to them by the absent Safrag had been so monumental that more than one sorcerer was in danger of needing elixir to restore themselves. However, Morgada had refused all pleas. Safrag had ordered that no one be given any elixir until word came that he had been successful in his quest for the Fire Rose.
“Garantha is at last free of the mongrel,” Draug gasped. “The puppet did his job well.”
“Which puppet?” jested another Titan, despite his exhaustion. “The one full of hate or Morgada’s adoring pet?”
“Choose one and dispense with both! Neither are needed any longer! Garantha bows to us!”
“But Garantha is only the beginning,” breathed Morgada with a smile. “Only the beginning …”
Kulgrath did not share in the good spirits spreading among his comrades. The Titan looked from one side to another before flatly stating, “But it’s no beginning without that for which we’ve hunted! Safrag’s not returned! For all we know the mongrel has the artifact! Imagine the Fire Rose in Golgren’s hands!”
“Imagine that if you will,” interrupted another, familiar voice. “But you would be indulging in flights of fantasy.”
Safrag stood in the center of the chamber, exactly upon the symbol of the Black Talon. His once immaculate garments were torn and stained; there were bruises and cuts on his arms, torso, and face.
But his expression was triumphant. As the rest of the inner circle gaped, he stretched forth his arms and revealed the Fire Rose.
Its blazing light filled the chamber and brought a reddish orange cast to the face of each onlooker. The Titans sat speechless, until Morgada was the first to find her tongue.
“It is beautiful.”
“It is the future,” Safrag corrected.
“And Golgren?” gasped Kulgrath, unable to tear his eyes away from the dancing flames within the Rose. “Is he-?”
Safrag’s song was glorious as he shouted, “Golgren is a monument to his folly! Golgren the mongrel is no more!”
As one, the rest of the Black Talon smiled, joining him in celebrating the Grand Khan’s demise.
“The Fire Rose,” one murmured. “Is it all we hope it to be? Can it truly do so much?”
“You would have a test?”
“Is that possible?” asked Draug. “Can you wield it already?”
In answer, Safrag stepped aside and gestured to the spot where he had just stood.
A terrible stench filled the air. Many of the Titans sat back in disgust as a dripping horror materialized.
Falstoch looked around. The abomination was still bent in pain from the wound he had suffered.
Safrag nodded to the monstrosity. “Shall we try again?”
Without preamble, he held the Fire Rose before Falstoch’s constantly melting face. The abomination raised a deformed limb as the artifact’s burning light bathed it in reddish orange. Falstoch let out a cry that shook even the hardened Titans.
Falstoch began to transform. His body straightened and solidified. The wound vanished. The melting wax that had been his flesh became sleek blue skin. Features aligned differently on his face, molding themselves into a handsome visage. A lush mane of hair thrust out of his skull and fell back.
The garments of a Titan materialized around the changing Falstoch. As he finished his transformation, the garments clad him.
The newly rejuvenated sorcerer stood trembling. “Will it … Will it hold?” he sang in faltering Titan speech. “Will it?”
Safrag only beamed. After a moment, Falstoch let out a dark howl of joy. He gazed at his hands, felt his face, and howled again.
And the Titans of the inner circle reveled in his joy, in their triumph. It had been the least of tests. The Fire Rose not only wielded great magic, but it could be wielded by them.
Safrag held it high. “The dawning of the new Golden Age is upon us!” he sang exultantly. “The dawning of the rebirth of the High Ogres.”
XXII
Tyranos groaned as he awoke and immediately realized what he had done. Whoever was master of the gargoyles would have set some insidious trap for the rare intruder who might be searching for the Fire Rose. Yet Tyranos had not considered that possibility. Admittedly, he had a streak of smugness, which his earliest teachers had said would someday kill him despite his skills. It looked to be that day.
The massive spellcaster looked around and saw nothing. He was in utter darkness in a place that smelled to him like the grave. The reason for that became apparent as his eyes adjusted.
Corpses. Three. From the looks of them, they were all ancient, yet the smell of death still pervaded the dark, moist area. Tyranos guessed that was because there was nowhere for the smell to go. That boded ill as much as the dead themselves.
The three hung as he did, floating in what seemed to be midair with their arms and legs spread out. Tyranos could tell little about them save that one looked to be a gargoyle by its shape, while the others were closer to human or elf in form but taller.
The wizard squinted. High Ogres, perhaps. If so, the bodies had been trapped a long, long time.
He tried to turn his head, but only half succeeded with the movement. Still, he could turn enough to enable him to see that he was not floating, but rather seemed to be attached to several tiny strands that looked like nothing less than webbing.
“No damned spiders, thank you,” Tyranos rasped, more to hear anything than because he truly believed it was the work of any arachnid. What he could make out of the corpses gave no indication they had perished from having their life fluids sucked out of them. The webbing itself had been the cause of their demises. They had been trapped and had starved to death.
The wizard struggled, but to no avail. Physical strength meant nothing, otherwise the gargoyle wouldn’t be among the dead.
Tyranos looked for his staff. It was nowhere in sight.
“We can’t have that,” he muttered. Tyranos concentrated on the missing staff, trying to summon it.