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But the wall was gone and shortly beyond where it had previously stood, Tyranos could see a chamber.

A lighted chamber.

Tyranos told himself to be patient, measuring each step as though he were trying to cross a raging river by means of a bridge consisting of a single piece of rope upon which he was balanced. After succeeding with one step, he would dare the next.

By the time he reached the chamber, his heart was pounding from anticipation. Yet still the spellcaster did not leap inside the room. Instead, he extended his staffjust beyond the end of the corridor.

A gigantic pattern formed at the entrance, a complex, magical pattern filled with every color of the rainbow and every geometric design Tyranos had ever known. It blazed so brightly that he had to shield his eyes until they grew accustomed to the glare.

The pattern hovered there, utterly blocking his way. Yet it did nothing more aggressive. Tyranos studied the pattern, noting marks of the three moons, of the constellations as they had been before the ones designated for Paladine-once highest of the gods of light-and dark Takhisis had vanished from the heavens. There were also geographic marks, some of which he did not recognize, others that he did, and a few that were possibly places he knew, but with small variations.

The pattern altered. Some of the locations became other places. The constellations shifted positions. Several of the geometric designs realigned themselves and, as they did, Tyranos felt the magic of the pattern as a whole take on a new significance.

He cocked his head. There was something about the entire creation-

With his head high, Tyranos strode forward. He braced himself as he reached the shimmering pattern and breathed a deep sigh of relief when he emerged on the other side untouched.

“By the kraken!” the wizard rasped. He turned around to see the final traces of the pattern vanish. “So not so concerned about someone who’s not bound to any High Ogre, eh?”

Tyranos had studied much about the ancient race since first hearing about the Fire Rose. He had learned about their ways and about rivalries between their different factions. The pattern was designed to keep out anyone of a certain group-or possibly one particular individual. It had also been created to sense anyone who in any way served that group or individual, a piece of complicated spellcasting that truly impressed him.

“But why so precise?” Tyranos asked the vanished pattern. “Why worry so much about one type of intruder and not so much about others? Did you think the other traps sufficient?”

Still puzzled, he turned back to face the interior of the chamber. He hesitated. There, before him, was a wall filled with the flowing, beautiful script of the High Ogres.

And nothing else.

“That can’t be right. Let’s just see if we can decipher what you’re saying. ‘The way to freedom’ or something?”

Stepping up to the writing, he studied the text, one line after another. Tyranos mouthed it out syllable by syllable, sometimes learning a word by deciphering those around it.

Gradually, what had been written became known, and what became known made the wizard frown.

“Sirrion, you trickster,” he muttered. “And I think I understand you a little better, oh master of gargoyles. A little better, definitely.” Tyranos growled. “And what I understand, I do not like, no.”

The undead were extremely disciplined in their task, Idaria noted bitterly as she watched the body of Sir Stefan lifted up and carried away. Chasm, meanwhile, was bound up in rusting but serviceable chains. She remained unchained, but she expected that to be remedied shortly. In the meantime, two undead held her arms with viselike grips.

She mourned Stefan’s loss and was concerned for both Chasm and herself, of course. But it was Golgren whose fate Idaria anguished over in her mind. The quest had been his above all. Something had not merely desired him to find the Fire Rose; it had needed him to do so. She had realized that too late.

And that something had not been Safrag, she also realized belatedly. Even so, the Titan leader might well be the victor, for he had seized the artifact from Golgren.

The skeletal guardians let Stefan’s corpse drop unceremoniously to the dust-covered floor at the far end of the chamber. The body bounced hard on the stone floor before settling in the corner, face up. In death, the knight’s expression looked resigned.

She muttered a short, elf prayer for his spirit. As slight as her whisper was, it still caused the undead to turn toward her.

There was something about the ghoulish figures that disturbed Idaria, even more than the army of skeletons that had marched on Garantha. There was something not right about them, something terribly not right.

The elf caught a tiny glimpse of light within the empty eye sockets of one of the undead. She looked at another and noted the same. There was no reason why she should have recognized it for what it was, but nevertheless she did.

The creatures were alive. Not in the sense that she or Chasm were alive, and not in the mocking sense of the f’hanos who had attacked the capital. Those had merely been animated, with no true recollection of what they had been when living. The magic had made them mimic their former lives, but they didn’t live and breathe. Even the two skeletons of Stefan’s comrades had not been like the things surrounding her, for those had been the spirits of the pair given brief resurrection in order to pass on the gift of a god to a worthy warrior.

No, the creatures were not truly undead; they were something worse, unimaginable. They were living creatures who, despite the decay of their bodies, had not ever actually died.

Some shambled toward her, while others were vanishing into the shadows again. Their hollow sockets filled her view as they came closer, intrigued by their captive. Their intense stare-made all the more eerie by the absence of eyelids to blink-intensified the feeling that they were inspecting her.

Tales of what the Titans did with their elf prisoners stirred fear in Idaria. The ghoulish forms finally turned and followed the rest away, leaving only the pair gripping her arms.

A rumbling sound originating from without filled the vast chamber. The rumbling grew louder, more insistent. Idaria peered high up, where one of the vast windows was located.

And through that window poured more gargoyles than she had could have imagined existed. The elf had witnessed many, many perish already. The vast flock looked renewed, undiminished.

They came in many shapes and sizes, some similar to Chasm, others with more pronounced beaks and slimmer bodies. Idaria could not see the colors of all their hides, but assumed most of them were gray or dusky brown like the ones she had previously encountered. Some had wings that stretched for many yards, and all fluttered with the ease of birds despite their great size.

The rumbling she had heard was the flapping of so many wings accompanied by the hisses and growls of the gargoyles. Those that entered the ancient edifice circled around twice and began to alight on any solid perch, be it a stone staircase rail, a statue, or even a cracked wall. Others filled the nesting areas. The rest took their places based not only upon what niches remained, but on which among them was strongest and fastest. Some made brief shows of dominance, the captive elf noted, but none went farther than hisses and the occasional swat.

More and more of the strange, hideous creatures poured into the citadel, filling it up to the ceiling and beyond. Additional hisses and flapping could be heard outside the one in which she was imprisoned.

Many of the gargoyles, once they settled down, peered expectantly in the elf’s direction, but not exactly at her.

At last the flow ceased. The smell of the gargoyles had grown pungent and was made worse by the slow beating of wings that seemed determined to push the stench in her direction.