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Authors: Ryk E Spoor
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lands of the Lords of the Sky, whose name echoed your own, Tobimar Silverun.”
As the Spiritsmith spoke these words, so heavy with ancient legend and fear, Tobimar felt as though the cavern swayed with the import.
Then he realized that the cavern had swayed. The hanging lights were swinging, and both he and Kyri were suddenly on their feet. “What...”
The earth shuddered again, and this time a wave of nausea and foreboding washed over him, pressing on his spirit. As he fought it off, he saw Kyri stagger and lean against the table. Poplock shivered.
The Spiritsmith looked even sicker; he stumbled, fell to the floor, took long minutes to rise. But he lunged back to his feet and charged for the exit. “Come. Quickly!”
The three raced after the Ancient Sauran, as yet another shockwave of force and wrongness passed through the mountain. “What’s happening?” Kyri asked, nameless dread in her voice.
The Spiritsmith did not answer. Poplock was muttering something that Tobimar couldn’t catch.
They burst out of the entranceway onto the plateau. At that moment a final concussion of earthshock and evil knocked them from their feet, and the sky overhead flickered, as though the sun itself had been momentarily stunned.
Tobimar picked himself up slowly, reaching out and helping Kyri, who seemed even more affected. He became aware that the Spiritsmith was staring off to the West, walking almost as though in a dream towards the far side of the plateau. The massive draconian form slowed, then—shockingly—collapsed to its knees, still staring in numb disbelief.
Tobimar followed the Spiritsmith’s gaze. Through the narrow gap in the mountains, a thin sliver of land was visible, a cracked and seamed plain interrupted by virulent green tangles of growth, jagged tumbles of stone shards hundreds of feet high, steaming pools of water and mud, flat and empty desert—an impossible and repellent patchwork of terrain that could not possibly exist together...yet did.
But it was not this which the huge creature stared at in mute horror. Beyond the abominable landscape, far away, at the very horizon or even beyond, was...darkness. Tobimar blinked. The bright sky dimmed there, dimmed and went to complete blackness, a darkness that rose up in the center to a knife-thin line that seemed to stretch upwards to the roof of heaven, draining the very light from everything around it and turning it to ebon shadow. And despite being so far away, something about the sight pressed in on the Skysand Prince’s senses, as though merely to look upon it was enough to weaken life and break hope. The land shuddered again, this time with the groaning motion of an earthquake, and pebbles and rock cascaded down. “What is it? What’s happening, Spiritsmith?”
The question, spoken so urgently, managed to penetrate the creature’s shock; he turned his head slightly, and the deep-set eyes were wide, with a fear that nothing so ancient and powerful should be able to feel. “T’Ameris Kerveria,” the Spiritsmith said quietly. And then he translated, and Tobimar understood the true meaning of horror. “The Black City. The Fortress of Kerlamion Blackstar.
“The Gateway and Nexus of all Hells is come once more to Zarathan, and Kerlamion its King sits on his throne and gazes out upon our living world.”
Chapter 7
Aran stumbled, fell to his knees, remained in that position, unmoving, for long moments, waiting for his head to clear. I’ve been...driving myself hard. Far too hard .
A part of him tried to force himself to lunge back to his feet, but now he knew that much of that was anger at himself, rage and guilt. “Sit still,” he told himself, and sat down. He was near his destination, though he saw nothing to indicate that a path to the Hells lay here, in the tangled jungle of the land that was, itself, called Hell; but if there was, he would not be wise to come before Kerlamion exhausted, weary of mind and body both.
He forced himself to
As the Spiritsmith spoke these words, so heavy with ancient legend and fear, Tobimar felt as though the cavern swayed with the import.
Then he realized that the cavern had swayed. The hanging lights were swinging, and both he and Kyri were suddenly on their feet. “What...”
The earth shuddered again, and this time a wave of nausea and foreboding washed over him, pressing on his spirit. As he fought it off, he saw Kyri stagger and lean against the table. Poplock shivered.
The Spiritsmith looked even sicker; he stumbled, fell to the floor, took long minutes to rise. But he lunged back to his feet and charged for the exit. “Come. Quickly!”
The three raced after the Ancient Sauran, as yet another shockwave of force and wrongness passed through the mountain. “What’s happening?” Kyri asked, nameless dread in her voice.
The Spiritsmith did not answer. Poplock was muttering something that Tobimar couldn’t catch.
They burst out of the entranceway onto the plateau. At that moment a final concussion of earthshock and evil knocked them from their feet, and the sky overhead flickered, as though the sun itself had been momentarily stunned.
Tobimar picked himself up slowly, reaching out and helping Kyri, who seemed even more affected. He became aware that the Spiritsmith was staring off to the West, walking almost as though in a dream towards the far side of the plateau. The massive draconian form slowed, then—shockingly—collapsed to its knees, still staring in numb disbelief.
Tobimar followed the Spiritsmith’s gaze. Through the narrow gap in the mountains, a thin sliver of land was visible, a cracked and seamed plain interrupted by virulent green tangles of growth, jagged tumbles of stone shards hundreds of feet high, steaming pools of water and mud, flat and empty desert—an impossible and repellent patchwork of terrain that could not possibly exist together...yet did.
But it was not this which the huge creature stared at in mute horror. Beyond the abominable landscape, far away, at the very horizon or even beyond, was...darkness. Tobimar blinked. The bright sky dimmed there, dimmed and went to complete blackness, a darkness that rose up in the center to a knife-thin line that seemed to stretch upwards to the roof of heaven, draining the very light from everything around it and turning it to ebon shadow. And despite being so far away, something about the sight pressed in on the Skysand Prince’s senses, as though merely to look upon it was enough to weaken life and break hope. The land shuddered again, this time with the groaning motion of an earthquake, and pebbles and rock cascaded down. “What is it? What’s happening, Spiritsmith?”
The question, spoken so urgently, managed to penetrate the creature’s shock; he turned his head slightly, and the deep-set eyes were wide, with a fear that nothing so ancient and powerful should be able to feel. “T’Ameris Kerveria,” the Spiritsmith said quietly. And then he translated, and Tobimar understood the true meaning of horror. “The Black City. The Fortress of Kerlamion Blackstar.
“The Gateway and Nexus of all Hells is come once more to Zarathan, and Kerlamion its King sits on his throne and gazes out upon our living world.”
Chapter 7
Aran stumbled, fell to his knees, remained in that position, unmoving, for long moments, waiting for his head to clear. I’ve been...driving myself hard. Far too hard .
A part of him tried to force himself to lunge back to his feet, but now he knew that much of that was anger at himself, rage and guilt. “Sit still,” he told himself, and sat down. He was near his destination, though he saw nothing to indicate that a path to the Hells lay here, in the tangled jungle of the land that was, itself, called Hell; but if there was, he would not be wise to come before Kerlamion exhausted, weary of mind and body both.
He forced himself to
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