that had fallen to a hoarse whisper. They were hardly useful anymore, incapable of stemming the torrent of horrifying images flooding his mind, each worse than the next. And yet, thankfully, with them also came indifference. He could barely feel anything anymore, including anxiety. The physical pain that was ripping his flesh apart had become distant, as if happening to someone else. All his organs seemed to be dormant somehow. Only by sheer force of his will—honed and tempered with years of training—did he keep pushing his body forward, well past the point of physical and mental exhaustion. Just a little longer, the magus kept repeating to himself, like a prayer. The river in the cave loops, and the cycling water will weaken the Ancient Beast's burden on the mind. I just need to make it.
By midday he came upon a small pond in the woods, and bent over it for a drink. His reflection in the calm water caused him to recoil in horror. His features had grown sharp, hawk-like, and his eyes glowed a bloody crimson color. Diarten had half-expected this kind of development, but not that it would happen so quickly. His hoarse, croaking laughter ruptured the serene quiet blanketing the woods. After drinking his fill, the necromancer struggled back to his feet and resumed his grueling journey. The ice-cold water lent a temporary respite from the pain, expelling the hellish whisper from his consciousness, and the necromancer's thoughts skipped back to the previous day...
Over the past ten days the citizens of Suonu had rebuffed six attacks and had razed nearly all the siege towers besetting the city of the punishers. Every combat-ready man, woman and child had taken to the walls, preferring death in battle to being slaughtered on one of the mad god's many altars. But today, the attackers' strategy had shifted. After falling back and leaving yet another hundred or so corpses piled up outside the walls, the disavowed tapped into the emanations of fear and pain soaring over the city to summon Nerghall. Diarten knew then that his time had come. Two hundred years in the service of his mistress had earned him the right to summon her—once, just once—and this was exactly the moment that called for it.
To stand a chance against the Lord of Darkness you had to be a Lord or... a god. Diarten knew the price he would have to pay for summoning his mistress—his life. But he didn't doubt his decision for a second. Standing in the square, across from the main gates, before the eyes of the city's worn-out defenders, the magus slit his wrists with his trusty kris, then threw up his hands and began to sing the summoning chant, feeling his life fleeting away with every drop of blood trickling from his veins.
The city gates collapsed with a deafening crash. The hoisting chains clanked and rattled, tearing like worn threads, as the Ancient Beast emerged from billows of dust and entered the city. Nerghall moved his massive head to his left, then to his right. The black pools of his eyes—oozing a boundless, everlasting hunger—stopped on the tiny tifling standing tall across the main gates. Having identified the enemy without error, the Lord of Darkness shook off the wooden and stone debris, and roared triumphantly, exposing rows of razor-sharp teeth as long as a man's arm. Shards of glass burst from a dozen windows of nearby houses, spraying the streets. The defenders fell from the walls like flies, their bodies convulsing in anguish. The magus felt an excruciating pain grip his body, but he didn't wince or move an inch. What was pain to a man who had already crossed the threshold between life and death? His chanting continued uninterrupted. The enraged monstrosity shrieked to the skies, and charged the insolent tifling, claws shattering the pavement. When no more than twenty yards separated the two, there was a tear in the fabric of this realm, as rays of Primordial Darkness smashed into the Ancient Beast's chest.
"Step aside," a voice sounded
By midday he came upon a small pond in the woods, and bent over it for a drink. His reflection in the calm water caused him to recoil in horror. His features had grown sharp, hawk-like, and his eyes glowed a bloody crimson color. Diarten had half-expected this kind of development, but not that it would happen so quickly. His hoarse, croaking laughter ruptured the serene quiet blanketing the woods. After drinking his fill, the necromancer struggled back to his feet and resumed his grueling journey. The ice-cold water lent a temporary respite from the pain, expelling the hellish whisper from his consciousness, and the necromancer's thoughts skipped back to the previous day...
Over the past ten days the citizens of Suonu had rebuffed six attacks and had razed nearly all the siege towers besetting the city of the punishers. Every combat-ready man, woman and child had taken to the walls, preferring death in battle to being slaughtered on one of the mad god's many altars. But today, the attackers' strategy had shifted. After falling back and leaving yet another hundred or so corpses piled up outside the walls, the disavowed tapped into the emanations of fear and pain soaring over the city to summon Nerghall. Diarten knew then that his time had come. Two hundred years in the service of his mistress had earned him the right to summon her—once, just once—and this was exactly the moment that called for it.
To stand a chance against the Lord of Darkness you had to be a Lord or... a god. Diarten knew the price he would have to pay for summoning his mistress—his life. But he didn't doubt his decision for a second. Standing in the square, across from the main gates, before the eyes of the city's worn-out defenders, the magus slit his wrists with his trusty kris, then threw up his hands and began to sing the summoning chant, feeling his life fleeting away with every drop of blood trickling from his veins.
The city gates collapsed with a deafening crash. The hoisting chains clanked and rattled, tearing like worn threads, as the Ancient Beast emerged from billows of dust and entered the city. Nerghall moved his massive head to his left, then to his right. The black pools of his eyes—oozing a boundless, everlasting hunger—stopped on the tiny tifling standing tall across the main gates. Having identified the enemy without error, the Lord of Darkness shook off the wooden and stone debris, and roared triumphantly, exposing rows of razor-sharp teeth as long as a man's arm. Shards of glass burst from a dozen windows of nearby houses, spraying the streets. The defenders fell from the walls like flies, their bodies convulsing in anguish. The magus felt an excruciating pain grip his body, but he didn't wince or move an inch. What was pain to a man who had already crossed the threshold between life and death? His chanting continued uninterrupted. The enraged monstrosity shrieked to the skies, and charged the insolent tifling, claws shattering the pavement. When no more than twenty yards separated the two, there was a tear in the fabric of this realm, as rays of Primordial Darkness smashed into the Ancient Beast's chest.
"Step aside," a voice sounded
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