“I’m thinking that time was months ago,” Boris said, winking. “But as they say, better late than. . ”
Boris’s voice was cut off by a loud cackle that shook the sand beneath their feet. A blinding purple light followed, shining from the Black Spire and causing both Ceredon and the human to cover their eyes and turn away. The cackling eventually died down, the light dimming, but not completely flickering out.
“What was that?” asked Boris, his voice frantic.
Ceredon spun around and gazed in horror at the Black Spire. It was black no more, its surface a swirling cavalcade of dark colors that covered the surface like water over a stone. The stone rippled, and then a slender human figure emerged, dressed in a blood-splattered white robe. He walked unevenly at first, but slowly gained his balance as he climbed to the top of the wrecked dais. Ceredon and Boris were still standing beside the wagon Ceredon had been tied to, toward the rear of scene of battle, but even though he was a hundred yards away from the dais, Ceredon knew who the being was. Darakken laughed once more and threw back his hood, and Ceredon could hear no trace of humanity in the demon’s tone. He watched as Darakken hefted a large bag from the wreckage, reached inside, and lifted out a giant tome, the same book that the beast had shown him the night he’d murdered Ceredon’s father, the very same book that Boris had given to Darakken.
“Oh, shit,” said Boris.
Ceredon picked up a discarded khandar and began to stalk toward the beast, slowly, cautiously. Behind him, Boris stood frozen.
The demon in its faltering human shell knelt on the pile of debris, the swirling light from the Spire making it seem like a wraith made flesh. The side of its face the giant had pulverized knitted back together, the jaw snapped back into place. It flexed its mouth, eyes burning with such brightness that it seemed to blot out the glow coming from the hunk of black stone behind him. Those eyes bore into Ceredon, a wicked smile coming over the demon’s maw.
“The feast has begun,” Darakken said.
Ceredon took another step forward, his insides burning with both anger and terror. Finally he’d had enough; he bellowed and began to sprint, khandar held above his head. The demon glanced up at him and raised its hand, and Ceredon was hurled backward as if struck by a boulder. He hit the ground hard and rolled, his momentum stopped by a mound of dead elves. His side ached, and Ceredon got up on his elbows, staring once more toward the remains of the dais. His thoughts were a muddle of confusion, and his vision shook.
“There is no interrupting the feast,” Darakken said, scowling. The demon then placed the book down and whispered incoherent words of magic. The tome flopped open, its pages rifling all on their own until they fell still. The demon’s gaze remained fixed on Ceredon, its rotten-toothed grin growing all the wider. It then lowered its glowing gaze to the book.
“ ‘In order to create worlds of their own, the gods require self-sacrifice,’ ” the creature read, its voice like a bear trying to mimic speech. “ ‘Celestia placed a piece of her essence into the heavens, forming the heart of Dezrel. The world spun around that piece of the goddess, taking shape, growing outward, giving birth to the land, the mountains, the oceans, the rivers, the trees. Yet when the eon passed, that piece remained. Small, slender, it is most sacred.’ ” Darakken lifted his glowing eyes to Ceredon and Boris. “So wrote the elves of ancient times; so wrote the man who penned this very tome.”
Ceredon struggled to his feet, his fingers finding the dropped khandar and lifting it once more. He looked to the side, searching for Boris, but the human was nowhere to be found.
“Coward,” Ceredon whispered. “What have you done?”
“He has given me a chance at new life!” the beast laughed. “The Black Spire is a piece of Celestia herself. Within that crystal lie the secrets of the universe, a gateway to realms long forgotten, a portal into the very heart of creation.” The demon pounded a withered fist against its human chest. “Within lies the power to recreate the truest beauty that ever roamed this land, a beauty created by the great Kaurthulos himself!”
Ceredon took a deep breath and gritted his teeth. He then took off at a run once more, careening toward the kneeling creature.
Darakken watched him approach, eager. The thing looked like a child given a present, barely able to contain himself before opening it. The distance shrinking, it began reading from the book once more.
“ ‘Antidrok lakkath!’ With the blood of the children of the goddess that banished me, I shall be reborn!”
The beast continued to chant, its words becoming more and more desperate. Ceredon reached the edge of the smashed dais, let out a guttural cry, and leapt over the debris. He jammed the khandar into Darakken’s chest. The beast threw its head back, its mouth opening wide, and a spiraling tube of shadow erupted from its maw with such force that Ceredon was thrown backward. He landed hard atop the corpse of an elf, knocking the wind from his lungs.
He rolled off the corpse and onto his hands and knees, looking on as the body of Clovis Crestwell deflated and then collapsed as if there were nothing left within it to keep its form. The living shadow that had been trapped within it writhed and billowed in the night sky, forming a giant cloud above the thrumming Black Spire.
So huge, Ceredon thought. How did that frail body ever contain it?
A primal scream seemed to emanate from the very air. The light from the Spire was bright, so bright it hurt to look; yet despite the pain, Ceredon watched as the living cloud stabbed into the pulsating rock. The Spire began to shake, fissures forming along its surface like cracks in thin ice. The corpse of the elf beside Ceredon quivered, as if something inside were trying to escape. Ceredon backed away from it on his hands and knees, watching in horror as the corpse’s eyes exploded. Thick, coagulated blood seeped from its every orifice, flowing along the sand in thin streams.
Ceredon struggled to his feet, panic making it difficult to think. All around him the lifeless bodies of Dezren and Quellan elves performed the same perverted dance as the first, their blood spewing from their bodies until the combined streams became a great river flowing in the direction of the Black Spire. The thirteen human soldiers left bound by Bardiya’s men writhed against their chains, screaming in agony as their blood burst from their eyes, mouths, and nostrils. Only instead of it joining the flowing river, it flew backward, as if the Black Spire deemed it unworthy.
The wreckage of the dais collapsed further as the river of elven blood surged over it. The dark fluid pooled around the base of the Spire, and the tall, pulsing formation of dark crystal began to drink it in. Its glow became darker and yet more forceful. The book Darakken had read from lifted into the air, rotating on an invisible axis, itself bathed in a strange light. A deep rumbling shook the ground.
Ceredon started running as the corpses themselves rolled toward the pulsating obelisk. He dared not turn around, not when he heard the sickening crack of bones being pulverized, nor the rip of flesh and muscle torn asunder. He kept his eyes on his goal, the tall dune that led west toward the very edge of Ker. Boris Marchant’s words to him the first night he visited him repeated over and over in his head.
“Because after Darakken destroys Ker, he’ll turn his back on his promise to your people. He will fulfill the purpose he was created for: devouring elves. Stonewood will come next, then Dezerea, then Quellassar.”
Ceredon ran until the whole of him burned as he crossed the treacherous, shifting sand underfoot. When he reached the top of the dune, he collapsed, panting, and looked up to see a whitened cliff face before him, radiant in the moonlight. He caught the flash of feline eyes hidden within the softly blowing grasses at the base of the cliff. Sandcats. He clenched his teeth, ready for them to chase a helpless meal, but they did not. They remained where they were, partially concealed by the grass.