“Out,” he hissed, and lackeys scrambled to obey, vacating the chamber, fleeing their master’s wrath.
The darkness gathered upon the ebon throne as Modru cast forth his mind, reaching out unto the world, reaching forth unto the Grimwall Mountains, seeking the vacant mind tended by those who watched Dragonslair from afar, seeking the one who would serve as his host. Yet, no empty mind, no hollow vessel, was waiting, waiting the touch of the Master, waiting to be filled with his essence.
It was as if the surrogate had been destroyed.
Angered, once again Modru cast forth his mind, this time seeking the one who served as his host within Andrak’s strongholt. But he was once more thwarted, for again no empty mind stood waiting.
Here too, it was as if the vessel had been destroyed.
Enraged, Modru shouted his anger, and elsewhere within, Rūcks scuttled and scrabbled and bolted to far chambers, running, hiding, scrambling ’neath tables and chairs and beds, seeking safety in closets and recesses, niches and coverts, fleeing to anywhere they might escape his fury.
And Modru cast forth his mind yet a third time, now seeking not Human vessels, but instead one of the Foul Folk deep within the twisting cracks far below the earth in distant Carph. And the great malevolence rushed into the waiting emissary, filling the empty mind, possessing it, evil glaring forth to see lackeys grovelling upon the stone.
“Go!” he hissed. “Unto Andrak’s holt. Unto Dragonslair. Take my surrogate so that I may see.”
Then the great evil was gone, fled back unto the dark domain deep below the icy Barrens; while behind, shaken Spawn looked into the drooling face before them, now empty of all spark. And then they turned away and began gathering together that which would be needed in the long weeks ahead, as they prepared to set forth to do their Master’s bidding.
And far to the north in the frozen realm, the whelming wind thundered down upon the frigid wastes.
CHAPTER 43
Spring, 3E1603
[The Present]
Thork wept even as he awakened, great uncontrollable sobs racking his frame, tears streaming down his face. .
Beloved.
. . an image of copper hair and green eyes. .
Great hands gently cradled him, and a huge face gazed down upon his own, sapphires peering. .
Again he awakened and still he wept, yet now he was in total blackness, massive arms about him, rock splitting in twain to the fore and sealing shut behind, as he was borne down through cloven stone.
As before, it was pitch dark when next Thork came to his senses. He could hear water running nearby, and the earth trembled, and he had a vague memory of a pounding, a hammering, a signalling deep within the stone. His face was in pain, as if from burns, as well as his right forearm and the calves of both legs. Gingerly he touched his cheek, finding agony and sear. Crawling toward the sound of water, he moved but a few feet, coming to a shallow stream. The bourne was icy, and he plunged his face into the rush, gritting his teeth against the shock and pain, letting the cold remove the fire. Too, he held his right arm under, feeling the char ebb.
Twice he did this, thrice, then again; each time puffing and blowing as he came up for gasps of air.
Again he felt his seared face. Cautiously. Gently probing. His beard was burned to the flesh up the right side. His hair, too was partially burnt away. The sleeve on his right arm was charred, the skin below in pain. Too, his breeks were burned, at his calves, the flesh there raw. He swung about and sat with his legs submerged, water rushing o’er.
When he had been afire, he could not recall.
Still the earth trembled, juddering with shocks tremoring through the stone.
When his legs felt better, slowly he stood. “Where am I?” he asked the shuddering darkness, his voice hoarse and harsh. .
Where am I, am I, am. .
. . echoes casting back from an unseen cavern.
“Thou art with thy friends, Friend.” The voice was deep, resonate, and came from the blackness behind.
Thork whirled, hands groping for axe or hammer, finding nought.
“Who speaks?”
“Thou mayest hight me Orth,” came the voice, the words in a form of Common, yet ancient, archaic.
“I cannot see you, Orth.”
At these words, there murmured a low rumble, as of several deep voices.
“The manner of thine orbs didst we forget,” responded the voice. And there came the sound of splitting stone, and in but moments a dim light shone within the cavern, a giant form moving back from a freshly cloven crevice leading horizontally unto a gloom-cast day.
In wonder, Thork saw that he was in the company of Giants, great gemstone eyes peering at him. Four there were, each with skin hued like stone: buff, dark, grey, rudden. He could not tell if he looked upon male or female, or if that was even a factor among these Folk, for they wore no clothes that he could see, nor carried any equipment about them, and still he could not say.
The grey Utrun stepped forward upon the shuddering cavern floor. “Ae be Orth, Friend.”
“I am called Thork,” said the Dwarf, bowing, gasping in pain, the rush of blood to his seared face bringing agony.
“Ae be honored to be with thee, Friend Thork,” said Orth, “for thou bore the Kammerling forth from the holt of our enemy, thou and thy companion.”
Beloved.
Thork turned away, his eyes glistering with the rush of sudden memory, his chest feeling hollow, empty, as if his heart were gone.
Oh, my Elyn, thou art dead.
Long moments passed in the trembling earth, yet at last he spoke: “My companion. I would see that she is. .”
Again he could say nought, tears streaming down his face. Yet at last: “Stone or fire. She must be laid to rest in stone, or placed upon a fitting pyre.”
Orth gazed north and downward, as if looking through the very stone itself, then turned back to the Dwarf. “Soon, Friend Thork, but not now.” The great sapphirine eyes cast blue glints. “Come. Ae wilt let thee see thyself just why.”
Orth spoke to the other three Utruni, then turned and began stepping through stone at a swift pace, great hands reaching out, spatulate fingers inserting into the rock, arms and shoulders pulling, stone cleaving, and a passageway forming as Orth went.
Thork followed, and within a matter of minutes, the passage opened into air, light streaming inward.
Orth stepped aside, beckoning the Dwarf forward, and he gazed out upon a desolate landscape: mountains: grey, blasted, devastated, dead. Pumice covered all, for as far as the eye could see, a thick smothering of volcanic ash suffocating the land below. No trees, no animals, no birds, no streams. Only death and destruction.
The sky itself was roiling black, filled not with ordinary clouds, but with choking dust instead. And lightning stroked down from the dark churn above, flash upon flash crashing among the peaks, as if the very vault above was charged with endless bolts.
In the near distance before him, thick black smoke boiled upward from the remnants of Dragonslair, and fiery magma ran red down its flanks. Great rocks were blasted upward, out from the gut of the firemountain, the booming explosions slapping and shocking throughout the Grimwall.
And the earth tremored.
And Thork knew that he looked out at Hèl upon Mithgar.
He scanned what was left of Dragonslair, his searching eyes seeing that the vertical face he and Elyn had climbed yet stood, as well as the ledge and slope just above it.
Orth’s voice came gently: “We will bear thy comrade back unto thee when we do go to claim our own slain.”