Douglas Niles: Wizards' Conclave

“Indeed,” agreed Solinari. “That is the only thing that we can do.”

Murk lay over the land in this place. A stinking miasma enveloped the skeletal remnants of trees, outlining the leafless branches, caressing the rotted, moldering bark. The mist ebbed and flowed, surged and receded. It was green and gray and sometimes a pale, sickly white, lying close along the ground, filling the shallow hollows, and now and again surging through the dead trees like a brackish tide billowing among the pilings of a ruined pier.

Many of the once-lofty pines lay inert, a forest of giant matchsticks tangled and tossed by gigantic or godly hands. Some of the timbers were invisible within the mist, while others rose starkly against the gray and sunless sky. No creatures dwelled here, not even rat or vulture or other carrion scrounger. Even the wind seemed afraid to intrude, to display any sign of vitality. Instead, the fetid air lay languid and suffocating over the ruined land, like a poisonous blanket that smothered all vitality.

Yet even in the lifelessness, there was noise. Bubbles of sulfurous gas percolated up through the soggy ground, bursting with the sound of gooey slapping. Branches and tree trunks snapped for no apparent reason; the sharp cracks immediately faded, as if the dead forest were acting promptly to absorb all sound into the corrupt bosom of its rotten soul.

Now and then a great rumble would shiver the flesh of the world, creak and groan forbiddingly, briefly raking the ground. Then trees wobbled and swayed, and brittle branches fell like stinging rain. One or two of the still-upright trees would lean too far, groaning like things that were dying in great agony. With a splintering snap, the ancient giant of the wood broke near its base and toppled to land amid the rotting corpses of its fellows.

The forest was decaying, dying everywhere, but it was not as dead as the lake. Across the vast expanse of poisoned wetness, the lake stood revealed in all its ghastly desolation. Fumes rose from the surface, thick tendrils of oily effluence that danced like wraiths above the fetid surface, slunk low toward the shore. These sinuous vapors coiled and twirled and reached toward the shore, forming the mist that thrust its foul fingers through the wasteland of wood. The vaporous tentacles caressed each rotted trunk, probed knotholes and stroked the splintered gaps, seeping into the very pores of the timber—and thus hastening its irreversible decay.

A spume erupted, violently, far out on the flat surface. Like a geyser, spewing steam of green and liquid caustic enough to burn through plate mail armor, the spire cast itself far into the sky. For several minutes it roared and pulsed, showering acid in a great circle while the steam that came after lingered, a toxic plume slowly settling toward the surface. For a long time that cloud expanded, adding countless additional tendrils to the vaporous emissions constantly poking and wending through the lifeless forest.

Far from shore, nearly invisible in the mists, the upper ramparts of a tower slanted skyward from the surface of the lake. Balconies that had once been crystal and silver were now corroded to a rusty gray. Gaps showed where sections of the wall had been rent by violence. Judging by the angle of its leaning, it seemed inconceivable that the spire could survive long without toppling into the waters and vanishing.

“That tower was a thousand feet tall.”

The speaker was a tall man, gaunt and hook-nosed. His visage was concealed behind a massive spray of silver-black beard and a tangle of long gray hair. His eyebrows bristled, meeting thickly over his massive beak of a nose, shading a pair of deep-set eyes. Even sunken as they were into the almost gaunt face, those eyes gleamed, sparkling with intelligence, ambition… and perhaps a hint of madness.

“How can it still be standing?” asked a second man, much shorter and rounder than the first. His beard was neatly trimmed where his companion’s was wild. His manicured nails somehow gleamed even in the murky haze. “The convulsion that wracked this place when the Green Mistress fell should have rattled it to pieces. It seemed as though every other building toppled! Beryl herself crushed a hundred great houses when her body struck the ground!”

“Ah, but the Tower of the Sun was not a structure made of mortal stone. Even among the elf-houses, which are enforced with crystal and gemstone on every side, that spire was a thing of ancient might. I am not surprised that it stands, even if somewhat askew.” The tall man glared down at his companion as he gestured across the lake, waving his hand with disdain. “But that tower is insignificant to us. It means less than nothing.”

“Very well, Kalrakin.” The short man seemed to accept this with a shrug. He glanced over his shoulder, through the dead woods. The mist parted, slightly, revealing a glimpse of green, a living forest very far away. “But I am worried about pursuit. Perhaps now is the time for you to tell me what you plan for us to do.”

“Did you not tell me, yourself, that in time our true path would be revealed to us? Luthar, you surprise me. I did not think you were the type to have doubts. If you wish, of course, I am sure the Dark Knights would be glad to take you back. Though, after the bloodletting of our departure, they may feel they have a score to settle.”

Luthar snorted. “Did you have to kill so many of them? I told you, they were fully prepared to let us leave with the artifact. And they would not have been inclined to pursue their two most adept sorcerers, no matter what we took from them before our departure. Even before this morning, they had good cause to fear our power.”

At the mention of the artifact, Kalrakin smiled, as a delectable memory was refreshed. His hand, a skeleton of long, slender fingers, crept into a pouch at his waist. They emerged, curled into a claw, holding a pearly sphere the size of a child’s fist. Even through the cage of the tall man’s fingers, the stone cast light bright enough to penetrate the midday haze.

“This is all that matters. They were insignificant men; their lives meant nothing.”

“Still, we have no need of further enemies! In destroying so many, we leave others with a burning desire for vengeance.

“Luthar, you do not understand the power of fear. Those who witnessed our departure may mourn for their slain companions, and they may speak of us with hatred, but they are not likely to come after us—for they are afraid. And as to those who died, they had no reason to live,” Kalrakin said contemptuously. “Their general is dead. The land they occupied, this place they once called Qualinesti, is a lifeless wasteland. The elves, their former subjects, are gone, and the green dragon is dead. Let the Dark Knights die, too, and this place might finally be forgotten. It deserves no better.”

Luthar’s expression turned sly. “But aren’t we here, on the shores of the former elf realm, because Qualinesti was also the home of the Irda Stone?”

The tall sorcerer looked down at the pearly sphere. He squeezed and the light pulsed, brightening the spark in his eye. “The pathetic elves did not understand the power of the thing that they held in their treasury, locked away with a thousand other pretty baubles. And when the Dark Knights claimed those stones as part of their due tribute, Marshal Medan was equally a fool. It was not until you , my worthy helpmate, brought me to see the stone that I recognized its true power. Its true identity had been overlooked for thousands of years, but I have reawakened it. We claimed the opportunity, and we took it—the stone itself could ask for nothing less!”

The ground rumbled again, a tremor rolling through the dead forest, lifting the ground underfoot. Both men staggered, and Luthar leaned against his companion, bracing himself. Dead trees toppled here and there, and the tremor shivered up to the shoreline, sending a wave of ripples through the acidic brew.