Paul Thompson - Destiny

“The Stair of Distant Vision,” the sorcerer declared. “Here begins the end of your race.”

Breetan and Jeralund had picked up a promising trail. Two people—elves, from the size and shape of their footprints—were heading east into the high mountains. Wondering why two elves would be out, alone and on foot, so far from their camp, Breetan decided to track them. After a day’s stalk, she and the sergeant glimpsed their quarry along an open ridge. One was a middle-aged elf so exhausted he staggered like a drunkard. The other was completely covered by the heavy layers of a hooded, ragged robe.

“The Scarecrow!”

Jeralund agreed with Breetan’s whispered evaluation. Who else in this lifeless place would need to burden themselves with such a supremely uncomfortable disguise?

Knight and sergeant stalked their prey with utmost care. The range was too great for her special crossbow, so Breetan forced herself to be patient. Her target would not get away. The Scarecrow must have a good reason for being up there, perhaps heading for a secret rendezvous with other elf rebels.

After nightfall, a pale greenish light brightened their quarry’s campsite. Breetan, climbing some ten yards from the sergeant, wondered if it was meant to be a signal, but she could discern no answering gleam from the surrounding peaks, so she resumed the climb.

Less than a minute later, she did notice light, a faint, diffuse glow on the rocks around her. She turned to look behind. A swarm of small, glowing globes was sweeping upslope at considerable speed. Since arriving in the valley, she and Jeralund had seen similar lights in the distance. Breetan thought them lamps carried by patrolling elves, but the lights closing on them belied that theory. Each was a floating fireball, colored green, red, blue, or yellow.

They whizzed overhead, emitting a sizzling sound as they passed. Breetan loaded her crossbow with a hardwood quarrel and raised the sight to her eye. The lights were small but so bright that they were easy to see. She loosed. The black-painted quarrel flew true. A golden light dropped to the ground. She went to retrieve her prize.

The light was much dimmer, and Breetan was certain she’d injured it, whatever it was. When she got close, she realized it wasn’t actually lying on the ground, but hovering a few inches above it. Even as she noticed that, the dim light and leaped off the ground straight at her face. Flinging herself backward, she tumbled down the slope, losing her crossbow and finally fetching U against a gnarled juniper tree. The little globe of golden fire, shining brightly, sailed well overhead.

Jeralund had made no headway against the lights either. He’d drawn his sword when they approached and slashed at them as they dodged and dashed around him. The only result was exhaustion. Sweating despite the coolness of the night air, he lowered his blade and stood panting. Surprisingly, the lights stopped as well. He decided they were reacting to his movements. When he fought, they swarmed. When he stood still, they quieted.

Moving slowly and carefully, he sheathed his sword. A single orange light left the swarm above him and plummeted directly at his face. Jeralund’s reaction was immediate and unfortunate. He flung up a hand to ward off the light. When he touched the ball of fire, both it and he vanished in a flash of white. A heartbeat later, a dull boom echoed over the mountainside. The remaining lights winked out.

Breetan disentangled herself from the juniper tree. She found her crossbow, undamaged by the fall, but wasn’t so fortunate herself. It felt as though she’d broken a rib. Wincing, she looked up in time to see Jeralund engulfed in light. She stumbled to the place where he’d been, but he had vanished.

The echoes of the boom faded away. Unnatural silence reclaimed the night. Casting a final, fruitless look around, Breetan shouldered her crossbow and resumed the chase.

“Pull! Heave away! Smartly now, smartly!”

Hands cupped around his mouth, Hamaramis shouted encouragement as a hundred elves strained on ropes and levers, trying to upend a giant block of stone. Hamaramis had chosen one of the smaller stones within the elves’ camp, but smaller did not mean small. The block was twenty feet high, ten wide, and as much as six feet thick. Affixing hooks to its top had been easy. Shifting the massive block was not.

The Speaker had returned from a long sojourn at the center of the mysterious platform and had ordered Hamaramis to bring down a monolith immediately. The general had wanted to topple a block all along, to strengthen the defensive wall When the Speaker explained why he wanted to move the stone, Hamaramis feared the disease attacking the Speaker’s body had begun to affect his mind as well.

“While on the platform I spoke with Hytanthas Ambrodel!”

With the care of one humoring a disordered mind, Hamaramis replied, “With his ghost, sire?”

Gilthas made a dismissive gesture. “He lives, General, but is lost in the maze of tunnels under the valley. I mean to break into them and find him.”

The Speaker insisted no one else be told of this. Hamaramis understood the need for secrecy. From what Hytanthas had reported, the other missing elves were most likely dead, but if the news of Hytanthas’s survival spread, bereaved family members would mob the scene and impede their efforts. The old general’s notion of shoring up their defenses would be a good cover.

Hamaramis called for more hands on the ropes. Onlookers crowded in to take hold wherever there was space. The general sent a volunteer up the stone to make certain all ropes were pulling equally. Behind the block, elves wielded levers made of the valley’s twisted trees. They piled dirt under the levers to improve their lifting ability.

“Once more then. Heave!”

The ropes went taut. Elves strained and groaned and sweated. The block leaned forward a few inches, buckling the turf before it, but no amount of pulling could budge it further. Hamaramis finally called a halt. The elves dropped the ropes and nursed their aching limbs. The old general went to consult with his Speaker.

The unnatural cold atop the circular platform had worsened Gilthas’s condition, and the palanquin’s original design had been modified. Rather than sitting upright, the Speaker reclined fully, with pillows to prop head and shoulders and a number of mantles and cloaks tucked around him for warmth.

“It’s no good, sire,” Hamaramis declared. “Eight or ten feet of its length must be buried. We’ll never move it this way.”

Gilthas shook his head in wonder. The original inhabitants, slight in size and few in number, must have employed magic to erect the thousands of ponderous stone blocks. Unfortunately, magic was in short supply among the new occupants of Inath-Wakenti.

Sunset had come and gone. Hamaramis suggested they call a halt for the night. Gilthas agreed. He dismissed the volunteers and gave permission for the levers to be taken for firewood. Closing his eyes, he lay quiet for a long minute.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” he finally murmured.

“What, sire?” Hamaramis asked.

“How empty the valley feels without Lady Kerianseray.”

Quieter too, the old general thought, but merely agreed with his king.

As the volunteers streamed away, a few youths removed the ropes still atop the stone. Gilthas, watching their nimble ascent of the stone, sighed with envy and tried to sit up. Hamaramis objected, telling the Speaker he was overtaxing himself. Gilthas held up a silencing hand. Only a very few were allowed to chide him, however well-meaning his wife was one, Planchet had been another.

Gilthas’s attention turned to the turf buckled in front of the stone. He leaned over the side of the palanquin, the better to see, and steadied himself by resting a hand on the block.