Paul Thompson - Destiny

Because the Khalkist Mountains deflected the blast, Neraka, Thoradin, and Blöde suffered less. Roofs in every town and hamlet were stripped of tiles, Strange changes of pressure affected communities at high altitudes. Drains cracked and wells overflowed. Bells in the town of Neraka rang, though no hand touched their pull ropes. Towers swayed but none fell. Panes of glass shattered, and the streets filled with puzzled members of the Order, who speculated on the coming of another Cataclysm. In Thoradin the Two Hammers Bridge collapsed, dropping four thousand feet to the bottom of the gorge. Fortunately the span was empty, and no one was hurt. Landslides buried tunnel entrances and toppled mine derricks all through the dwarves’ realm.

Deflected by the mountains, a weaker shock wave rolled down the western slopes. Whirlwinds drove through Sanction, blowing away awnings, shutters, and roof tiles. Ships in the harbor rolled hard. Collisions sank half a dozen. A host of smaller vessels were swamped. Alarm bells sounded and rumors ran wild in the streets. Only the strenuous efforts of the city guard returned calm to Sanction.

The blast reached a narrow beach between the New Sea and the heights of the western Khalkist Mountains. The ground shook violently, and a deep boom of thunder echoed off the peaks. The sea went white with wind-tossed waves. A column of armored warriors riding slowly south along the beach fought to control their plunging horses. Griffon riders in the air overhead had to work equally hard to calm their I own beasts. Dust and dirt rained down on the soldiers.

At the head of the army, Porthios mastered his horse. Two griffons alighted on the beach nearby. Alhana and Samar dismounted and hurried to him.

“What has happened?” Alhana called.

Porthios pulled his hood farther forward to shade his eyes and looked up. The ground had ceased shaking, but a new wonder was unfolding overhead. A vast ring of clouds was racing across the sky, spreading out from some locus behind the mountains. In its wake was the clearest, cleanest blue sky they’d seen in many days.

“Volcano?” suggested Samar. There were no active mountains in central Ansalon, but he could think of nothing else that would cause such a powerful blast.

They searched the sky for smoke or other signs of catastrophe. Nothing was visible but the preternaturally clear vault of blue. In minutes the cloud ring had rolled over the horizon. The temperature dropped noticeably. The very air around them seemed to sparkle.

“No, something strange has happened. Strange and wonderful,” Alhana murmured. Ironhead and Chisa chortled and whistled at each other as if agreeing with her.

Samar inhaled deeply. He vowed that for the first time since their departure from Khur he felt free of the desert’s seared, desiccated air. It wasn’t only their nearness to the sea. The purity of the air had changed completely in the aftermath of the quake.

Only Porthios seemed unaffected. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Whatever it is, it’s over. We ride on.”

Samar regarded him with surprise, but Alhana told her faithful second to get the column moving again. He returned to his griffon, shouting orders for the cavalry and dismounted griffon riders to resume the march.

Alhana understood her husband’s indifference. He didn’t trust feelings. Omens and portents were for those too weak to take destiny into their own hands. She didn’t waste time mourning what he had lost in the fire that had scarred him so grievously inside and out. He was alive. They were together. Nothing in the world mattered more to her.

Yet her silence seemed to unnerve him. He’d pushed his hood back a bit, and she could see his eyes. They darted toward her, away, then back again. She suppressed a smile. He had no idea how well she could read his emotions simply by watching his eyes.

“We’re not going to Sanction, you know,” he said roughly. “We’d find plenty of ships there but too many laws, bureaucrats, and foreign spies. Southward the towns are smaller, but working down the coast, we ought to be able to pick up enough ships to transport the army to Qualinesti.”

“I agree.”

He blinked. Dispute he would have met with forceful arguments, carefully marshaled. Her acquiescence left him nothing to say.

“Samar has the column ready,” she said and turned to go back to Chisa.

Porthios spoke her name. She turned back. He was holding a hand down to her and had kicked one foot free of the stirrup.

Once she was mounted behind him, the Army of Liberation set out again.

On and on the great shock wave flew. Kothas and Mithas experienced mysterious southeast winds, quite contrary to their usual patterns of weather. A dusting of brown sand fell on the islands, followed by showers of tiny yellow flowers. Traders identified the blossoms as dandelion flowers, which grew no closer than Kern. On Schallsea orchards bloomed for a second time in one season, something they had not done in recorded history.

Deep in occupied Qualinesti, Lord Liveskill was summoned from his desk in the Black Hall to witness a strange rain falling on his fortress. He emerged into the bailey amid a flurry of white flower petals. The large, waxy blossoms were from poplar trees, which were long past their blooming time. Pennants atop the battlements were whipping in a stiff northwest wind.

The rain of flowers ceased and nothing more occurred. Liveskill ordered his steward to note the anomalies in the castle’s daybook then returned to his plots and his papers.

Hands cleared away the rocks and dirt covering Favaronas, and he beheld Lady Kerianseray and General Taranath. Both exclaimed at finding him alive. When they helped him sit up, dirt and moss rained from his head and shoulders.

“Can you hear me?” the Lioness asked loudly.

“Perfectly well, lady.” Favaronas’s head rang like a temple bell, but his hearing was unimpaired.

He had been thrown onto a bed of jagged rocks yet had sustained no cuts or bruises. His rescuers were in the same strange condition. Not only were they unharmed by the great explosion, they were in better shape than before it had occurred. The knife wound Kerian had received in Khuri-Khan was completely healed. The arm bore a scar but felt as strong and healthy as ever. The many injuries Favaronas had sustained during his captivity were healed as thoroughly as the Lioness’s arm. Even the fingernails he’d lost dragging himself across the Stair had grown back.

“What was that blast?” Kerian asked.

“The end of a dangerous conjuration.” Favaronas explained that Faeterus had solved the riddle of Inath-Wakenti then attempted to use his knowledge to tap the power held captive within the valley. The power came not from long-gone dragonstones, but from the monoliths themselves. Faeterus had intended nothing less than the utter destruction of the elf race, but his grandiose plans had been thwarted at the last moment.

“Which of you shot him?” Favaronas asked, and they answered with blank looks. “He was hit from behind, with crossbow bolts…“ His voice trailed away as he realized neither of them carried such a weapon.

The Lioness stepped back and looked upslope. She saw no sign of anyone but sent Taranath to investigate the boulders where Robien had spotted an archer. The archer who shot Robien must also have killed Faeterus. Whoever he was, he’d had ample time to serve them the same, but no more black bolts had flown. Taranath returned and reported finding only a torn boot and bloodstained leggings. The cloth was heavyweight serge of northern origin, probably from eastern Solamnia. The boots were common Abanasinian leather. That the assassin had come from west of Khur was all Taranath could determine.