Douglas Niles - Fate of Thorbardin

“Do something!” Sadie screamed while Peat dropped to his knees and covered his face with his frail, spotted hands.

Seeing that Brandon was sitting up, touching his healed shoulder in wonder even as he looked around at the monstrous scope of destruction, Gretchan rose to her feet and strode to the very summit of the Isle of the Dead, to the place where her cage had rested before the power of Reorx had blasted it asunder.

The priestess stood tall, resting the butt of her staff on the ground, and she leaned back to expose her face to the ceiling, to the blinding light of the infernal fires. Closing her eyes in concentration, clutching the rod of her sacred artifact in both hands, she raised her voice in a chant that pierced through even the thunderous chaos roaring through the chamber.

“O Father God of All Dwarves, Master of the Forge-hear my prayer!” cried the priestess. Her words echoed and resounded like a chorus of singing voices. The anvil on the tip of her staff glowed with a brilliance that outshone even the hellish fires on the dome overhead.

Suddenly, with a shocking lurch, the ground moved under her feet, and for an instant the cleric thought they were all doomed, that they were going to fall amid the rocks, tumble into the water, drown or be buried by the massive, cataclysmic collapse of the entire mountain range. But they were not falling. In fact, it was the lake that seemed to be going down and away from them as, with each passing second, the surface of the water appeared to recede farther and farther away.

Still, Gretchan kept her feet and sensed the movement as a steady, stable force. She held firm in her position upon the crest of the hill, with Brandon, Sadie, and Peat huddling nearby. It was clear to all by then that they were not falling.

Instead, they were being borne upward, lifted by the power of her immortal god.

Tarn and Crystal led a mass procession of dwarves out of Norbardin and down the Urkhan Road. When they reached the terminus, at the shore of the sea, they found hundreds of dwarves already thronging there, staring out over the underground lake. Whispered word of their arrival spread, and the crowd parted to allow the king and queen to move down near the edge of the water, though none dared venture onto the wharf because it was steadily inundated by the fierce, unnatural waves that pounded against the shore.

At first, Tarn thought they were seeing a place exposed to daylight, and he wondered if the whole top of the mountain had been shorn away. Very quickly he determined that the brilliance came from three distinct fires, places where the rocky ceiling of the cavern was being consumed by a foul, yellow fire that seemed to cut right through the stone. The brilliance was intense and surreal, surrounded by thick and churning smoke. The smell of sulfur and brimstone was thick in the air, and he had a terrible flashing memory of the Chaos War, when the fires had been living things, a scourge of destruction sweeping through Thorbardin.

And in that light, he saw movement in the center of the lake. He wondered if it were a volcanic eruption, some kind of disaster that sent the Isle of the Dead exploding upward. For that was what they witnessed: a movement of solid ground, an upthrust of the rocky knob climbing away from the water, rising toward the ceiling of the massive cavern. It was the whole island, and it was moving upward, away from the lake and into the air.

But it was not an explosion, and it was not flying; it was a true, living growth. Solid rock supported the upper surface, like a shaft of green plant shooting upward to seek the sun. The rock continued to grow, emerging from the water, pushing higher and higher through the vault of the great cavern. The yellow fires on the ceiling smoked and smoldered in the face of such power, but those blazes were corrupt, and they were dying, as the rising stone pillar was genuine, no illusion, and it was pure.

The rocky, shattered island continued to be elevated into the air, borne upward by a massive pillar of rock that emerged from the lake, lifting it ever higher. Water gushed away from it in a steady cascade, a churning whitewash of foam and current. It spilled down the sides of the stone surface, and it churned and tossed around the base, radiating outward with the force of huge waves. The swells struck the shores of the sea and rolled back upon themselves until the whole surface of the water was tossed like a gale-swept ocean, waves colliding and crashing, spray flying, breakers smashing against the shore.

And the force that caused the storm was not a natural pillar of stone, the king realized, as more water spilled away from the exposed rock and the pillar continued to grow, rising hundreds of feet above the lake, with water draining away enough that the watchers could make out details. Dwarves began to mutter or pray or shout in reverence and awe. For they all knew they were witnessing a miracle, the real power of their deity, the Father God of All Dwarves, giving his people a great and wonderful gift.

Crystal gripped Tarn’s hand tightly, and together, barely daring to believe, they made out the outlines of wide porticos and columned balconies, as pure and pristine as if they had just been carved by master craftsmen. Buildings and platforms came into view, with rows of windows and ornate, marbled vantages swiftly drying as the water spilled away. Tarn scarcely dared to believe it as he saw the outline of his father’s palace, the wonderful edifice near to the top of the city that had been destroyed during the Chaos War.

And it was coming into being again, all immaculate, still rising, with the top of the island pressing ever higher, toward the ceiling of the cavern. Where that ceiling had started to sag, weakened by the three fires of corruption, it would be supported, stronger than ever, by the might of the renewed stone pillar.

Tarn realized what was happening, though he scarcely dared to believe it. But he recognized the truth, and he spoke that truth to his wife:

“By the power of Reorx,” he murmured. “The Life-Tree is restored!”

Brandon was swept away by a sense of wonder-amazement at his own survival, at Willim’s death, and at the power of the god, made manifest in Gretchan’s prayer. He knew they rose higher and higher, and very rapidly at that, but the movement was so smooth that he didn’t even feel any difficulty in standing or maintaining his balance. They were drawing closer to the vile, yellow fires that had burned into the ceiling, but those infernal sores were being gradually doused, defeated by the glory of Reorx.

“The teeth of the dragon are no match for the power of our god,” Gretchan told him, and though he had no idea what dragon she was referring to, he was willing to acknowledge that the power of their growing pillar of stone was the most awe-inspiring display of force he had ever seen.

He became aware of a new problem, one that would affect only the four of them who happened to be on the Isle of the Dead as the miracle transpired. The surface of the lake was far below them as the pillar of rock continued to grow. The ceiling over them was very close and coming ever closer. They could look up and see the cracks and fissures in the roof, and it seemed clear that the pillar would continue to rise until the two surfaces met. That meeting would save Thorbardin, for the pillar would support the roof and prevent the catastrophic collapse that had seemed so imminent.

But it might be very bad news for the four dwarves standing on top of the pillar.

“Do something!” Sadie screamed. “We’ll be crushed!” She rushed toward Gretchan, but both Peat and Brandon seized her and pulled her away from the priestess.

“Sit still, woman!” Peat barked. “Can’t you see she’s doing the best miracle she knows how to do?”