Philip Athans - Scream of Stone

The floor shook again, making the bed quiver under him. That time he was sure it wasn’t just his imagination. He threw off the bedclothes and stood just as the door burst open.

“Second Chief Gahrzig,” Pristoleph said to the wemic in the doorway, “what was that?”

The lion-barbarian said, “You had better come and see.”

In the time it took Gahrzig to say that, the ransar had donned a dressing gown and crossed to the door. The wemic led the way, trundling along the wide, high-ceilinged corridors with a clatter of weapons and armor, and the tapping of his sharp claws on the polished marble. By the time they reached a circular stairway that wound its way up to the top of the highest tower, the wemic had broken into a run, and Pristoleph panted trying to keep up with him.

The building shook again and again as they climbed the stairs. The motion was just strong enough to be felt, and at no time did Pristoleph feel as though it would knock him off his feet, or that it would put the structural integrity of his great manor in peril. Still, the ground shouldn’t shake like that, despite the storm that raged outside.

When they came to the topmost room they were greeted by three of Gahrzig’s wemics, who stood with wide eyes, clutching at their enchanted spears with tense hands. Pristoleph went to a window on the northwestern wall of the room to look out over his city, and his jaw fell open at what he saw.

A fierce orange glow lit the far horizon, brighter even than the lights of the city that stretched out below him. Lightning flashed all around and a strong wind whipped rain against the windows. The orange glow reflected in the droplets that clung to the glass, and on the faces of the wemics that stared off into the distance, unsure how to react to something they didn’t understand. The floor trembled again and in a moment the orange glow brightened and expanded. Pristoleph put a hand against the window frame and waited. It took a long time for the shockwave to travel from the source of the orange light, but when it did, he felt the floor once more quiver under his bare feet.

“What is it, Ransar?” Gahrzig asked, his throaty voice quiet, muffled by awe.

“The canal,” Pristoleph whispered back, the sound of his own words making his eyes burn. “It’s the canal.”

The wemic shook his head. He didn’t understand, but Pristoleph didn’t want to explain. He touched his head to the cool glass and closed his eyes to hold the tears in. The glass steamed, made opaque by the heat of his forehead, and he stepped back. The distant orange glows continued to flare, one after another, tracing a line along the canal, straight from the north to the south. Each one grew brighter, and the floor shook just a little more each time.

“Everyone in the city must be able to feel it-even see it-now,” Gahrzig said. “What do we do?”

Pristoleph shook his head. By the time any of them made it out there what was happening would have long finished. Whatever it was, whatever cataclysm had befallen the canal, could hardly be stopped from miles away in the middle of a storm-ravaged night.

“We watch it,” Pristoleph said. “That’s all we can do.”

The wemic nodded. He seemed satisfied, but then Gahrzig and his tribe cared nothing of the canal, if they even understood what it was, and what it would mean to Innarlith.

“Phyrea,” Pristoleph whispered, the name coming unbidden to his lips.

“Ransar?” asked the wemic mercenary.

Pristoleph looked at him and blinked. He didn’t know why he’d spoken her name-and why, when he had, his heart sank in his chest. He held his left hand up in front of his face and saw sweat glisten in his palm.

“Ransar?” the wemic asked again.

Pristoleph said, “Nothing.”

“You’re worried about your female,” the wemic stated, his voice pitched to reassure his employer.

The ransar nodded at first then shook his head. “No,” he said. “Phyrea is at Berrywilde-her family’s country estate.”

“Out of the city,” said Gahrzig. “Good. Safer. But where is-?”

“To the east,” Pristoleph interrupted. “Far away from the canal.”

Pristoleph couldn’t resist looking off through the windows that faced east. No fiery light glowed on that horizon. It wasn’t even early enough for the first hint of dawn. Thunder crashed, close and loud, startling both Pristoleph and Gahrzig, who also stared off into the east at darkness only occasional split by jagged bolts of lightning.

“She is safe, then,” the wemic said.

Pristoleph watched more brilliant orange explosions plume up from the northwestern horizon.

23 Tarsakh, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

THE CANAL SITE

Hrothgar had never in his whole life felt himself shake so badly. It was as though his very bones quivered. His skin crawled, and the hair-all of his hair, all over his body, and that was a lot-stood on end. He was sure that his gums were peeling back from his teeth. His eyes watered and his head throbbed.

The force of any one of the explosions would have been enough to rattle anyone, even a sturdy dwarf like Hrothgar. A series of them, one after another, dozens upon dozens marching in a line nearly forty miles from the Nagaflow on the north end to the Lake of Steam at the south end, made Hrothgar think that Faerun, even Toril itself, was splitting in two.

But finally the explosions passed, lighting the sky at the far horizon, shaking the ground for a long time after the last of the shards of stone and wood had fallen, and eventually even the ground stopped shaking and the horizon went dark. The rain never ceased, though, and for once Hrothgar was thankful for it. The cool rain calmed his heat-nettled skin and made steam billow up from his scorched clothes and hair.

He fell as much as ran to Devorast’s side. The Cormyrean lay face down in the mud, and Hrothgar didn’t know if he was dead or alive. He grabbed the man by his torn and ragged vest and turned him over. The effort, which should have been nothing for the strong and hearty dwarf, nearly exhausted him. Devorast, limp and covered in mud and soaked to the skin, seemed to weigh a ton.

When his face was turned to the pelting rain, the human blinked and sputtered. While Devorast coughed Hrothgar laughed. Tears streamed down his bearded face to add their salt to the rain, and he put a hand on Devorast’s chest, to feel his heart beating. Lightning flashed overhead, and when the thunder rumbled behind it, Devorast opened his eyes. He blinked a few times before he finally made eye contact with the dwarf. Hrothgar stopped laughing, the smile melting from his lips.

Devorast put his hands over his eyes and clawed the mud off his face. He tried to sit up but winced and groaned in pain.

“Lay back,” Hrothgar advised him, but when the ground shifted beneath them, he changed his mind.

He’d thought it was over, but he was wrong.

“The hill is shifting,” Hrothgar said as he grabbed Devorast by the collar. “I’m carryin’ you outta here.”

“Void …” Devorast mumbled, then grunted when Hrothgar draped him over his broad shoulder.

“Void is right, by Moradin’s Beard,” Hrothgar said.

The explosions had opened a space in the ground beneath them, a void, and the heavy, wet ground was sinking to fill it. Hrothgar knew enough about mining, about digging, about holes in the ground to know that it would sink slowly at first, settling, trying to redistribute its weight, then it would collapse all at once, and anyone unlucky or stupid enough to be standing on top of it would be swallowed whole by Toril herself.

“Come, boy,” Hrothgar growled.

He dragged Devorast’s feet behind him, the human too tall for him to properly carry, but at that moment the dwarf didn’t care if he left body parts in his wake, as long as he got himself and his friend out of there before-