Troy Denning - The Titan of Twilight

I have grown old today, immeasurably ancient and more feeble than I would admit. Perhaps my strength will return with the darkness, or perhaps the ebbing light will leave me even weaker. I do not know; how could I? This is the first sunset I have seen in three thousand years. Perhaps nothing will happen, perhaps I will shrivel into a withered husk, vulnerable to even a mortal’s † it will be safer to find the answer alone.

So I wait, if not enjoying the feel of the sun on my face, then at least savoring the memory of a forgotten joy. I watch the yellow beams as they trickle between the teeth of the distant mountains. One-by-one, the golden rays sink away. Twilight rises higher in the valleys, and the last bead of golden sunlight settles below the jagged horizon. A familiar dullness laps at my feet, like the frigid waters of a sea too salty to freeze, and the pain fades from my crippled heel. A blush of evening gloom creeps over my legs, rich and deep as the last moment of dusk, and beneath this cold murk my shriveled skin grows supple and young again. As the purple tide rises higher, it laves the aches from my bones; the arrow floats from my shoulder, the iron quarrel sinks from my eye, and the strength flows back into my body. I am well again. I am Lanaxis the Chosen One, the Titan of Twilight.

A cold, tingling energy seeps into my body. I step forward into the purple gloom, with aught but a thousand feet of frigid void below, and stretch my hands to my sides. I plummet a hundred feet through the darkness, and shadowy layers of feathers sprout along my arms. I fall another hundred feet, and an umbral tail fans at the base of my spine. My legs become a pair of sticklike silhouettes, my toes the talons of a great raptor. Two hundred feet more, and my lips stretch into a hooked beak. The winds swell beneath me. My umbral wings beat the air, and I rise into the night. I feel as light as a cloud.

At last, the shadowroc is free! I climb higher and soar as I have only dreamed of soaring. The mountains below become dark ruffles of stone streaked by the creamy, writhing snakes of moonlit glaciers. Baronies and fiefs pass like clouds beneath my breast, and the stars above twinkle and wink at me, beckoning. If I had time, I could fly to them, but already the sun has sunk too far below the horizon. Purple twilight is fast yielding to night, and with its dying light shall go my umbral wings.

I wheel and dive. All the northlands spread beneath me, from the sparkling sands of the desert Anauroch to the Coldwood’s black tangle. I sail over valley after valley, crossing aretes and ridges and whole lines of mountains, until I spy a fleck of orange light flickering in the saddle of Cuthbert Pass: the signal blaze at Gap Tower. I swing toward the flame, wondering what fires they will light this time, and soar up the canyon.

In the forest below, dark shapes glide along the edges of the snowy leas and slip quick from the shadow of one tree to the next. They are hulking, disfigured masses, but they move with a slow, silent grace that belies their brutal temper. The fomorians have arrived sooner than I thought, but it hardly matters. Already I see the queen’s tower listing atop the frozen waterfall.

My eyes, as keen as those of any raptor, spy the queen. She stands halfway up the headwall, her ribs heaving, my nephew bundled in her arms. Brianna watches me soar up the valley, then turns and races along the trail to a nearby cliff. She raises the child above her head, as though she expects me to believe she would actually hurl him to his death.

Now will I tame her. I swing my talons forward and voice my woeful screech. So loud and so shrill is the cry that it blasts the snow from the mountainsides and shakes the canyon with rumbling avalanches.

Avner was wondering if the last of the fomorians had passed when the shadowroc’s screech broke over the canyon. Even inside his hiding place, a boulder heap near the bottom of an avalanche chute, the cry was the loudest, sharpest noise he had ever heard. It made his ears ache and his head throb, and so he did not immediately hear the rumbling. The stones around him began to tremble; wisps of powdery dust fell past his nose. Then came the roaring: a low, muffled, basal murmur at the base of his skull. No one who had experienced that soft growl would ever forget it.

With Kaedlaw fastened tight to his chest, Avner leapt from his hiding place and rushed toward the gully wall. He had dug enough victims from avalanches to know that any risk-even being caught by fomorians-was better than being trapped beneath hundreds of tons of snow.

Avner reached the craggy wall in three steps. The cliff was shaking and clattering with the force of the approaching cataclysm. He refused to look toward it; to do so would waste a precious second and petrify him with fear. He grabbed a spear of rock and pulled himself up. Kaedlaw’s head banged against the stone, but if the child complained, the scout could not hear it. The avalanche was closer and larger now; the mountain was groaning beneath its fury. The rumble sounded like thunder.

Avner grasped the edge of a massive granite flake. Something cracked in the base of the slab, and it tilted toward the gully. He pulled harder and scrambled up the sheet in two steps. It began to tip faster. The scout stood on top, clutching a rocky spine that ran along the rim of the gulch.

The avalanche arrived with a mighty boom, spraying billowing white clouds high into the air. A wall of loose snow slammed into Avner’s side. He swung his legs up, hooking a foot over the gulch rim, then hoisted himself onto a windswept ledge of dry granite. He rolled onto his side, panting and quivering with fear as he stared into the raging white river that had nearly carried him away.

Avner never saw the fomorian who speared him. A sharp blow struck his side, then a huge blade slipped between his ribs. His entire torso erupted with cold fire. Blood filled his mouth, and a deep voice yelled, “I got one, me!”

Avner hooked an arm around the shank of the spear and jerked it toward the gulch, at the same time kicking backward with a heel. His foot slammed into a huge ankle, and he felt the body at the other end of the shaft toppling forward.

“Hey-arrgh!”

The fomorian tripped over Avner’s legs and fell into the thundering avalanche, jerking the spear from the scout’s body.

A gout of warm blood shot from Avner’s mouth, then a strange, gurgling rasp filled his throat. His limbs began to ache terribly, but he was too shocked to realize he was banging them against the ground until the avalanche passed and he heard them clattering against the stones.

Avner forced himself to hold still. Kaedlaw felt warm against his breast, but the cold fire inside his chest was seeping through the rest of his body, down through his bowels into his legs, up through his shoulders into his arms. Blood kept filling his mouth, and he had no more healing potions. He had used the last of those-it couldn’t have been only the day before yesterday-in the Silver Gorge. He was going to die.

Damn his luck! He had thought he would do better for the queen’s son; at least make it to Wind Keep.

Avner still heard a bellowing voice. The sound was coming from lower down the slope: another enemy. The young scout braced his hands on the mountainside and pushed himself into a seated position. He could see the fomorian now, a pear-shaped shadow down at timberline.

Avner coughed up a mouthful of bright blood, then summoned the courage to look at his wound. It was as big around as his fist, and deeper than he wanted to know. With every breath, a froth of brilliant red blood came bubbling out of the hole. There would be no sewing this wound shut.

Avner pulled his dagger and cut Kaedlaw free, then laid the baby on the lee side of a boulder. The young scout choked on a mouthful of blood, reminded himself to spit, and unbuckled his sword belt.