Troy Denning - The Cerulean Storm

“Realizing their own vanity had destroyed their civilization, the halflings seeded Athas with the beginning of a new world,” said the Oba. “This is the Green Age, the age before magic, when the Way dominated the world.”

As she spoke, villages and castles sprang up in the forest, rapidly growing into walled towns and cities connected by an intricate series of cobblestone roads. Powerful mindbenders wandered the wooded lanes on floating ivory platforms, traveling from their majestic towers to the sylvan citadels of the elves and the gloomy cities of the dwarves.

Andropinis gestured, and the scene shifted to an isolated turret in one of the smaller villages, where a single figure sat by a glass window, poring over a stack of books. There was no way to describe the man’s appearance except as hideous, for he had a huge head with a flat, grossly elongated face. His eyes were half-covered by flaps of skin, while his long nose, lacking a bridge, ended in three flaring nostrils. He had a small, slitlike mouth with tiny teeth and a drooping chin. His body was contorted and weak, with humped shoulders and gangling arms.

The figure looked up from his book and held his palm over a potted lily growing in the windowsill. The plant quickly withered and died. He tossed a pinch of dust into the air, and a gray fog filled the room.

“Rajaat came to us early in the Green Age, one of the many hideous accidents spawned from the Rebirth,” said the Oba. “His only blessing was a supreme intellect, which he used to become the first sorcerer. He spent centuries trying to reconcile his brutal appearance with his human spirit. In the end, even his powerful mind could find no answer. He came to revile himself as nothing but a deformed accident.

“Soon, Rajaat turned his hate outward. He declared the Rebirth a mistake and proclaimed all the races it had spawned to be monsters. He dedicated himself to wiping the blight of their existence from the world, so that he might return Athas to the harmony and glory of the Blue Age.”

The gray haze faded. Rajaat stood atop the Pristine Tower, looking out through a crystal cupola. He seemed immeasurably older, with long shocks of gray hair, a wrinkled face, and white, burning eyes. A company of armored figures marched out of the base of the keep. They descended the tower’s spiraling staircase and went into the wilderness. Soon, great patches of forest began to wither and die as they waged a terrible war.

“He created us-his champions-to lead the armies of the Cleansing Wars,” said the Oba. “Rajaat told us to destroy all the new races, or they would spawn monsters like him and overrun the world.”

The forests steadily vanished, leaving most of Athas the barren and lifeless place that Rikus knew so well. Then, abruptly, the destruction ceased, and the champions returned to the Pristine Tower.

“We had almost won,” said Andropinis. “Then we realized Rajaat was mad.” He sounded regretful, perhaps even angry, that they had not finished the war. “We stopped fighting.”

“You didn’t stop because Rajaat was mad. That had to be clear all along,” Sadira said. “You stopped because you learned the truth about who would survive when he returned the world to the Blue Age.”

“That’s right,” admitted the Oba. “All during the Cleansing Wars, Rajaat told us that humans would be the only race left when we finished. We didn’t learn that he was lying until it was almost too late.”

“And then you rebelled, imprisoning Rajaat,” finished Sadira.

Andropinis allowed his spell to fade. “I see you know the rest of the story.”

“Not all of it,” said Sadira. “How did Borys lose the Dark Lens? I’d think he would be more careful with something so valuable.”

“The transformation into a Dragon is a difficult one,” answered the Oba. “Shortly after we changed him, Borys lost his mental balance and went on a rampage. No one realized the Lens had been stolen until he recovered-a century later.”

“I don’t believe this tale of yours,” Rikus said. “If Rajaat was trying to give the world back to the halflings, why did he make his champions humans? Why didn’t he use halflings?”

“He couldn’t make them sorcerers,” answered the Oba. “Because their race harkens back to the Blue Age, before the art of sorcery existed, they cannot become sorcerers.”

“You’re lying,” Rikus said. “I’ve seen halflings use magic.”

“Elemental magic, yes-like Caelum’s sun-magic or Magnus’s windsinging,” said Sadira. “They draw their powers directly from the inanimate forces of the world: wind, heat, water, and rock. But normal sorcery draws its power from the life force of plants and animals.”

Rikus started to object that Sadira drew her power from the sun, then thought better of it. Her sorcery could no longer be considered normal.

“I think the sorcerer-kings have told us the truth,” Sadira said.

“Then give us the Lens,” said Hamanu, moving forward. “It’s the only way we can keep Rajaat imprisoned.”

“The Dark Lens isn’t here,” replied Sadira. “Tithian took it.”

“Sacha and Wyan told Tithian that Rajaat would make him a sorcerer-king,” the mul added. “We think he’s on his way to free Rajaat.”

“How unfortunate for you,” sneered Nibenay. The sorcerer-king stepped toward the slope, emboldened now that he was sure they did not have the Dark Lens. “Then there’s nothing to stop me from repaying the mul for my injury.”

The Oba grabbed him by the stub that had sprouted from his severed arm. “Leave them for later,” she ordered, looking toward the cliff rising above the edge of the plain. “If the Usurper frees Rajaat, we’ll need your help. It would be a shame if we didn’t have it because they were lucky enough to kill you.”

Nibenay jerked away, leaving his freshly grown stub in the Oba’s hand. “It wasn’t your arm he cut off!”

“Then attack if you wish, but you’ll do it alone.” The sorcerer-queen pointed at the distant cliff, where a dark spout of energy was rising into the sky. It had punched a hole in the stormy red clouds of the ash storm. Through this breach poured the golden light of the Athasian moons, casting eerie shadows over the edge of the plains. “The rest of us have other concerns.”

Andropinis cursed. “The fool Usurper has taken the Lens into the city.”

Andropinis started toward the city at a run, simultaneously preparing to cast a spell. The other sorcerer-kings turned and followed. Only Nibenay lingered behind, his palm turned toward the ground.

“This won’t take a moment,” he hissed.

Rikus grabbed the Scourge’s hilt and hurled the broken sword at the sorcerer-king. The weapon tumbled end over end, beads of black resin flying off the blade and creating a line of dark spatters down the slope. Nibenay lunged away, rolling over his shoulder across the coarse scoria. The shard clanged to the ground two paces behind him.

The sorcerer-king jumped to his feet and looked toward Rikus. He started to speak an incantation but suddenly stopped and stared at the hillside in horror. The black bubbles from the Scourge had connected with each other and had stretched into a long thin line. The two sides pulled apart like lips, revealing a mouthful of huge fangs.

“Soon, Gallard,” the mouth said. It was using the name by which Nibenay had gone when he had been a champion. “Very soon.”

A long, green tongue shot from the dark fissure, lashing out for the sorcerer-king. Nibenay cried out in alarm and pointed his finger at the thing, screaming his incantation. A red bolt streaked from his finger, blasting the appendage into a hundred pieces. The mouth laughed, and another tongue snaked out from between its lips.