Destiny

Chapter 19

The elf camp, so lately delivered from the menace of ghosts and will-o’-the-wisps, was thrown into new panic when the boiling, black cloud stained the morning sky. Most elves fled at once, seeking shelter in the outer ring of monoliths. When the cloud had swelled to match the size of the stone platform below it, the camp was blasted by wind. Air rushed toward the cloud, collapsing tents and sucking up smaller objects along the way. Cups, water jugs, and tools raced end over end on their way to the distant platform.

The spectacle confounded Gilthas and his advisors. Standing with them outside the Speaker’s tent, Sa’ida was alarmed by the display. No one in the valley but Faeterus had the magical prowess to stir up such forces, she said.

Gilthas exchanged a worried look with Hamaramis. Kerian’s hunting party must have failed to put an end to the sorcerer’s activities. Yet Gilthas refused to give up hope. The Lioness might yet prevail.

Shouting over the wind, the old general asked Sa’ida if she could stop whatever was happening. Her reply was unequivocal. The black vortex swirling above the platform was beyond her abilities. In fact, the raw release of magical energy was making her distinctly ill. A camp chair cartwheeled past, narrowly missing her. Gilthas drew her further into the lee of the large tent, beckoning his advisors to follow.

“Can you slow it down or interfere in any fashion?” he asked. Even with the bulk of the tent behind them abating the wind somewhat, Gilthas was forced to raise his hoarse voice to its limit to be heard over the howling gale.

Little confidence showed on Sa’ida’s ashen face, but she said she would try. She stepped a few feet away from the group. Lifting the Eye of Elir-Sana free of her robe, she clasped her hands around it and bowed her head. When she drew her hands apart, the amulet hung suspended in a band of bluish light connecting her hands. Her lips moved in a silent incantation, lines of concentration etching her forehead. The band of light thickened and grew brighter, and she hurled it into the sky. Caught by the wind, it flew through the debris-filled air, dwindling with distance. When it reached the cloud, there was a flare of light and the wind eased, but for a moment only. The gale resumed undiminished.

Sa’ida rejoined the group. She looked even more ill than before. “This is prodigious sorcery, Great Speaker! I don’t know what Faeterus is trying to unleash, but you must take your people away. Put as much distance as possible between yourselves and this…“ Her voice had been failing. It finally trailed away completely, and she waved a hand weakly at the huge cloud.

As a warrior supported the fainting priestess, Gilthas gave the command: “General! Everyone is to flee. Where does not matter, as long as it’s away from the stone disk. Tell them to leave everything behind and run. Run, General!”

Hamaramis took the reins of his horse from an aide and offered the animal to the Speaker. Gilthas shook his head. “I stay.”

The general exploded in denials. He flatly refused to leave Gilthas behind. When fear for his sovereign led him to threaten to have the Speaker carried away against his will, Gilthas’s outraged expression stopped his outburst cold.

“Sire,” he cried, “please forgive me! I should never have spoken so, but you cannot expect me to—”

“I can and do, General. Take Lady Sa’ida and go. I will not say it again.”

Once Hamaramis was mounted, the priestess was boosted up before him. Holding her with one hand and the reins of his nervous horse with the other, he stared down at his king. Fear and worry battled over his lean, lined face.

“It’s only wind,” Gilthas said, managing a smile.

Anguish unabated, Hamaramis turned his horse’s head and rode away.

The palanquin was never very far from Gilthas. He seated himself in the woven chair and ordered the bearers to flee. They would not be moved. Offering no arguments or pleas, they simply sat on the ground alongside the palanquin and lowered their heads. Each grasped a handful of the Speaker’s robe and held on.

It wasn’t only the elves in camp who battled the wind. Kerian’s company was forced to deal with it as well. The air raced down Mount Rakaris and into the valley, steady as a waterfall, the Lioness knew such a constant wind must be unnatural, and she was certain it was the work of Faeterus. When the dark cloud over the center of Inath-Wakenti became plain, she and her comrades knew at least the locus of the wind, if not the reason behind it.

The two younger elves were in the lead, with Kerian and Taranath only yards behind. The mountainside they were climbing was still washed in late-morning sunshine, but the center of the valley was as deeply shaded as though dusk had come. A column of dust and debris, like a captive tornado, slowly rose from the ground to the center of the cloud. The sight drew an anguished cry from young Hytanthas, who halted in his tracks. The others kept moving, and as Kerian came abreast of him, she gruffly told him to do the same.

“Commander, our people are there!” he protested.

“I know.”

“The Speaker is there!”

She took his arm in a painful grip and pushed him onward. “I know!” she snapped, not even glancing at the camp. “The only way we can help them is by going on!”

They jogged to catch up with the others. Taranath was closest; Robien was a few yards ahead of him. As the Lioness and Hytanthas came abreast of Taranath, a streak of brown hurtled from the wind-whipped bushes on the right and hit Robien square in the chest. The bounty hunter went down hard. The furious wind had masked any telltale sounds. The attack had taken them all completely by surprise. Hytanthas shouted. All three drew swords and ran to Robien’s aid.

He rolled over and over, clutching the neck of a furry beast. He managed to hold it away from his throat and somehow halt their tumbling with himself on top. Letting go with his left hand, he jammed a forearm against the creature’s jaw. It writhed, trying to throw Robien off. He planted a knee in its ribs.

Racing to cover the distance, Taranath recognized Robien’s attacker. “It’s the beast the priestess banished!” he exclaimed.

“Shobbat?” Kerian was furious. She’d wanted to kill the creature when it appeared in their camp. By flinging the monster away, Sa’ida had only delayed the inevitable and put Robien’s life at risk in the bargain.

“Kill him!” she shouted.

Despite the wind, Shobbat had no trouble hearing the Lioness’s command. He had jumped Robien to keep the bounty hunter from leading the laddad to Faeterus. If the laddad captured the sorcerer, Shobbat might never be free of his hell of fur and fangs. The Lioness’s shout caused him to fight even harder, and he had an important advantage over his foe. All the stealth and strength of his beastly form was coupled with the cleverness of a man’s brain. He opened his jaws, releasing his hold on the bounty hunter’s tunic, curled a long-fingered forepaw into a fist, and punched the elf hard in the face.

Robien saw three suns, as the kender say. As his head snapped backward from the blow, he flung up an arm to ward off further strikes. Shobbat’s jaws opened, ready to clamp down on the unprotected arm.

His teeth found only air. Taranath had arrived, and his sword sliced through Shobbat’s short, bushy tail. Shobbat shrieked in pain. Kerian bore in, thrusting her weapon’s point at his chest. Her blade found fur and slid across, but leaving a long, deep cut. While they kept Shobbat busy, Hytanthas dragged Robien out of the way. Kerian could hear the young captain frantically asking Robien where he was hurt, but she and Taranath kept their attention on the crouching beast. Blood dripped from Shobbat’s chest.

“You will regret this!” he rasped.

“My only regret is not killing you sooner!”

Kerian lunged, and Taranath followed half a heartbeat later. Despite his wounds, Shobbat astonished them all. Coiling himself almost double, he sprang, not directly at his attackers, but completely over their heads. They whirled but he was faster. In two bounds he had vanished into the low brush and scrub pines.

Hytanthas was tending Robien’s wound. Taranath’s timely intervention had saved the Kagonesti’s arm, but in his first pounce, Shobbat had scored two bloody lines on Robien’s right shoulder with his fangs. Although not crippling, the injury was painful. Robien watched in stoic silence as Hytanthas bandaged the wound with a linen strip.

There was no time to rest. Robien drank from the water bottle Hytanthas pressed on him then took the lead again. In obvious pain, his face damp with sweat, he set an even more rapid pace than before his injury. The wind was destroying the trail. The fire on the mountainside had died before the gale began. Without the smoke column to guide them, they had to hurry before all signs were lost.

Eventually they spotted the tableland inset in the mountainside a few miles above. It was obviously wrought by hand and appeared a likely place for a mighty conjuration. The fast-fading traces of the trail headed directly for it.

Robien prided himself on his detachment. He could track the worst criminal or bring to heel the most pathetic debtor with equal efficiency and aplomb. Shobbat’s attack was the latest in a line of confidence-shaking assaults and it had infuriated him. His quarry was Faeterus, but if an opportunity to slay Shobbat presented itself, Robien would seize it without hesitation.

Favaronas paused to catch his breath. He was nearly to his goal. The edge of the plateau was only a few feet away. In a short time, he would be free of his torment, and Faeterus would be denied whatever ugly fate he had in mind for his captive. Part of him wished he could see the sorcerer’s design finished, if only to witness the unmasking of the awesome, ancient power. But Faeterus wanted him alive to test the efficacy of the spell. At least Favaronas would have the satisfaction of denying him that.

The wind was blasting relentlessly down the mountain, across the valley, and up into the writhing, black cloud. The cloud was massive, over a mile in diameter. Faeterus’s bellowing chant ended abruptly. Favaronas risked a glance over one shoulder.

Palms pressed together, Faeterus thrust his hands skyward. In Old Elvish he roared, “Now shall the Eye of Darkness seize the sun!”

A silent concussion shook air and ground. The wind went from full gale to dead calm in an instant, as though a great door had slammed shut, and the sky darkened rapidly. The black cloud flattened out, spreading like dark oil to blot out the sky. Noon was only an hour away, yet twilight was consuming Inath-Wakenti. The air rapidly cooled.

Favaronas wrenched his attention away from the aerial spectacle and frantically dragged himself the last few feet to the lip of the plateau. He heaved his upper body over, and the drop spun before his eyes. He would fall at least forty yards before striking rocks. That ought to be more than enough to kill him.

Elves were climbing up the mountain toward him.

He gripped the plateau’s edge with both hands, not daring to believe his eyes. Several figures darted among the trees. Even in the occulted light, he could see glints of metal on them. The Speaker’s soldiers were coming!

As frantically as he had rushed headlong toward his own destruction, Favaronas now shoved himself back from the edge. Three, perhaps four, tiny figures moved among the sparse trees knotted bushes, and tumbled boulders. They must be scouts, for a much larger body of warriors following behind.

Stealing a careful look at Faeterus, he saw the sorcerer had gone to consult the lengthy scroll. Relief washed through him, so strong it made his head throb. Faeterus had not noticed the approach of the scouts nor Favaronas’s position at the edge of the Stair.

He looked downslope again. The scouts were no longer visible. Squeezing his eyes shut, he willed them to hurry.

The sudden cessation of the wind left the Speaker’s loyal bearers breathless. They had held on to him as shipwrecked mariners cling to a raft, but in spite of their fears, the wind never became strong enough to endanger them. The camp was scoured clean of every small, loose object. Half the shelters-those closest to the stone platform-were a tangle of fallen canvas, broken stakes, and snarled rope.

The wind had gone, but the black cloud remained and was spreading across the open sky like a curtain falling over a vast stage. Summer day was swallowed up by summer evening. The unnatural twilight brought with it an ominous silence even more complete than usual for the Silent Vale. One of the bearers asked the Speaker what was happening. Gilthas admitted he did not know.

“We must find the holy lady. She can tell us what is going on.” Although he spoke with conviction, in truth Gilthas feared Sa’ida knew no more than they.

Before the bearers could sort themselves out and lift the palanquin, the elf nation came streaming back to camp. Hamaramis arrived with Sa’ida mounted behind him. The old general looked sheepish.

“False alarm, sire!”

Gilthas wasn’t so certain. As he’d suspected, the priestess could add little to what they already knew. A great conjuration was under way. Sa’ida had never seen its like before, but Faeterus obviously meant them harm.

“Are we sure of that?” Gilthas asked.

“No one performs a working this enormous for gentle reasons,” was her grim reply.

Hamaramis dismounted and helped the priestess down. In a low voice, he asked his king whether they should evacuate.

“Where to, General?” Gilthas asked.

Gesturing broadly south, Hamaramis said, “Anywhere outside this valley.”

Gilthas shook his head. It would require days for the thousands of elves to move out of Inath-Wakenti, even if they had someplace to go, which they did not. And there was no guarantee distance would offer safety from Faeterus’s evil design.

The priestess left the two elves. She would retire to her tent, she said, to give serious thought to what she might do to help. If nothing else, perhaps she could tear holes in the black cloud. Sunlight might spoil Faeterus’s plans.

Before departing, she examined the Speaker. His fever had risen, and he was coughing flecks of blood. He did not dispute her insistence that he must rest, but merely said he would be sure to do so when the sun shone again and his people were safe.

The elves returned to their improvised homes. Attempts were made to lift flagging spirits. Fires were kindled to ward off darkness and the chill. Flutes appeared and long-hoarded bottles of nectar and Khurish fluq were passed around. Songs were sung and salutes offered.

Hamaramis took a gloomy view of the merriment, but Gilthas did not. He called for his steward. He intended to go among his people and didn’t wish to go empty-handed. Once his few potables were brought, he set his bearers in motion. With the dour general riding alongside, the Speaker made the rounds of the camp. He hailed everyone he saw, as many by name as he knew, and drank salutes with any who desired it. If his subjects were drinking fine Silvanesti nectar, then he did too. If they had nothing but raw fluq, then the Speaker of the Sun and Stars raised a cup brimming with Khurish liquor. Not by the smallest flicker of expression did he betray his great dislike of fluq.

While the brave celebrations proceeded, Sa’ida repaired alone to her tent. She had come to the forsaken valley as much to discomfort her enemies in Khuri-Khan as to aid the laddad. The laddad khan’s courage and gallant manner had won her over, and she gladly applied her healing art to him. But she was well and truly frightened. Although a priestess of long and honorable service to her goddess, Sa’ida had no skill for high magic such as Faeterus commanded. Her awareness of the ancient power in the valley required no especial skill, only sensitivity. She wore a brave face for the laddad, but in the solitude of her tent, she let go of pretense. Her heart raced, her hands shook, and sweat soaked her white robe.

And yet she would not let fear keep her from doing what she could. Settling as comfortably as she could on the borrowed carpet, she composed her mind and set herself free of her body with a far-seeing spell. Her naes (the Khurish word for soul, or a person’s captive spirit) rose high above the laddad camp. From that vantage point, the movement of the black cloud was plain. The vast mass wasn’t merely thinning and expanding to cover more area, it was turning slowly on a central axis sited directly over the valley’s geographical heart. The rotation was antisunwise, to Sa’ida a sign of negative power. She willed herself to move toward it, but her naes could not pass through the cloud. She made a second attempt and the reaction was violent. Instead of merely being halted, she was hurled back to her body. She arrived with such force, her body was thrown backward. It struck the side of the tent, knocking a support loose and collapsing half the structure. As she lay, gasping for breath, laughter sounded in the darkness.

“Woman, you cannot trifle with me!”

Sa’ida struggled to sit up. “Faeterus! What are you after here?”

“What every practitioner of our art wants: power! When I have it, the first to feel my wrath will be the spawn of those who condemned me. And after I’ve dealt with the elves, I shall turn to you desert-dwelling vermin.”

Sa’ida lifted her hand to the Eye of Elir-Sana. It was a simple gesture, meant to shield the goddess’s image from Faeterus’s blasphemous presence, but contact with the jewel sent a surge of new strength through her. She concealed it, maintaining her pose of cowed weakness.

“Why do you hate the laddad?” she asked carefully. “You are one yourself.”

“I am not!” Although the shout echoed like thunder, she knew no one else could hear it. Faeterus’s voice was meant for her alone. “Chance gave me their form, but I am not of their cursed race!”

“What race are you, then?”

A figure took shape in the darkness. Faeterus allowed his naes to reveal his true form, without the disguise of his heavy robes. Sa’ida’s hand tightened convulsively around the amulet.

“Begone,” she gasped. “Go back to whatever dark place spawned you!”

Faeterus laughed. His phantom hand reached out and grasped Sa’ida’s wrist. When he raised his arm, he pulled her naes out. Her physical body went limp.

“You will witness my triumph. It will be most instructive!”

With a speed that left Sa’ida breathless, they soared above the laddad camp, rising—far higher than Sa’ida had done alone, then they rushed eastward. In seconds they were at a broad shelf cut into the side of Mount Rakaris, which Faeterus called the Stair of Distant Vision.

Her spirit form went sprawling as he abruptly released her. He lifted a hand, and immediately it was filled with a spear. Rather than an actual, physical weapon, the spear was the representation of a spell. He drove it through her thigh, pinning her in place, and the shock of the spiritual impalement drew an involuntary scream. But pain was a force Sa’ida understood. She conquered her agony quickly although she could not free her naes. She remained firmly anchored to the stone.

None of this was visible to Favaronas. From his place at the edge of the Stair, all he saw was the sorcerer standing rigidly by the center pinnacle, head bowed. Abruptly, Faeterus lifted his face and arms to the darkened sky and broke his long silence, declaiming in a loud, clear voice. The language was Old Elvish, and Favaronas recognized the rhyme scheme and meter as an ancient bardic recitation called a houmrya. He had never heard it spoken before. The poetry was said to have erratic, uncontrollable magical effects, and Speaker of the Stars Sithel had banned it long, long ago.

Because Favaronas was an accomplished scholar, be detected the changes Faeterus was making in the houmrya. Faeterus declared himself “breaker of worlds,” when the actual houmrya line was “maker of worlds.” With such twists, he was transforming an ancient poem of creation into an evocation of destruction.

As he recited, the monoliths of Inath-Wakenti began glow. The effect was subtle, like reflected moonlight, but in the unnatural gloom, quite noticeable. When the sorcerer entered into the second canto, the aura brightened to a steady glare.

Desperately Favaronas scanned the slope below. There was no sign of the elf scouts, and a dreadful thought came to him. Had he only imagined the figures darting among the bushes? Was his terrified mind concocting phantoms? Did he await a rescue that would never come?

The Lioness’s little company was concealed behind several large boulders below the plateau. Unnerved by the glowing monuments, Kerian had sent her party into cover. When time passed and nothing else untoward occurred, she told Robien to take the lead. He studied the situation briefly then chose a narrow track winding up the southern end of the plateau. It was steep but seemed to offer more concealment than the way on the north side.

The others followed, but fired by nearness to his goal, Robien outpaced them. He glimpsed someone hiding in the rocks above and dropped on his belly to avoid being seen. A figure dressed in black was lurking behind the boulders on the slope above the plateau. Was it one of Faeterus’s hirelings, guarding the sorcerer’s back while he worked his conjuration? Peering at a very low angle through scattered brush, Robien saw the clear outline of a crossbow. He unslung his bow and nocked an arrow. His shoulder throbbed, but he ignored the pain, firming his right elbow. He took careful aim. After loosing the shaft, he turned downslope to warn his comrades.

“There’s an archer in the rocks above the plateau!” he called, keeping his voice low.

He began to turn round again but pitched abruptly backward, his bow flying from his hand. Kerian, Taranath, and Hytanthas dropped to the ground immediately.

“Robien!” Hytanthas called hoarsely. “Robien, answer me!”

There was no reply. Hytanthas was closest to the fallen bounty hunter. He could see an arrow protruding from the Kagonesti’s chest, but in the uncertain light couldn’t tell whether Robien was alive or dead.

They resumed climbing and Hytanthas was amazed and relieved to find Robien still lived. The arrow had caught him high on the right side of the chest and he lay on his back, stifling gasps of pain. Hytanthas tore a strip of cloth from his own geb and tried to stanch the flow of blood.

Gripping his bloodstained hand, Robien gasped, “Leave me! Get Faeterus for me!”

Hytanthas gave the Lioness an anguished look. She told him to remain with the injured elf. She and Taranath resumed the slow ascent.

Above them, Favaronas had seen neither Robien’s shot nor the return volley. His whole world had narrowed to Faeterus’s recitation of the perverted houmrya. Only two cantos remained, and he was certain that if Faeterus finished it, the race of elves would be wiped from the face of Krynn. Blinking away tears, he looked out over the valley.

Columns of light had risen from the glowing monoliths. They formed a pattern on the roiling underside of the black cloud. The message that had been too agonizingly bright and fleeting when etched by the glare of the setting sun was written now in ivory light on the cloud. The knowledge feared by the ghosts of the Lost Ones teetered on the edge of Faeterus’s grasp.

Perhaps he had seen warriors on the slope below, but Favaronas couldn’t risk waiting. He might be the only one with even a slim hope of stopping Faeterus. He had no idea how he would do it, but it was up to him to try.

He leaned on his battered hands and pushed himself away from the edge, back toward the chanting sorcerer.

When the monoliths’ pale glow became a dazzling glare, Gilthas ordered his people to flee to open ground west of camp, where there were no standing stones.

“Every able-bodied adult is to carry a child or help the old or infirm,” he declared. “Cut all the animals loose.” If there was going to be a conflagration, he wanted any living creature in its path to have a chance for escape. He also called for Sa’ida. While warriors sought the priestess, Gilthas obeyed his own orders and went to help a child wandering nearby. The boy was looking in vain for his parents.

“You’re not my father!” the boy declared as the Speaker hoisted him up.

“No, I’m not. Who is your father?”

“Naratalanathas, son of Cyronaxidel.”

The boy could be no more than four, yet the complicated old Qualinesti names rolled easily off his tongue. Gilthas was impressed. “Large names for so small a fellow to recall.”

The child knitted pale brows. “Is your father’s name hard to say?”

“Not nearly as hard as yours.” That pleased the boy. He said his name was Cyronathan.

“Come along, Cyronathan. Let’s get everyone to a safer place.”

In going to the boy, Gilthas found himself cut off from his palanquin bearers by the rush of people. No matter; he would walk. Carrying the boy in one arm and leaning on his staff, he joined the throng streaming from camp. The frightened atmosphere infected Cyronathan, and Gilthas sought to distract the child. His first efforts failed, but mention of Eagle Eye captured the boy’s imagination thoroughly. Cyronathan peppered him with questions about the griffon and asked quite seriously what exactly he must do to secure one of the majestic creatures for himself.

They passed through the outer line of standing stones and had gone some ten yards farther when a joyous voice cried out the boy’s name. Cyronathan greeted his mother with relief and made plain his wish to escape.

Gilthas bent to set him on the ground and felt something give way inside. A rush of warmth flooded his chest, and a loud gasp was wrenched from his lips. The boy, not noticing his agony, dashed away to his parents, but Gilthas continued to fold, going down on his knees. Wide eyed and open mouthed, he stared at the elves rushing by on both sides. No breath would enter his lungs. He could make no sound. Slowly, he toppled to the ground. The vision in his right eye faded, submerged in a wash of red.

Screams pierced the air as fleeing elves realized who he was. In moments the Speaker’s faithful bearers, still carrying the empty palanquin, rushed up beside him. Truthanar arrived on their heels.

“He’s hemorrhaging!” the healer cried. He rolled Gilthas onto his back. “I need water for the Speaker!”

Pitchers, buckets, and brimming cups appeared in moments. Truthanar rinsed the still-flowing blood from his king’s mouth. None of the helpful civilians or warriors gathered round could tell him where Sa’ida was. Soldiers scouring the camp for her had met with no success. Truthanar commandeered help from the multitude, and two dozen elves who’d just raced out of camp ran back in even more rapidly to seek the human priestess.

Gilthas’s eyes were closed, and he no longer fought to breathe. Truthanar elevated his head and shoulders. With a ‘slim silver lancet, the healer slashed the Speaker’s geb, exposing Gilthas’s emaciated chest. Carefully probing down the ladder of ribs, Truthanar found the spot he sought. Without explanation or warning, he plunged the lancet between two ribs. Dark blood poured from the wound. Elves clustered around screamed anew.

“Had to be done,” Truthanar explained. “Accumulated blood was compressing the lung.”

As the blood poured out, their Speaker’s breathing eased. Everyone could see his chest rise and fall and saw the terrible waxen pallor fade from his cheeks. A few minutes longer, and the Speaker of the Sun and Stars would have drowned in his own blood. Although Truthanar’s voice was calm and matter-of-fact as he said this, the hand that had just wielded the lancet so confidently shook as he worked to bind the wound he’d made.

Gilthas stirred. His eyes opened. “Ken-li,” he whispered.

Tears fell from the healer’s eyes. “May the gods help you, sire. May they help us all.”

Riding up with his lieutenants, Hamaramis saw the Speaker lying on the ground surrounded by a spreading stain and feared the worst. The old general, long past leaping from the back of a still-moving horse, did just that.

“Truthanar! Does he live?” he shouted, scattering elves from his path.

“He lives, Hamaramis, but not for long.” The aged Silvanesti held the hand of the ruler of the united elf nations and wept unashamedly.

“Cleanse, O cleanse the world, Mighty Power! Take back that which was yours!”

Faeterus spoke the last line of the fourth canto. As he drew breath to begin the fifth and final part of his great incantation, the ground began to quake. Rocks large and small tumbled down the mountainside. One struck the spire next to him, shearing it off and sending sharp shards flying.

Favaronas, edging toward the sorcerer, ducked, throwing his arms over his head. Faeterus turned away to shield his own face from flying stone.

Angrily, Faeterus intoned, “Rabthe”—Stillness—and the shaking stopped. He laughed. Looking at the elf cringing at his feet, he confided, “Not even the gods can stop me.”

He embarked upon the final canto of his song of annihilation.