Nightworld

As the Change progresses above, so progresses the Change below.

Rasalom's new form grows ever larger. Suspended in its cavern, it is the size of an elephant now. To make room for him, more earth drops away into the soft yellow glow of the bottomless pit below.

With his senses penetrating deep into the earth, Rasalom knows that the Change is progressing unimpeded, and is far ahead of schedule. Chaos reigns above. The sweet honey nectar of fear and misery, the ambrosia of rage and ruin continues to seep through the strata of the earth to nourish him, help him grow, make him ever stronger.

And in the center of the dying city, Glaeken's building stands unmolested, an island of tranquility in a sea of torment. Members of his pathetic little company now rushing back from their trips here and there around the globe with their recovered bits and pieces of the first and second swords. All of them, still clinging so doggedly to their hope.

Good. Rasalom wants to let that hope grow until it is the last great hope left for all humanity. Let them think they've been doing something important, something epochal. The higher their hope lifts them, the longer the fall when they learn they've struggled and died for nothing.

But Rasalom senses them taking comfort in their relative safety, drawing strength from their comradeship. Their peace, uneasy though it may be, is a burr in his hide. He cannot allow this to continue unchallenged. He does not wish to destroy them—yet. But he does wish to breach their insulation, unsettle them, vex them, start them looking over their shoulders.

One of them must die.

Not out in the streets, but in the heart of their safe haven. It must be an ugly death—nothing quick and clean, but slow and painful and messy. And to make the death as unsettling as possible, it must befall a dear member of their number, one who seems the most innocent, the most innocuous, one they never would expect him to single out for such degradation.

The new lips gestating within the sac twist into a semblance of a smile.

Time for a little fun.

In the tunnel leading to the cavern, Rasalom's skin, shed days ago, begins to move. It ripples, swells, fills out to living proportions. Then it rises and begins its journey toward the surface.

As it walks, it tests its voice.

"Mother."