Page 78 of Heart of the Shadow King

“So, Princess Faraine,” Prince Sul says in a voice of molten rock. “We meet again at last, here at the end of the world.”

32

VOR

Durgorim is gone.

The town was little more than ruins when last I saw it. Now even those have vanished. Crushed beneath rockslides, fallen into black chasms opened to the pit of the world. Swallowed up by Arraog as she awakens.

And what of the rest of my kingdom? Will I travel to Mythanar only to find it similarly wiped from existence?

“Gods,” Parh says and nothing more as she guides her morleth to the lookout point beside me and gazes down on that desolate view. Her voice is strangely soft. Our warriors make their way down the path behind us. All are silent, subdued. Haunted by their own fears of what we shall discover at the end of our journey.

I am empty inside, hollowed-out to nothing save one last desperate prayer:Faraine.Let Faraine still live. Let me see her one last time.Without a word, I turn my morleth’s head about and fall in with the rest of the riders. Parh follows close behind.

Our journey through the Under Realm passes in a blur. At least our morleth are pleased to be back in a realm of shadow. Where splits in the rock open to black voids below, the morleth fly easily over. There is so much damage everywhere, so many passages blocked or flooded. A constant bone-stirring rumble vibrates under our feet, in the walls around us, in the ceiling overhead. It never quiets but eats its way into awareness until one forgets what it was like to be still.

Many of our riders peel out of formation without asking permission first, disappearing down passages and tunnels leading to their own home caverns. Lur asks if she should send pursuers after the deserters. I refuse. While Parh would no doubt like to see them skinned alive for insubordination, I cannot blame them. This is the end of the world. Let them die as they see fit, seeking the arms of their loved ones.

It is said every road of the Under Realm leads to Mythanar, yet the first dozen ways we try end in cave-ins, floods, and an unexpected river of lava too deep to safely ford. Our numbers dwindle still more as our company splits into smaller parts, each searching out a different route. I despair of ever seeing my home city again. But we forge on, stopping only when exhaustion threatens to drop us. Sleep is restless and fleeting. Who can sleep with that constant growl of stone against stone filling the senses?

By the time I finally stand at the mouth of a narrow tunnel and look out into Mythanar Cavern—when my heart thrills at the sight of those familiar buildings, the soaring bridges, the waterfalls, the towers and walls and winding streets, all illuminated beneath a millionlorstcrystals—it seems too good to be true.

Then reality hits. I look again and see the ruin before me. The watchtower of Zagig is smashed to pieces. Part of the Temple of Orgoth is caved in. A huge portion of the outer city wall has fallen into the chasm, leaving a ragged gash. Most of the bridges have collapsed. And that’s just what I can see from this distance, under thedimnesslights.

Oh, Mythanar, Mythanar! How I have failed you! I longed to return with your salvation in hand, but now . . .

I search for the Urzulhar Circle. It should be visible from this vantage. Ghat, my chief engineer, once told me that when the end came, the Urzulhar would be the first to go, and the whole of the city would follow soon after. Surely so long as the sacred stones stand, there is still hope for Mythanar. But I cannot see them.

“Aruk?”Lur speaks softly at my elbow. I turn to find her heart-stricken gaze fixed on me. “What next, Big King?”

I cannot utter the word which springs to mind:evacuation.It is the only hope for our people now. We must leave the Under Realm, leave our world. Find our way to a new home in some distant land. For a moment, I close my eyes and see the Licornyn king in my head. That half-breedwarlord without a world of his own. Scraping out an existence for his kind in some foreign realm. Is this to be the fate of the troldefolk?

Rather than answer, I spur my morleth into motion. She leaps into the open air, walking on darkness across the chasm and into the city. I guide her to the street below. My people need to see their king returning. They need to know I did not abandon them in their last, desperate hour. They need to know I will be with them to the bitter end.

The rumbling underfoot is more noticeable here. Part of me wants to urge my morleth back into the air. Instead, I dismount, allowing Gash to vanish, and proceed up the street on foot. Lur, Lady Parh, and the handful ofortolarokwho have remained with me do the same. We march up thearuk-drain silent file. There is no greeting or fanfare in the streets, no guards at watch along the broken walls to announce our coming. The city is hushed. It doesn’t take long to discover why.

“Big King!” Lur hisses, trotting to draw abreast with me. “Do you see them?”

“I do,” I answer softly. Until that moment, I’d hoped I imagined it, hoped my mind, addled with fear and exhaustion, had dreamed the images from nothing. But this is no dream. It’s a nightmare.

The streets of Mythanar are filled with statues. Not carved or shaped by trolde-craft. Living statues.

Va-jor.

It’s everywhere I turn. People, my people, in attitudes of shock, surprise, and dismay, captured in stone. I’ve seen this before. The city of Hoknath was similarly afflicted when the Children of Arraog attempted to perform theva-jorceremony and failed. Their citizens were wrapped in stone while the life raged on inside, trapped. But how could this have happened in Mythanar? Who could have done it?

No sooner does the question form than the answer follows:Targ.He found a willing sacrifice. In the face of impending disaster, he probably had volunteers lining up. He performed the dark ceremony, sent a wave of magic across the willing and unwilling alike. And I was not here to stop him. Because I was in another world, fighting another man’s war.

The deeper we venture into the city, word spreads of our arrival. People crawl to their doorways, hang out their windows. Hollow voices cry,“Aruk! Save us! Save us from the fire! Save us from the stone!”Some brave souls throw themselves at my feet, weeping and praying for deliverance, both for themselves and their enstoned loved ones. Lur and Parh roughly drag them away, clearing the path before me. Their bitter weeping fills my ears, but I am relieved to know not all of them were caught in theva-jorspell. I may yet be able to save a few.

My pace quickens. I need answers. I must reach the palace, must find someone who can tell me what has happened. Where is Targ? And Roh? No doubt she was involved in this as well. And Faraine . . . surely she is safe. She is human, not trolde.Va-jorshould have no effect on her.

I break into a run. Ignoring Lur and Parh’s shouts behind me, I race up the street to the palace. Unknown faces swim before my vision as strangers seek to intercept me, hands outstretched and grasping. I avoid them all, never once breaking stride until I draw near to the palace gates. “Open up!” I cry, grabbing hold and rattling the bars. “Open for your king!”

No one answers. But I am not about to be detained. It is the work of a moment to scale the bars, hoist myself over the finials, and drop into the courtyard on the far side. Here are more figures wrapped inva-jor, some with arms raised in distress, others kneeling, heads bowed in attitudes of prayer, as though accepting their fate. Or anticipating it.

With a snarl, I mount the front steps to the palace door. It is shut fast but rattles in its frame when I pound it with both fists. “Open!” I bellow. “Open to your king! Open, I say!” My voice echoes across the courtyard and fades into eerie silence. I turn, lifting my gaze to the walls and ramparts around me, noting all signs of breakage and ruin, testimony to recent stirrings. My eye inevitably travels in search of Faraine’s balcony which once overlooked this courtyard. It’s gone.

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