His sword was singing!

Magic was not dead on this continent, either.

The song rose, and the stone moved aside with a grating rumble, even though Roth was not pushing. Warm air escaped the growing gap. Steam rose, buffeted by the wind. It was hot in there. Hot enough for steam. She did not think she would need the cloak for much longer.

“Greetings,” called a pleasant voice from behind her. “You are the First, and I am the Watcher.” She started at the sudden voice, her concentration fully on the shifting boulder, and turned to see Drun Sard beaming at her. His eyes were beautifully golden, just like his warrior brothers, but bore none of the haunted look that the paladins wore so well.

“I don’t intend to Sacrifice myself. Drun Sard, I presume. I can’t say it’s a pleasure. Under different circumstances, perhaps…”

“Entirely understandable, lady. It is my pleasure. Shall we?” he said, and held out his arm. To her surprise she found herself taking it. He led her toward the darkness behind the rock.

She entered.

Another blasted tunnel, she thought. Why is it my battles cannot be fought on the open plain, instead of in the darkness?

But she was not given the chance to baulk at her fate, as she might have done, staring at the gaping hole, so like a beast’s cavernous maw. Drun Sard held her arm firmly, and led her, once more, into darkness.

Klan rebounded and landed with a crash at Jek’s feet.

“You weren’t gone long,” said Jek as if Klan’s unexpected return was of little consequence.

Klan rose and dusted himself off. He winced as he tried to put his weight on his left foot. It seemed he had broken it again.

“Something is holding me back. I tried to travel to base camp, but it is like it does not exist. I will have to go further afield.”

“Well, don’t let me stop you. It’s not like we have pressing matters to attend to. Perhaps I should take charge…”

“I will do my duty, Speculate!” shouted Klan with venom.

“Then do it! I will tolerate no failure.”

Jek’s eyes blazed with fury. Klan turned his aside. Now was not the time to test himself against Jek. Instead, he turned his power to the travel, to building the tunnel…and without another word, stepped inside.

He could not make the tunnel go near the base camp. It seemed it was now a blasted land, the places that were anathema to mages. He could not emerge there. From the other world, he sent out wisps of his consciousness, searching for a safe place to alight…he searched the ground and saw the reason he could not land at base camp — it had been annihilated. The portal had destroyed a vast swathe of land…around it his forces still battled with the Teryithyr. Magic crackled through the aether…he could feel it prickle his skin even in the strange world of voices that his body currently inhabited.

Magic was growing. He snarled in frustration. The expenditure of magical energy and the catastrophic explosion of the portal were preventing him from joining the battle. But, he saw, his quarry were no longer in the midst of the battle. He searched for them everywhere, and found footsteps, finally, leading up the side of the mountain spewing ash…he followed them, his soul floating behind the film that was reality…followed them to a gaping hole in the side of the mountain.

It was far enough away from the battle and the swirling magic to transport his body to. With a feat of concentration, he coalesced his body together as a whole, stepped from a hole torn in from the under world where souls travelled, and onto the ash covered mountainside.

The voices seemed to cry with relief when he left that strange world.

One day he would have Fernip read about travelling. For now, he had his duty…his obsession. He would have the three, or the wizard, it mattered not. The end was near. They had eluded his grasp for so long, but in the end, they had shown him the way. At last, he knew where they were, and this time, there would be no escape.

As he stepped into the cave, the mountain began to shake itself apart.

A sudden crash came from behind him, the grating rumble of rock falling, and the entrance caved in. It did not matter. He could always travel out again. He would never be trapped, anywhere. The day’s light fled, but he was never in darkness. His eyes lit the way before him.

He followed the path downward, ever down, with a grim smile on his face and his blood red eyes glowing, burning, with anticipation.

Outside, unnoticed, fire spewed forth from the mountain, running in rivers along its crest, raining molten rock and heated boulders onto the warrior’s fighting below. The Teryithyrians retreated, able to run much faster than the soldiers of the Protectorate. It was carnage on a massive scale. The dead littered the wastelands, some caught fire, many ran as fast as they could from the inferno, all thoughts of battle forgotten, each red-robed soldier and wizard of the Anamnesors no match for the fury of the volcano. Lava ran in wide rivers, steam joined the clouds of ash. Black rain fell, hissing onto the ice.

Soldiers ran streaming from the mountainside, intent only on survival. The Teryithyr, who had watched and waited for an age, for millennia, had performed their duty to the last wizard, the red one, who they had failed so long ago. Their brethren, never forgotten, on a distant continent across the sea, once joined by a bridge of ice but now moved on, had stood to the last beside the red wizard, and received his gift. The Teryithyr had shunned his gifts, never trusting him, but had been charged with guarding his resting place.

They were free of their geas. They melted back into the wilderness. Their reward was coming already. The ice would recede and their land would once again wake. It was promised, and as they could see, it was already coming true. The ice around the mountains was flowing water once more. No more the exile in the white wastes. Seasons, long forgotten, would return. The Teryithyr ran freely, many lost, but a new beginning ahead of them.

It was strangely quiet within the cavern. The cries from the battle outside were no more than a memory within the halls and tunnels underneath the mountain. The tunnels were man-made — or rahken-made — by the looks of them. They seemed designed. Utilitarian, yes, but uniform in appearance. They led further into the depths. The tunnels twisted this way and that, crazily meandering, leading into caverns with great domed roofs, similar in construction to Roth’s home under the hills south of Lianthre.

No one spoke. Drun concentrated on lighting the way for them, his eyes glowing golden against the darkness. Their footfalls were soft, but their breathing was heavy. Although the tunnel led ever downwards, the air was no easier to breath. It was hot, sulphurous air that burnt the lungs and leeched away all energy.

Tirielle spared a thought for those dying outside. But if they were truly rahkens in all but colour she imagined they could handle themselves quite adequately in battle.

She wondered if it was their hand she saw in the caves and tunnels they passed. Magnificent pictorial histories adorned the ceilings and walls of caverns they traversed, intersperse between winding tunnels and, on one occasion, a bridge spanning a deep chasm, full of fire. It was remarkable that the bridge had not collapsed in the shaking. But it seemed the mountain was calmer on the inside. Like it waited for them, held its breath in anticipation.

She had no idea where she was going, but she could hear a steady, regular rumbling coming from lower down. The path did not deviate. There were no decisions to make, no forks in the path.