Othea's eyes went as white as snow, then she sat bolt upright and threw her head back. A deep, booming cry broke from her lips and roared into the sky with such fury that it tore the clouds asunder and silenced the wind. The Mother Queen pitched over backward, crashing so hard that the foundations buckled beneath Bleak Palace. Fissures shot through the colonnade, swallowing the spilled waters of the Well of Health, and the pillars began to topple.

"Come, All Father!" Arno pleaded, yelling at the sky.

"Othea is dead!" added Julien. "Help us! Save Ostoria!"

"Fools! The All Father will not come for you¹" It was Dunmore's voice, ringing down from far above. "Without the Sons of Annam, Ostoria is already lost-and so are the races of giant-kind. Without their immortal kings, they will fall into eternal chaos and savagery, as surely as you will sink into the everlasting darkness of your own cold hearts."

The floor crumbled beneath Lanaxis's feet, and dark walls of sheer stone rose around him. He felt himself sinking and realized he was descending into the frozen plain, pulling Bleak Palace and all of Ostoria down after him. Soon, nothing would remain of the empire of the giants except the toppled columns and scattered buttresses of their ancient palaces, and for causing that, it seemed to Lanaxis that even the eternal cold of Othea's shadow would never be punishment enough.

Snow began to fall. The flakes were large and heavy, almost like sleet. In the sky, Lanaxis saw, as Dunmore had promised, nothing but cold twilight.

And with a single spell, Ckai-el-Ckaan forged a tower of shadow from the cold bones of the mountain. He named it Gurthang, which in the old tongue is "midnight," and within its onyx walk he hid away his greatest relic of power, the Finger of Ckai-el-Ckaan. It is written in prophecy that he who tries to climb the walls of Gurthang and fails will lose his life, but that he who tries and succeeds will lose his soul…

From Talfirian Eddas, circa 342 DR

The warrior stood before a dark fortress, her indigo gaze calculating, her fine hands resting with easy strength against her hips. Sunlight glanced off her short, pale hair and soaked into the close-fitting black leather she wore.

After a time she swore, her breath conjuring ghosts on the autumn high-country air. The dark fortress soared above the granite walls of the remote mountain basin, a jagged onyx knife biting into a cold, windswept sky. Its outer wall looked as slick as glass. This was not going to be as simple as she had believed. Yet she had her mission, and she intended to complete it. The warrior's name was Ravendas, and long ago she had vowed to do whatever it took to be strong.

A tenday ago, she had pounded a fist against the gates of Darkhold, the western keep of the Zhentarim, seeking to become an agent of the Black Network. The dark confederation of power-hungry wizards, cruel warriors, and priests dedicated to wicked gods was constantly scheming to extend its dominion over the Heartlands. Thus the Zhentarim were always seeking likely new recruits eager to advance their lots in life. Deadly-looking guards had taken her inside, and she had been granted an audience with Sememmon, the lord of Darkhold.

'To be accepted into the Zhentarim, you must first prove your worth," Sememmon had spoken from the gloom of his subterranean council chamber. He had given her a task: journey deep into the Sunset Mountains, to a tower called Gurthang, and return with a magical object imprisoned there, the Finger of Ckai-el-Ckaan.

Now Ravendas reached out to touch the cold, black stone of the fortress. It felt strangely smooth against her fingers, almost oily, though it left no residue on her skin. The wall's surface was flawless, without cracks or wind-worn pock marks. Gurthang itself was starkly simple in design. A circular curtain wall a hundred feet high surrounded the central tower-a sharp, jagged splinter of obsidian that seemed to pierce the sky.

Ravendas bit her lip in a frown. The absence of any handholds was going to make this difficult. However, she had come prepared. Shrugging her pack from her broad shoulders, she pulled out rope, pitons, and gloves. She held one of the steel spikes against the wall, then hefted a small sledge, striking the spike hard to drive it into the stone.

"Malar's balls!" she swore loudly, dropping the hammer and piton to clutch her stinging hand. By all the bloodiest gods, that had hurt. She examined the wall. Her blow had not left so much as a scratch.

Laughter rang out like a bell tolling on the cold mountain air.

With feral grace Ravendas drew her sword. The sun had slipped behind the western rimrock of the basin, and she gazed into the gathering gloom. How had someone come upon her unaware?

"You'll have no need of that sword," a voice called out, echoing off the boulders all around.

Ravendas did not lower the blade. The deep blue shadows swirled beside a granite outcrop. A man walked toward her, clad in a purple cloak, holding a gnarled walking staff. By the pouches, feathers, and animal claws dangling from his belt, she could see he styled himself some sort of mage. However, given his obvious youth, she doubted he was a wizard of much worth.

"You might not want to make a habit of spying on people," she snapped. "Unless you're curious to learn what a sword sliding through your guts feels like."

He bowed gracefully in apology. "And you might not want to make a habit of battling stone walls," he replied. His voice reminded her of a lute. "Unless, of course, you believe your head to be harder than the rock."

Ravendas scowled. Suspicion left a metallic taste on her tongue. "So, apprentice, have you stolen your master's spell-book and slipped away from his tower before your seven years were up?"

The mage's clear green eyes danced with mirth. "On the contrary, my seven years are long past and well served." The two stared at each other. Wind whistled forlornly over jagged stone. "So," he said finally, "they sent you here, too?"

Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

He shook his head in lieu of an answer. "I have a camp nearby. There's a fire waiting to be lit."

Ravendas gazed at him critically, then shrugged. Night was falling. Already she could see a few pinpricks of starlight in the slate-blue sky. A fire would be welcome. Besides, she knew she could simply kill him if he tried anything she did not like. She sheathed her sword and slung her pack over her shoulder.

"Lead on, mage."

It was full dark by the time they reached a small hollow protected by a granite overhang. The mage spoke a word of magic, and a neatly laid fire burst into crimson flame. At least he could do that much, Ravendas thought grudgingly In the golden light, she could see that he was handsomer than she had thought, his nose long and straight, his jaw prominent beneath a few days' growth of coppery beard. As she watched, he began fashioning a stew of jerked venison, raisins, and sun-dried tomatoes. Neither spoke as they ate, huddled close to the fire. A thin, sharp crescent of moon rose above the far peaks. When they finished, the mage took her bowl and put away the remaining food. He sat down across the fire from her.

'They sent you here, didn't they?" he asked. 'They gave you a mission to prove your worth, just like they did me." Gold flecks danced in his green eyes. "The Zhentarim."

She wondered right then if she should kill him. Perhaps the Zhentarim had sent them both here to see who was the stronger. If so, she intended to win. Her hand strayed toward the eating knife at her belt.