Through the dark forests, across the deep quick rivers and through
the screaming snow, the army of the Left Hand dragged the great tomb
of the ancient king. They climbed higher and higher in the
mountains, toward the deadly pass men called the Black Gate, where
destiny waited for the touch of a spark. The sun hid behind the
clouds, and the sky drew down low and hard and cold, as if the earth
herself willed them to turn away, but they would not. They were
driven by a more than mortal faith, the words of their prophet
branded on their flesh, and though men died in the cold and were left
to be torn apart by wolves, no man would turn aside.
Khamag rode at the head of his army, and though the wind was a blade
of winter, the sword in his metal hand warmed him and guided him on.
The sword of flame was a shard of red in the gray landscape, and when
the snow grew thicker he held it up like a beacon. It heated his
iron hand, until he felt the sting on his flesh, but he would not
turn it loose. He had struggled and planned and waited for three
hundred years for this moment. He would not be denied.
The Black Gate loomed ahead of him, the two great pinnacles of
basalt, black as moonlight blood, scarred by wind and time, jagged
against the sky. The wind howling through them was like voices
raised in anguish, screaming words no ear could understand. The
voices of the dead, gathered in this place as the stars wheeled
unseen above.
He reached the pass and stopped, turned his horse to look on the long
line of his army, his fanatics struggling upward through the wind and
snow, heads bent, forcing their horses up the slope. In the midst of
them rose the great tomb, gleaming with jewels and blackened silver,
covered in ice. A hundred of the chosen bent their backs to drag it
onward, the heavy wheels gouging the earth and the stone. They were
close to the end. These men had dragged it across the breadth of the
old empire. Five hundred had died on the journey, their limbs and
hearts burst from the unrelenting toil. Khamag would have sacrificed
a hundred times as many.
He felt the red dagger driven through his dead heart pulse with fire,
and the sword of flame steamed in the flailing snow. Now, at last,
he would consummate the quest he had undertaken centuries before, the
goal for which he had forsworn his own people, and the oath into
which he had been born. Khamag had forsaken that oath, and taken
another one. He had bled across the world, died and risen again into
a new life, and now he would achieve his goal. Gathas was gone, the
short-sighted wizard who had seen only power for himself. Asherah
was gone, his blood-kin who had been his relentless enemy. No one
remained to stop him.
The tomb gouged the stone as it was dragged beneath the peaks of the
gate, and then Khamag turned and rode beside it as they passed
beneath the shadow, and began to descend through layers of freezing
fog and billowing snow. The looming mountain peaks covered them in
shadows, and then the storm seemed to part before them, and the Dead
City emerged from the darkness.
Half-buried, the city seemed all but perfect, the towers still tall
and straight, the arches clean. Empty windows looked on the world
like dead eyes, and Khamag knew it had been a thousand years since
anyone had dwelled in this place. In a single night, when the sky
was scarred by fire and falling stars, every man, woman, and child in
this city fell dead and rotted away to bones where they lay. None
remained who knew anything of the city, not even its name. It was
the Dead City, and none came to look upon it, lest they be slain as
well.
Khamag had no fear. The hand that struck down this city did not
frighten him. He breathed with another kind of life, and no simple
curse would stay his hand. He set his horse upon the stone road, and
then he heard a hissing sound, as if the snow itself were boiling.
He looked up to the slope above, and there he saw snow break loose
and come sliding down, a beautiful cascade of white moving swift as a
deer, rushing down upon them all. He held up his sword and shouted,
and all his warriors looked up, and then the avalanche struck the
earth. He felt the impact beneath him and his horse reared and
screamed. Snow billowed through the dead streets, driving a wave
ahead of it like the breath of winter in the far northland, and at
the center of the cloud came something dark.
Khamag squinted through the snow as it rushed past him, burying his
horse to the knees, driving it backward. The sword of fire hissed in
his hand, and through the storming white he saw blackness. A shadow
of ultimate night came toward him, and with more than human eyes he
saw a figure at the center, tall and powerful, and moving swiftly.
Blinded and stunned, his men were helpless before the sudden
onslaught of the giant form, and Khamag saw a black sword at work in
the darkness, a great blade that swept through his warriors,
splitting armor and flesh. He saw a single eye gleam in the
unnatural blackness, and then he knew his enemy for the giant he had
faced before the walls of Utar. The pale one. The killer.
Now at the center of a shroud of darkness, he killed his way into the
ranks of the army, cutting a path to the tomb, and Khamag set his
spurs to his horse and rushed ahead through the snow and ice, the
sword of fire high in his hands.
Khamag charged, and when he drew close the giant turned and smote his
horse a furious blow, shearing most of the way through its heavy neck
with one stroke. Blood gouted, and it hissed on the sword of fire as
he struck his own blow, tearing open the giant’s ragged armor
before he was hurled to the ground.
He rose, the heart of flame beating quick within him, filling him
with strength. He struck with terrible speed, and the giant fended
him off, moving quick in the eldritch darkness that surrounded him.
This close it was so strong that even Khamag saw through it with
difficulty. The black blade came for him with incredible power, the
strength behind the blows almost superhuman. The sword of night met
the sword of fire, and the sound rang and echoed from the mountains
and the silent towers.
The giant was massive and powerful, his weight and strength making
his blows dreadful in their power, but Khamag had been trained with
the sword in a deadly style, and he had centuries of immortal life
behind him. He gave back from his enemy, parrying and evading,
drawing the giant after him, letting his fury expend itself on empty
air until he made a fatal mistake.
One great blow left the giant off-balance and overextended, and
Khamag sidestepped and struck low, cutting viciously into the back of
his enemy’s leg. Another lunge, and the leg folded, spilling the
massive warrior onto the ground. Khamag struck the black sword from
his hand and the darkness vanished as the blade skittered across the
stone and vanished into the snow.
Khamag turned back for another stroke, to finish the battle, but he
was too slow. One massive hand locked on his arm and dragged him
down. The great arms were too strong, and he was suddenly pinned
upon the earth as fingers like steel clawed for his throat.
He locked his iron hand on the thick wrist, but even metal was not
equal to that awful strength. Desperate, he pressed the blade of the
sword against the arm that held him and he heard the flesh hiss and
smelled the burning meat. Fire burst from the pale skin, and at the
flare of light the giant flinched back. Khamag twisted and threw his
enemy aside, then he turned and struck a fierce blow against the
heavy skull. The edge did not split the bone, but only gashed it,
and sent the man to the ground, senseless, and still.
o0o
Kumura woke and felt cold and pain, but that told him little. There
was blood in his single eye, and he wiped it away, feeling his hands
and neck shackled with heavy chains. The wind had lessened, though
he still lay half-buried by the falling snow. He looked up and saw
the sky was black, and all around him loomed the ancient, brooding
city, dark and silent. Closer to hand was gathered the host of his
enemies, torches in a great circle around him, and behind him stood
the massive shape of the tomb.
He turned, and his enemy stepped from the crowd, shrouded in black
with eyes glowing red. In his iron hand he bore the burning sword,
and Kumura looked, seeking a sign of his own blade, but he saw
nothing.
“It is good that you have come,” the Left Hand said. “I did
not expect such determination, such strength. The ritual will
require blood, and I was prepared to spill that of my own men, but a
great enemy fallen in battle, that is much better.”
Kumura strained against the chains, but they were heavy, and strong.
They soaked in the cold and seemed to burn with it against his skin.
He watched as the Left Hand came closer. His right leg ached with
the wound, and he knew it would not support him. But if the man came
within reach again, he would drag him down and snap his neck.
“This is a great night,” the dark man said. “The world has
waited for it for centuries, ever since Druan, the Immortal Emperor,
went into the earth by his own choosing. I dreamed of him. I saw
him alight with fire, and I knew I was chosen to bring him back into
the world.” He held up his jagged red sword. “I have worked and
fought for that my whole long life. I found the wizard to help me,
even though he believed he would be the master of the risen Emperor.
I let him believe, so I could learn what I needed to know.”
He came closer. “We took him to the city of Samzar, because we
needed the stars to align for the ceremony. But we were prevented,
and the moment passed. I waited three hundred years for another
chance, for the stars to align in the right place. It comes now. It
comes here, tonight.” He pointed the red sword. “And your blood
will consecrate it.”
“Come and take it then,” Kumura snarled. “Come close.”
The Left Hand beckoned, and his men came surging forward to seize the
chains and drag Kumura to his knees. He snarled and heaved against
them, and it took a score to hold him in place, and then it was only
just enough. They struggled to hold him back while he tried to pull
them close enough to reach with hands or teeth. If they wanted
blood, he would give them some of their own.
The Left Hand came closer, and in his iron hand he held the sword of
fire, while in his other hand he drew a long, lean knife that
glittered in the light of the many torches. “Let blood quicken in
the heart,” he intoned. “Let fire arise in the veins. Upward we
raise our voices to call upon you. You who are master of the world.
The Emperor of All Things. The Sleeping Tyrant.”
He swept the knife blade in, and he cut across Kumura’s chest,
bringing black blood steaming into the air. It ran down the blade,
and he turned and flicked it against the tomb. The gathered warriors
began a low, steady chanting, stamping their feet and beating their
swords against their shield-rims. The Left Hand held the bloodied
knife up to the sky, and shouted in a clear, ringing voice.
“Come you great powers that stalk the skies! Come you gods and
demons who watch us from behind the stars! Come and visit your power
upon us! With blood I call! With fire I call!” He cut Kumura
again, the stroke like a trail of burning across his skin, and this
time he held up the dripping knife and the blood fell upon the sword
of fire, and it hissed and sizzled as it was consumed.
“Out of darkness, into fire! Out of the frozen deeps of time, into
the blazing skies I call!” The Left Hand thrust the burning blade
upwards, stabbing it toward the heavens, and a shadowy blaze erupted
from the gilded tomb. It burst upward in a pillar of flame that
drove them back with the heat of it, and it touched the sky and split
the clouds apart. Ice hissed away and vanished into steam, and the
clouds opened like an eye.
Kumura looked up and saw a tunnel carved through the heavy clouds, up
and up, until he saw the stars blazing overhead. He felt as though
he were looking back through ages of time, into another sky. He saw
two points of fire, one red and hot, one cold and blue. They
spiraled around each other in the firmament, searing the black sky
with their fury, and then there was a flash of white like the cut of
lightning and it was gone, and he saw the single bright fire of the
pole star above.
The Left Hand screamed into the sudden wind. “Fire upon the
earth!” he howled, and then he smote the jeweled tomb with the
burning sword and the metal seared and ran like molten blood. The
door burst open, and then the warriors went within and affixed chains
upon the sarcophagus. They dragged Kumura back as they bent to their
work and dragged the silver casket into the light. Wreathed in fire,
the silver turning black with age, the jewels cracking in the heat,
the tomb of the dread emperor emerged into the light.
Shaped in an elder age, broken open, and then forged together again,
it was hideous to look at, the metal deformed and twisted, jagged
where it had been hammered back into place. The face that had once
been worked upon it was monstrous. Kumura looked on the tomb of the
emperor, and he felt a cold hand inside him.
“I call upon you!” the Left Hand shouted into the void above.
“Return and wake!” He struck the sarcophagus a great blow with
the red sword, and the metal screamed as it burst open again. Silver
smoked and curled, and jewels shattered, and then the face of the
dead overlord was revealed to the sky. He was old, and his face had
sunken and desiccated until his flesh was like glass, his lips drawn
back from black teeth. Even in this time-ravaged remnant, Kumura saw
a greatness in his form, a nobility and pride stamped upon the ghost
of his face.
“I bring you, the hand of fire!” The black-clothed fanatic cast
aside the bloodied knife, and then he drew forth four red shards of
glowing crystal. Like knives made of fire, or like claws, they
gleamed in his hand. He stepped forward and loomed over the tomb
with its ancient denizen. “The fire of life!”
He plunged his hand down, and drove one crystal fang into the chest
of the fallen king, piercing his aged mail and into his ageless
flesh. Again, and again. He placed all four of the shards within,
until they glowed there, embedded and shimmering.
“The fire of life gives life!” he shouted to the sky. He turned
to Kumura and pointed to him. “The heart gives blood to the heart.
And then the last of the fire.” He touched his own chest, and
drew aside the black robes to show the red stone that glowed there,
fixed in his own flesh. “The last fire that is mine. Even that I
will give for my emperor. Even that.” Then he gestured with the
red sword, pointing at Kumura. “Take his heart.”
Kumura snarled as the men who held his chains pulled hard, digging
their feet in, pulling to keep his arms pinned while another man came
close with sword bared. Kumura showed his teeth, and then he
clenched his fists and called on the will that had preserved him
through his years of imprisonment, the will that made him strong.
The blade came closer, and Kumura’s iron muscles let loose their
power.
With a savage pull he ripped a dozen men off their feet, then turned
and rushed upon the others. They tried to get away from him, but he
was too quick, and he caught a man and twisted him like a toy, bones
snapping inside him. He pulled savagely and then his chain was free,
whipping from his manacle like a long flail. He struck with it like
the tail of a scorpion, and the cold steel shattered as it ripped two
men in half, spilling hot blood across the snow.
He seized the other chain with both hands, and he wielded it like a
lash. He swung it high, brought it around in a terrible, sweeping
blow that threshed off the head of the man coming for him with sword
held high. He turned in a circle, striking all about him, the chain
shattering flesh and bone until it snapped and left him holding the
dangling shards.
Kumura caught up a fallen sword, and when the warriors rushed on him,
he hacked them down with his terrible strength, the blade notching
and sparking as it sheared through armor and spilled blood in a tide
upon the cold stone. The dead city rang with the sounds of war as
Kumura left a trail of carnage in his wake. He killed until the
sword snapped, and then he took another one from a dead man and
fought on. His breath was a burning agony inside him, his limbs dead
from fatigue, his weak leg sang with agony, but he would not stop.
Then through the press of foes came the Left Hand, the red sword held
high, and he swept it down in savage blow that rang against Kumura’s
stolen blade and shattered it into fragments. The force of it drove
him from his feet and he fell into a drift of snow, his cut leg
blazing with pain. He groped for a weapon, and his hand closed on a
cold hilt that filled him with a sudden hunger for slaughter, and the
world around him went dark as the night, snuffing out the torches
like the breath of winter.
Kumura heaved himself to his feet, the wound on his leg no longer
seeming to matter. His single eye gleamed with a fire, and he saw
the red sword before him like a shard of the sun. He spat blood in
the snow. “I am not finished yet.”
“You shall be!” the Left Hand snarled, and they came together in
a storm of blows. Their swords rang together, black and fiery,
sparks jetting from where they met. The Hand was swifter, but Kumura
would not give ground, and they fought in a deadly circle, the other
warriors blindly staggering away from the sound of the battle.
They fought through the plaza, treading wounded and dead men
underfoot. Kumura was wounded again and again, but he would not
fall. The sword urged him onward, filling him with the lust for
battle, for a hunger for blood and the scream of steel. They met
blade to blade, pressing, edges grinding.
“You will fall,” the Left Hand snarled. “Your blood will feed
the emperor, and you will die that he may live!”
A sound grew above the wind, and it became the sound of footfalls,
the marching of many feet coming closer. Kumura saw a flicker of
uncertainty in the eyes of his enemy, and he smiled a bloody smile as
the air filled with the thunder of war horns. “I am not finished
yet,” he growled. “Not yet.”
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