It both was and was not Elgar. Tomas had never seen the Dead God himself, only skins he wore, but even the dumbest of the murder knew the tales. The man currently choking the life from Tomas wore Elgar’s armor. The skulls, some graven, some embossed, eyes set with obsidian, leered from scored plates. Cruel, gore streaked spikes rose from the attacker’s shoulders and wrists, with more skulls at their bases, as if they have been impaled, and the helm he wore suggested a diving crow, wings stretched back, its face another grinning skull.
But the man inside the armor, if he could even be called such, Tomas realized to his horror that he knew. It was Elgar’s Scion, the Dark Lord and False Prophet, the very man he had escorted to the Black Tabernacle a decade ago! He had the same white hair, the same deathly pallor, the same hawk face and cruel features. Only his eyes were different. They were now the same black as any that Elgar wore, but only in color. Where the Dead God’s eyes had been filled with the cold of the grave, the Dark Lord’s stare burned with hate and fury, even as his lips parted in a cruel grin.
“Torch!” the Dark Lord exclaimed, feigning good humor. “I assumed you were dead!” His face fell in brief, mock disappointment, before his mad grin returned. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” He held Tomas in his crushing grip a bit longer, showing his power over Tomas’s miserable life, before dropping him to the ground.
Tomas landed on the hard stones with a grunt, the fear inside him choking him almost as effectively as the Dark Lord’s hand. The Dark Lord looked down on him with those black, burning eyes, his exposed teeth barely visible against his pale skin, and voiced a dark, vicious chuckle. “Don’t you wonder what happened to your friends?”
Tomas, still gasping and rubbing at his neck, had no idea what answer would get him killed, or if indeed it would make any difference at all. Trembling, he simply shrugged and awaited a fate that he knew he was powerless to change.
The Dark Lord shook his head, amused by Tomas’s fear, and raised a hand overhead. “Come forth, my servants!”
From the black pool came a sick bubbling sound, and Tomas watched in mounting horror as shapes rose from it. At first, he thought them men, but as the black liquid fell from them, leaving no sign of its passing, and exposed their bald heads and twisted faces, he saw that they were men no longer. Their eyes were the same burning black as the Dark Lord’s, but there the similarities ended. These creatures were distorted, mockeries of men, with maws full of fangs, sloped foreheads, and hollow depressions where their noses would have been. Vicious talons sprouted from their fingers, like nails of the dead that had kept growing in the grave, but longer, more deadly, surely capable of tearing out a man’s throat. Perhaps worst of all was how still they were once they had stood up. They were like statues, unblinking, unbreathing, dead things hungry to end the lives of all those around them once the leash was removed.
The ten workers he had set to clearing the rubble were unrecognizable, but they still wore articles of clothing that let Tomas know who they had been. He wants me to know this could also be my fate. Perhaps there is hope for me, yet.
The Dark Lord chuckled again as Tomas absorbed the sight, and said, “I will give you a choice, Torch. Join me,” he said, placing a hand on his chest. “Or join them,” he offered, gesturing toward the ghouls.
It was not, in Tomas’s mind, any sort of choice. He touched his head to the floor and swore, “I live to serve you, Dark Lord.”
“Then come with me and witness my ascension.” Tomas looked up again, to see a look of intense hatred cross The Dark Lord’s face as he ground his teeth. “Unlike my father’s, it will be of consequence.”
In response to some unheard command, the ghouls leapt from the pool and hunkered at the Dark Lord’s feet as he extended a hand to Tomas. “Come.”
What else can I do? Tomas took the Dark Lord’s hand and rose, his gut telling him that, while he might have been spared, he had agreed to pay a terrible price for his life.
Maybe now, finally, I will gain the power!
The grate at the top of the huge spiral staircase opened silently at Aiul’s touch, allowing him and his minions access to the top of the central pyramid. Aiul walked out of the building and stood in the open on the very top step of Torium, looking out over the courtyard and the jungle beyond. The ghouls were silent, but Aiul could hear Torch’s labored breathing, loud both from the climb and, doubtless, sheer terror. He is but the first of many who will tremble in fear of my coming.
Mists rose from the jungle, drifting in and out over the face of the fat blood moon hanging overhead, tinting the world below in yellow-orange. Aiul was reminded of Nihlos at night, with its orange light from the cloud cover, though he had never seen the moon there. Despite all of his rage and agony, there was still a part of him that thrilled at seeing the great round light in the sky and the stars around it, the same part that still reveled at snow or rain as small miracles.
He knew, now, where he had been, though he had no idea how long. It had seemed only a little while, mere minutes, yet much had changed. Torch was older, but it was difficult to tell how much time had passed for him. His kind didn’t age like humans.
Years. That much is certain. Elgar must have waited for a particular moment, perhaps the right phase of the moon, or maybe it was simpler: he waited until his camp followers cleared the black pool. It didn’t really matter. There was nothing and no one to return to, at any rate.
Clearly, Lothrian had failed, and who knew where everyone had gotten off to after that, or who else he took with him. Aiul found he could not bring himself to care. Far more important matters occupied his mind.
His twisted, undead creations followed like dogs, eager to please, anxious to rend flesh and cause destruction.
Destruction was just what Aiul wanted, and just what Elgar had wanted, as well, though he could never quite express it. The world was so full of evil, of hate, of misery and despair. It could never be cleansed. It could only be burned.
As Elgar had tried to explain to everyone long ago, true justice and equality could only be found in one place:
A world of ash.
FROM THE PUBLISHER
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