Naaros Rising (cont')

It was day; that much was obvious, for the black drake’s cavernous demesne was close to the surface, and the light filtering down from the outer world was a wan shade of mote-filled gold. Sinnagar raised himself up from his hoard and made towards it, towards the light and the cold rush of air from without. There, at the naked opening, the dragon spread his wings and hurled himself outwards into the gulf.

He was black, so dark as to appear glossy and smooth. But the appearance was deceptive; for all over he was armoured in scales, across which a blade might slide but never pierce. Very old he was, and great of size, his wingspan that of one of his lesser brethren from snout to tail. He had been mighty during the War of the Wyrms, and had played a vital part in the destruction of Cynx. But for many a long year now he had dwelt underground, moving only during the most monumental of upheavals in the crust. Yet he had not been stirred from slumber when Naar called forth the False Dragons once again, and with good reason.

On he flew over many leagues, though few were the eyes that saw him; for this was the Great Bor Range, and what settlements there were, were widely scattered. The kingdom of Boradon was far to the west of his path; Anarin and Starn lay beyond the blue Tentarias; and the dragon flew east, not south, though he would be forced to angle that way before long.

Sinnagar found his safe crossing due east of Garthen, taking advantage of an overcast to hide his passage. Thence south and south-west his journey took him, until at last he landed on a great ash plain in the midst of nowhere.

It was a testament to the Doomlord’s strength, that his realm had endured against nature’s hand for so long; that even after five ages, the land remained completely sterile.

There was the rent, the chasm, that fiery gulf opened up by the violence of a magical battle so intense that the very earth began to melt and run beneath the combatants' feet. To the east rose the shattered peaks of the Darkwall: the rest of the ring encircled the Doomlands was completed by the proud Dammerdons.

Sinnagar pondered even as he circled. He was knowledgeable in the lore of Magnamund, but his ken fell short here: who knew where the Nightmare Sword lay now? (Though he fancied that one of his cousins, or even an Agarashi, might have borne it out of Naaros before the towers fell. But then, what blade had he seen Agarash wielding against the Elder Magi in his vision if not the Nightmare Sword?) Most of the High Banes were at the black dragon's disposal. He elected to summon them.

A ray of sunlight broke through the heavy cloud layer and alighted upon the ashes of the cremated land. The dragon felt no remorse for the desolation: it knew pride. Once, they had been great: once, they had ruled the Last Battleground of Aon. But nostalgia and patriotism would get him nowhere. A new banner had to be erected, and fast.

The dragon lifted his head and sang the names of the runes, uttered words that were primordial sounds, and so invoked the High Banes with thunder rolling; not through the clouds, but through the air itself. With a great exertion of will that forced him down to the basaltic valley, Sinnagar twisted the threads of time and opened up a Shadow Gate, a-swirl like in the manner of a black hole, a long tunnel into the night. Through this came gibbering things, nameless things, things with inconstant and tormented bodies, barely recognisable as living beings. Yet they had power, great power, and they were numerous and deadly.

"My orders are simple: much I leave to your imagination," intoned the fire-drake with almost sonorous formality. "Go out into this world, this Magnamund, and seek out the Dwimorblaed, the Nightmare Sword. The door into the Void must be forever broken: the battle between the Lords of Light and of Darkness must come to a head! Thus do I charge you, and thus you shall obey. Return here, to Naaros, when this task is done. Send the spawn of Helgedad this way during your travels. There will be a rallying, and an armament, and this world will be sundered for all time!"

Wordless, they left; and as they made their way out of the Doomlands, up through the high and broken passes, they began to assume form, take upon themselves a constant guise, until, solid and fully-formed, they entered into the green lands to set about their charge. 

More coming next issue. . .