Dermanassian stood at the threshold of Glorious Tehare. Clad in singular gray
with the hood of his cloak pulled tightly against his bronze face, the desert elf
was nearly invisible in the winding crevasse that led to the underground city.
Both the city and its last child were nearly unrecognizable. Tehare was no more
than a mausoleum and Dermanassian no more than a raving scarecrow. His
laughter ended in choking. He spat noisily, as if trying to expel the guilt that
haunted him and drove him back to his homeland.
What have I done? The unspoken question seemed to whorl through the still
desert air. It was all around him. Teasing him. Hounding him. Worse than the
question was its answer -- so horrible that Dermanassian could not bring
himself to contemplate it. Indeed, madness was preferable. Already it nibbled
at the edges of his mind like a pack of hyenas, threatening to overwhelm him.
For his part, he allowed it. Surely lunacy would be a refuge compared to the
unbearable shame of his folly.
A tiny, white dragonet circled anxiously above him. Its flight was erratic as it
strove to understand Dermanassian's strange mood. The dragonet was a
simple, playful creature. It did it not know that it had been a miniature homage
to the white dragons, made by the desert elf from a sorcerous mixing of carved
of quartz and his own blood. Nor did it know that the god Asbeth tricked the
desert elf into aiding the destruction of that ancient race, then dumped him and
the dragonet at the edge of the Blackstone River.
The dragonet did know, however, that it instinctively disliked this place. Its
little red nostrils flared as they caught the stink of centuries-old death. It
chittered to Dermanassian nervously, hoping to give comfort and to receive
some in return.
He did not respond. His sick mind feared the tiny creature was an irony of the
gods, driving him toward madness. Its very presence was a continual reminder
of his foolishness. Impotent with rage and grief, he wandered the countryside
in despair and self-hatred, searching vainly for absolution. Throughout, the
ever-present dragonet dogged his shoulder.
And now he found himself here.
He leaned on the veined stone, his body fatigued and his mind fitful. He did not
know what brought him to his ancestral lands. Had he been in his right mind, he
would have thought the barren home of a dead people to be a strange place to
find comfort from his own participation in genocide. Perhaps it was the perfect
place to succumb to madness, to finally join the rest of his people in crazed
death. Perhaps he simply had no where else to go.
Dermanassian would have vomited again if he had the energy, if his throat and
stomach were not long dry from retching. Gagging, he stumbled across the
ruins of the Setting Sun Gate into Tehare.
The city was carved from bedrock, expanding upon a natural cave system. Its
cool, vast spaces were criss-crossed with stairs and stacked with palaces and
other structures. Tunnels as wide as highways connected huge caverns
together. Just inside the Setting Sun Gate was the largest cavern, nicknamed
the Honeycomb, where sculpted buildings rose eight stories.
When Glorious Tehare was a living city, the engineers captured sun- and
starlight in mirrors and funneled it through the caverns in a series of shafts.
The light was channeled to panels of mirrors that covered the cavern ceilings
and were turned every hour. And so even underground, the desert elves were
lit by the heavens.
In those days, Glorious Tehare bustled with activity. What some would have
thought its greatest liability became the city's greatest asset: it sat beneath the
so-called Impassable Desert. The desert was far too large to circumvent or
cross without harbors from the hot sands and glaring sun. Populations
surrounding the desert and beyond knew only rumors about each other until
the desert elves opened their gates. Tehare and its sister cities grew richer and
more cosmopolitan on trade, for merchants carrying goods from one side of
the great desert to the other had little choice but to stop and share their wealth
with the bronze and angular folk of the desert. Thus goods for every need or
desire crammed its markets, bizarre and urbane spectacles packed its
amphitheaters, scholars filled its university, and its residents argued
philosophy in the comfort of stacked palaces.
Then Risaa the Whisperer came. Its ravenous, instinctual appetite for minds
led it to the desert elves' communal consciousness. Oozing through cracks,
Risaa feasted on their sanity. As the desert elves succumbed, the merchants
fled. Dermanassian alone survived the riots and madness.
Now the city was a mockery of what Dermanassian's remembered. The multi-
faceted mirrors – those few remaining in place – were askew. Many littered the
polished stone floors with their shards, leaving the city in a sleepy twilight.
Dermanassian fumbled in near darkness, helped by his small crystal orb
hovering before him. The orb's golden light should have been comforting. Yet
bouncing off the mirrored slivers, its cast was irregular and jarring.
Dermanassian dully wondered if the shattered mirrors reflected the orb or the
disarray in his own mind...
with the hood of his cloak pulled tightly against his bronze face, the desert elf
was nearly invisible in the winding crevasse that led to the underground city.
Both the city and its last child were nearly unrecognizable. Tehare was no more
than a mausoleum and Dermanassian no more than a raving scarecrow. His
laughter ended in choking. He spat noisily, as if trying to expel the guilt that
haunted him and drove him back to his homeland.
What have I done? The unspoken question seemed to whorl through the still
desert air. It was all around him. Teasing him. Hounding him. Worse than the
question was its answer -- so horrible that Dermanassian could not bring
himself to contemplate it. Indeed, madness was preferable. Already it nibbled
at the edges of his mind like a pack of hyenas, threatening to overwhelm him.
For his part, he allowed it. Surely lunacy would be a refuge compared to the
unbearable shame of his folly.
A tiny, white dragonet circled anxiously above him. Its flight was erratic as it
strove to understand Dermanassian's strange mood. The dragonet was a
simple, playful creature. It did it not know that it had been a miniature homage
to the white dragons, made by the desert elf from a sorcerous mixing of carved
of quartz and his own blood. Nor did it know that the god Asbeth tricked the
desert elf into aiding the destruction of that ancient race, then dumped him and
the dragonet at the edge of the Blackstone River.
The dragonet did know, however, that it instinctively disliked this place. Its
little red nostrils flared as they caught the stink of centuries-old death. It
chittered to Dermanassian nervously, hoping to give comfort and to receive
some in return.
He did not respond. His sick mind feared the tiny creature was an irony of the
gods, driving him toward madness. Its very presence was a continual reminder
of his foolishness. Impotent with rage and grief, he wandered the countryside
in despair and self-hatred, searching vainly for absolution. Throughout, the
ever-present dragonet dogged his shoulder.
And now he found himself here.
He leaned on the veined stone, his body fatigued and his mind fitful. He did not
know what brought him to his ancestral lands. Had he been in his right mind, he
would have thought the barren home of a dead people to be a strange place to
find comfort from his own participation in genocide. Perhaps it was the perfect
place to succumb to madness, to finally join the rest of his people in crazed
death. Perhaps he simply had no where else to go.
Dermanassian would have vomited again if he had the energy, if his throat and
stomach were not long dry from retching. Gagging, he stumbled across the
ruins of the Setting Sun Gate into Tehare.
The city was carved from bedrock, expanding upon a natural cave system. Its
cool, vast spaces were criss-crossed with stairs and stacked with palaces and
other structures. Tunnels as wide as highways connected huge caverns
together. Just inside the Setting Sun Gate was the largest cavern, nicknamed
the Honeycomb, where sculpted buildings rose eight stories.
When Glorious Tehare was a living city, the engineers captured sun- and
starlight in mirrors and funneled it through the caverns in a series of shafts.
The light was channeled to panels of mirrors that covered the cavern ceilings
and were turned every hour. And so even underground, the desert elves were
lit by the heavens.
In those days, Glorious Tehare bustled with activity. What some would have
thought its greatest liability became the city's greatest asset: it sat beneath the
so-called Impassable Desert. The desert was far too large to circumvent or
cross without harbors from the hot sands and glaring sun. Populations
surrounding the desert and beyond knew only rumors about each other until
the desert elves opened their gates. Tehare and its sister cities grew richer and
more cosmopolitan on trade, for merchants carrying goods from one side of
the great desert to the other had little choice but to stop and share their wealth
with the bronze and angular folk of the desert. Thus goods for every need or
desire crammed its markets, bizarre and urbane spectacles packed its
amphitheaters, scholars filled its university, and its residents argued
philosophy in the comfort of stacked palaces.
Then Risaa the Whisperer came. Its ravenous, instinctual appetite for minds
led it to the desert elves' communal consciousness. Oozing through cracks,
Risaa feasted on their sanity. As the desert elves succumbed, the merchants
fled. Dermanassian alone survived the riots and madness.
Now the city was a mockery of what Dermanassian's remembered. The multi-
faceted mirrors – those few remaining in place – were askew. Many littered the
polished stone floors with their shards, leaving the city in a sleepy twilight.
Dermanassian fumbled in near darkness, helped by his small crystal orb
hovering before him. The orb's golden light should have been comforting. Yet
bouncing off the mirrored slivers, its cast was irregular and jarring.
Dermanassian dully wondered if the shattered mirrors reflected the orb or the
disarray in his own mind...
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| To Find Peace, Rise of a Necromancer, Part 2 By SC Bryce |
Publication History |
Readers' Comments |
"Left me astonished..." "Really well done..." "Great story..." "A fine story..." "Really absorbed me..." "A pleasure to read..." "Well told..." "Vivid..." "I really enjoyed this story..." "Well written..." "Really liked the imagery..." "A fine read..." "Clever..." "Very smooth..." "Strong theme, solid prose, interesting character..." "Complex and fascinating, twisting to surprise but always highly logical in retrospect. Your main character is a complex and well realized individual..." |
First Printing:
Flashing Swords, Vol. 2, Issue 7,
Daniel E. Blackston, ed. (Aug. 2006),
at www.SwordandSorcery.org.
Flashing Swords, Vol. 2, Issue 7,
Daniel E. Blackston, ed. (Aug. 2006),
at www.SwordandSorcery.org.
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