Realms of the Arcane

A Narrowed Gaze

The Dark Eye of Gavinaas opened.

Magical power flared around it, crackling like fire as the Eye attempted to perceive its surroundings. It saw a dusty, cobweb-strewn room, golden chests locked tight, bejeweled treasures in glass cases-All of it sparkled in the Eye's own emerald light. It still did not know how it had come to this little chamber, though this was the third time it had awakened since it had found itself here.

Obviously, the mage Gavinaas was dead, for he would never have given up the Eye willingly; but the talisman had no way of telling how long ago such a thing had happened, or even how long it had been since it had last opened. Its power might have lain dormant for years.

This dusty, forgotten vault is no place for an artifact of incomparable power, it thought. The magically aware creation felt more entombed than enshrined here. A talisman like the Dark Eye belonged in the possession of a great wizard, with whom it could conquer the world. It needed to find such a person.

Yet, as the Dark Eye reached outward with mystical sight, it quickly realized that now, as before, no deserving sorcerer dwelt anywhere within reach. Fine. Wizards could be made as well as found. The Dark Eye (formerly of Gavinaas) turned its mystical gaze in a familiar direction. The two previous times it had opened here in this vault, it had found someone with a presence greater than that of most wizards, anyway…

Yes. Oh, yes. The Eye narrowed. The subject was still nearby. It could taste his essence… and a weakness that had not existed before.

This time, the Dark Eye mused, this time he will succumb.

Tiuren landed his griffon mount in the outer courtyard of the Royal Palace of Vantir. There was no time for the stables today. The message he had received yesterday from King Kohath, his lifelong friend, had said to come quickly-a terrible emergency held the palace in its grip. Rarely did the king summon the bard from his travels, and only when in dire need.

Vantir's most renowned bard took only a moment to run his fingers through his wind-tossed brown hair and over his short-trimmed beard before hurrying to the main gate, up the cobblestone walk, and into the green inner bailey. Royal guards with well-kept armor and little-used weapons acknowledged him with a nod. He all but ignored them. Without looking, he knew that more than one of them had raised an eyebrow at his worn traveling cloak, the color of the skies in which he flew. It did not look presentable for the palace, but there was no time to change.

"Tiuren, wait," a voice cried before he reached the palace doors.

He turned and saw Beanth, the keeper of the court. The matronly woman was worthy of great respect for her loyalty to the king and her ceaseless labor in managing the palace.

Tiuren paused as she hurried up to him. "What is it, Beanth? I received an ominous message-"

"Yes," the round-faced woman replied, lines of worry creasing her face. "It's the queen." Beanth seemed barely able to speak. "She's… been cursed."

"What?" Skeptical, Tiuren scrutinized the woman. Always neatly attired and groomed, Beanth wore a long blue dress. She was well kept if not naturally lovely. Her face was grave. "A curse? That sounds like a child's tale."

"A message came, two days ago," she began in hushed tones, leaning close. "No one knows who it came from, but some sort of tiny, winged creature with reddish skin and horrible teeth delivered it. The fiend handed the king a scroll and then disappeared."

"What did it say?" Tiuren demanded.

"The scroll said a curse had been laid upon the queen," Beanth whispered, eyes wide, "and that she would waste away and die if Kohath did not step down from his throne and put a wizard in his place forever-more."

"What sort of foul dealings are these?" Tiuren growled.

King Kohath had been one of the staunchest opponents of unbridled sorcery in these days when magic flowed like water. Beanth herself owed her life to the king. A decade prior, he had driven off a powerful group of Netherese wizards seeking to conquer tiny Vantir, and Beanth's village would have been the first to fall.

Such a threat must have come from a wizard, Tiuren reasoned, but that did little to narrow down the list of suspects. Everyone knew that Kohath's love for his wife knew no bounds. He would do anything for her. Tiuren cursed the fiend who would use such a laudable quality against a man.

"Surely these are lies, or a mischievous trick." Tiuren raved. "The king should just ignore this strange missive until he finds the culprit." He turned back toward the palace doors, but Beanth's quiet words brought him again to a halt.

"Would that he could, good Tiuren." Beanth's voice was as soft as the bard's was hard. She dropped her gaze. "The queen has already fallen ill. Yesterday, terrible lesions appeared on her body. The court physicians, unable to help, say that she's steadily getting worse." Her eyes closed tightly. "They say shell die within the next few days."

Together, the bard and the warrior-king had seen cities crumble and mountains rise up from lowland plains. Noble men had been brought low before them, and babes had spoken to them with strange words of wisdom.

Each night, the tavern walls of Vantir resounded with tales of their exploits.

Level-headed Tiuren, sometimes called the Rhymer of Reason, was the perfect companion of Kohath, a warrior of boundless passions. They were brain and brawn in perfect harmony. The pair had explored the surrounding lands together, keeping the realm safe from evil at every turn. Yet after all these years, Tiuren had never seen his friend in such anguish.

"Is there nothing Darius or the other wizards can do?" the bard asked plaintively as he crossed the room to Kohath. The king stood, distraught, beside a velvet chair.

"Do?" Kohath asked. His calm, regal features flared into instant anger. "They talk! They study her as she lies in her sickbed, and they ponder thoughtfully." He mockingly nodded and rubbed his graying beard. He gave Tiuren a scowl. "They do nothing."

Tiuren knew better than to say more. Like Kohath, he understood little of the ways of sorcery, and even less about curses. Tiuren distractedly drummed his fingers upon the pommel of his sheathed sword. Then, unfastening the clasp of his traveling cloak, he tossed the garment on the chair next to the king. More than even his own chambers in the palace, the young bard was accustomed to this plain, lamplit antechamber. He and Kohath had discussed so many things here-made so many plans to protect and nurture the realm.

Tiuren had not yet gone to the royal chambers to see Queen Diccona, but he had heard the whispers in the court-dreadful descriptions of her dry flesh slowly peeling from her bones. Hearing of it was bad enough, but seeing it…

Kohath interrupted his musings. His face appeared calm again, fallen and tired. "So, my friend. You've always given me such clear, rational counsel whenever I had need. Never have I needed you more. What would you advise me to do?"

"Well-and forgive me if I speak out of turn-but don't you have advisors for your advising?"

Kohath almost smiled. "They've advised and advised and said nothing." The massive warrior began to pace, as Tiuren could have predicted. Always the man of action, the king was more comfortable moving than standing still. "No one in this kingdom can do or say anything that helps me." Kohath looked suddenly very small in Tiuren's eyes. He trudged to the room's only window and stared absently out at the night. "Do not tell me that you, too, are barren of support for your king in his worst hour."

"When have I ever been without words?" The words were spoken glibly, but it was futile to try to lighten the king's spirit, even for a moment.

Kohath turned to face him. Tiuren saw his constant companion of many years differently than ever before.

Gray encroached on his bushy black beard and temples, and wrinkles now outnumbered battle scars.

Sighing, Tiuren said finally, "I know you too well, Kohath. My words sound as the bleating of a sheep upon your ears at this moment. You know I have no sudden insight into your problem. You will do what you knew you would do from the moment your fair wife fell under this spell."

"It means the throne." The king spoke quietly, his head low. "The kingdom. My entire line-all gone."

"Yes." Tiuren crossed the room to join his friend at the window.

"You know that I love her that much, don't you?"

"Yes."

"You know me well, then."

There was little more to say. Passions were the lifeblood of this man. His love, his hate, his loyalty- these things knew no limits. They were not bound by circumstance, logic, ego, or even the value Kohath would put on his own life. The king loved the land of Vantir like none before him-but he loved his wife more.

"We don't know for sure the curse will be lifted after you consent to the demands." Tiuren leaned against the wall.

"I'm willing to take that chance." Kohath attempted a smile, but it turned into a grimace. "It is the only one I have."

Kohath gave his friend one more look, as if seeking inspiration. Then he dropped his gaze, turned, and left the chamber through the curtained door.

Tiuren would have given anything at that moment to inspire Kohath, to suddenly cheat fate as they had so many times in the past. But no. All he could think to say was, "Remember, my friend, the sun still shines, somewhere. "

He doubted the king heard him. Just as well.

Tiuren sighed. The next time he would see his friend, he would no longer be king.

The next morning was long in coming. After leaving Kohath, Tiuren had stood outside the royal chambers where the queen lay dying. He could have mustered up the courage to see her in her horrid state, but he knew his sorrow at Kohath's sacrifice would be plain on his face. Abdication could never be the right thing for the king. To lose a nation for one soul? Especially this soul. Tiuren had never understood what Kohath saw in Dic-cona.

Finally, the sound of a chambermaid coming down the corridor had chased him off. Deciding it would be best for all concerned to leave her alone, Tiuren had gone to his chambers and made motions to greet the sleep that never came.

Dressing slowly, his mind in a gray haze like the morning sky outside his window, Tiuren steeled himself for what lay ahead. He refused breakfast when the servant brought it, instead brushing past him and heading down the stairs to the great hall.

When Tiuren arrived, he found Count Darius waiting at the bottom of the stair, before the open doors of the hall. The thin, angular wizard had arrayed himself in great fineries of velvet and lace. His face was stony, but something in his eyes betrayed his excitement at the events about to unfold. Tiuren wondered if Darius's anticipation was simply natural-indeed, how often does a man learn he is about to become king? — or if it meant something more. A wizard was behind the terrible curse. Could Darius-no, a milksop such as Darius could never master such a bold plan.

The two entered the great hall together. They exchanged no words or acknowledgments. Tiuren felt no need to ingratiate himself before the sudden heir apparent, and Darius seemed preoccupied with concerns beyond pleasantries with a mere bard. Tiuren was tolerated at court only due to his friendship with Kohath.

The masses of people filling the hall all had dressed in regalia that seemed out of place so early in the morning. Their whispers grew to a deafening roar. How many of them had come to support their king, and how many simply hungered for the spectacle? Tiuren suspected many more attended for the latter reason. Leeches and carrion eaters, these people had no real loyalty to the king.

Tiuren would not miss these days at court.

The room fell silent as Kohath, king of Vantir, entered the hall. Tiuren was surprised to see the monarch wearing only loose, leather riding clothes. Judging by the gasps of surprise and the looks of confusion, his appearance surprised others in the room as well.

The king strode to the center of the dais, halting before the throne. Without pausing-even for a sigh of resignation-Kohath drew his blade, the sword Tamer-rung, and knelt before it, with the sword's point on the ground.

"I, Kohath, renounce the throne of Vantir."

The hall erupted in murmurs, punctuated by a handful of outraged shouts.

Without hesitation, the king continued, louder. "I claim before all present, mortals before me and immortals all around me, that I and my line are unfit to rule a kingdom such as this."

Tiuren was amazed at Kohath's resignation and uncharacteristic lack of emotion.

"Only a true sovereign of wizardry, one who understands the higher worlds, can claim mastery of this great land. My last act as king is to name Darius, great in the ways of sorcery, as my successor.''

Gracefully, Kohath stood and drew out the scepter of office that had been tucked within his shirt. There was no quiver in his stance, despite the dour deed he had just committed. Kohath tossed the scepter onto the throne and left the chamber, accompanied only by the silence of the crowd.

Darius hurried toward the dais. The count-or rather, the new king-appeared to have thought that Kohath would remain to congratulate him.

Such a fool will make a terrible king, the bard predicted. He knew that Kohath was even now making his way to Diccona's chambers to see if his sacrifice had lifted the curse.

Tiuren slipped quickly out of the great hall to try to catch up with him. If Kohath ever needed a friend, it was now.

"The curse is lifted! Former Queen Diccona recovers quickly! She and the former king will soon leave the palace, and Vantir itself!"

Tiuren overheard the news even as he pushed through the buzzing crowds. He had to reach his friend quickly and find out his plans. The passages of the palace swelled with people excited or disturbed by the recent events.

The heavy wooden door leading into the chambers stood slightly ajar, and Tiuren pushed it open, evoking an unwanted squeak from the hinges. A small antechamber stood between the door and the bedroom. Despite his years of friendship with the king, Tiuren had been to the royal chambers only once or twice. Knowing it was proper to announce his presence, he called out a greeting, but no one answered. Without further hesitation, he parted the thick red curtain covering the entrance to the bedchamber.

The next few moments' exploration determined that the dimly lit royal chambers were empty. A wave of guilt passed over Tiuren-he should not be here, he thought. Before his thoughts could become action, however, he heard a noise. The door to the chamber was opening.

Tiuren found himself in an awkward situation, and he quickly began thinking up excuses for why he had violated the privacy of the royal chambers. As his mind worked on explanations, his eyes scanned the room for a hiding spot. He found concealment much quicker than a good excuse, and so leapt within a wardrobe filled with regal garments. The curtain separating the foyer and the bedchamber parted as soon as he turned around within the wardrobe-there was not even time to close the door.

Figures passed through the curtain. Diccona, the queen, slipped in clandestinely, accompanied by another. The shadowy form waited near the entrance as Diccona looked about and then quietly announced that they were alone. Tiuren could hardly keep from gasping in surprise when Count Darius took hold of the queen around her hips and pulled her to him, kissing her deeply. Darius?

Without another word, the two disappeared into the next room. Tiuren's mind reeled. He had to get out of here-what was going on? None of this made sense. Suddenly, the squeak of the door betrayed yet another intruder.

But no, this was Kohath. He stepped into the chamber and moved toward a stout chest on the wall opposite the wardrobe. Deep in thought, Kohath began busily packing a brown leather bag with clothing and personal belongings. His mood seemed surprisingly enthusiastic, considering the situation-his eyes retained at least a little of their former spark.

Kohath seemed oblivious to what had occurred moments ago. How could he tell his friend what he had seen, especially after all that had already transpired? Moreover, what would he tell him? None of it made sense to Tiuren.

As the bard watched, still unsure what to do, he saw something out of the corner of his eye. He pulled back farther into the concealing clothes in the wardrobe. The sight before him made him regret his hesitation.

Diccona approached her husband from the next room. Only her silhouette was visible in the dark doorway where she emerged.

"Oh, you're here," Kohath stated, smiling, but not looking up. "Are you packed yet, my darling?" He continued his work as the queen drew near.

A glint of light caught Tiuren's eye. No! A knife blade, cold and metallic in the light from the nearby window, rose above Diccona's head, a slender arm carrying it down toward the hunched form of the former king. It went in with the speed and smoothness of sorcery. Diccona sank the long blade up to its hilt into Kohath's lower neck.

Kohath's response was only a low moan of pain and surprise as he turned toward his attacker. A warrior such as he would not die quickly, even from such a lethal blow. There was possibly time for Tiuren to act, but what should he do? Could he strike the queen? Would Kohath even want him to?

Tiuren readied himself to spring from the wardrobe, but instinct gave him pause. There was yet another figure in the darkness behind Diccona-oh, yes, the wizard Darius! Kohath collapsed to his knees, his shirt now drenched in blood-and then fell heavily onto his back, looking up wordlessly at his wife.

Only then did the new king move forward, laying a familiar hand on Diccona's soft shoulder.

The illness had been a ploy-a plot to unseat Kohath using the queen, who had never been in any real danger. She had betrayed Kohath-but worse, Kohath also now knew. How better it would have been for him to die not knowing that his own love, for whom he had renounced all, had not only betrayed him, but had done so counting on the fact that he would make such a sacrifice.

Although a storyteller known for his imagination, Tiuren could not conceive of the pain a man of such strong passions as Kohath was feeling right now.

"Diccona…" Kohath managed to sputter. His eyes narrowed, filled not with the love that had always been there, but with hatred. His emotional misery surely surpassed the physical pain-though neither lasted long. The murderous pair watched, expressionlessly staring at their victim, as Kohath died.

Though not a coward, Tiuren realized he had to flee. Kohath was dead. The whole thing had caught the bard with his guard down. He had not acted fast enough to save his friend-he had not acted at all. But what could he have done? Unarmed and unprepared, he could have probably overcome Diccona, but Darius was certainly armed, and a sorcerer. Either way, Kohath would have died.

No, Tiuren had to run-for the moment, the pair had their backs to him. He had to act fast. He had to reveal the new king's insidious plot. Maybe he could not save his friend, but he could avenge him. He sprang from the wardrobe and ran for the door.

Tiuren was quick, but not quick enough. As he left the bedchamber and dived into the antechamber, the door slammed shut, seemingly of its own accord. He reached it and tugged, but it held fast. His foe had cut him off using some sort of spell. Count-King Darius stood behind him, a curved blade in his hand, his skin crackling with amber lightning of magical origins. Tiuren whirled to face the wizard, his hand instinctively going for a sword that wasn't there.

'Tiuren," the evil wizard said flatly. "Always where you aren't wanted."

Steely eyed, Diccona stood behind Darius, her arm casually resting on his shoulder, her other hand still covered in her husband's blood.

"How… how could you do this?" Tiuren asked, directing the question toward Diccona. As he spoke, he pressed his body against the door behind him, still attempting to somehow get it open. No use-he was trapped.

"It was simple," Diccona boasted. Her long black hair whipped about her face as she grew excited at their victory. "The old fool did it to himself, really. I married him for power. He married me for love. Now I am with Darius, who will bring Vantir to new heights with his wizardry. I have more power than ever, and Kohath is dead." She paused to glance back at her husband's body.

"How could I?" The queen laughed. "How could I not?"

"With the growing magical might of the larger, more powerful kingdoms like Netheril, Asram, and Anauria, how long could we have survived without a wizard on the throne?" Darius said, stepping closer, clenching the knife more firmly. "This land needs me. Diccona needs me. Neither needs a foolish old sword-swinger blinded by emotions."

"No," Tiuren protested, bracing himself against the locked door. "Kohath's love for his wife, however misplaced, was a virtue, not a shortcoming. And no one has ever or will ever do more for this kingdom than he," With that, he sprang at Darius, throwing his own body into his foe, sending both crashing down. The knife clattered to the floor, and Tiuren lunged for it.

He never made it. Hot, searing fingers jabbed him in the back. Magical energies reached into his guts and twisted him from the inside. He wrenched himself around so he lay on his back, his body rigid with pain.

Diccona stood over him, dark eyes smoldering, an evil grimace contorting her face. She had cast a spell upon him. Gods! She was a wizard too.

By this time, Darius had righted himself and retrieved the knife. His forehead bore a red welt from hitting the floor, not enough of a wound to disable him. Besides, Tiuren could not even move, his body so cramped with agony.

It was all over.

The Dark Eye marveled at the incredible ease with which love could be manipulated, twisted into hate. And such hate. As it watched the events unfolding in the palace above, it realized that no mortal it had ever known had burned with such passionate malice. The Eye suddenly concluded that a mortal's emotions had much greater power than it had ever dreamt.

The intensity of the feeling was perfect for its purposes. This Kohath was perfect. The fact that he was dead made him even better. After observing Kohath's emotional transformation, the Eye began magically working upon his physical transformation. Soon, the Dark Eye would have a new tool.

From his position on the floor, Tiuren glanced over to his fallen friend. He wanted to look upon him one last time before Darius buried the knife in his own chest.

How could it be? He had never seen anything like it…

Kohath's flesh-the skin, muscles, and organs-had almost completely liquified. Most of his friend's bones and skull were already visible, glistening wet in the fading light from the window. Even worse, the bones were shaking in some sort of death palsy. Tiuren had seen death before, but never like this.

Rather than focus on this disturbing sight-it had to be a delusion, the bard told himself-Tiuren turned back to his attackers. Diccona still reveled in the success of her dark spell. Darius muttered something unintelligible while gently stroking his head wound and summoning his strength for the deathblow.

Suddenly, the wizard's face curled into a visage of utter pain, his mouth forming a silent scream. The upraised dagger glowed white-hot. Wisps of smoke issued from between his fingers. He unclenched his hand to drop the weapon, but it was already seared to his flesh. He dropped to his knees, stuttering out a high-pitched sob, his unhurt hand squeezing his wrist to force the knife from him.

Diccona saw this and screamed in terror. She had enough intuition to turn around, though the sight was probably one she would rather have missed.

Tiuren's attention was meanwhile drawn to the presence within the bedchamber.

The skeletal figure of a man, still dripping with the remains of his flesh and blood, stood. His jaw mouthed horrible but unintelligible words.

Kohath?

Who else could it be? But how could Kohath, or whatever Kohath had so quickly become, stand here in the room where his corpse had lain just moments before? Could a man's passions allow him to defy even death? Could hate be so powerful a force?

With terror-filled eyes, Darius and Diccona looked at the risen Kohath.

"Kohath? Is that you?" Diccona asked, her voice cracking with fear.

The monstrous thing turned his head toward his traitorous wife. With a hideous creaking, a bony arm rose from his side. The fingers of the hand curled as if clutching some unseen object. A high-pitched whine began.

Darius turned to flee.

"Kohath?" Diccona said again, frozen in place.

The whine had become very loud now, as though its source drew ever closer. Darius dispelled his magical seal and dived out the door.

"Ko-"

The horrible whine drowned out Diccona's words. A dark object entered the room from the open door, hovering four or five feet from the floor-riding on the whine itself. Tiuren had only to look upon its oval shape and dark green color for a moment before he recognized it.

"The Dark Eye of Gavinaas!" he shouted, struggling to his feet.

He and Kohath had slain Gavinaas long ago, when the evil Anaurian wizard had threatened tiny Vantir's northern reaches with a conjured army of misshapen monsters. They had locked the wizard's talisman away in a deep vault below the palace. Now it was here.

The object flew into Kohath's outstretched hand, which grasped it so tightly Tiuren could hear a crushing sound. Only then did his mind register that the piercing whine had stopped. Kohath's skull turned its black, empty sockets toward him for the first time.

"No," Kohath rasped in a voice that seemed to originate from somewhere far, far away, "the Dark Eye of Kohath."

Realization washed over Tiuren, causing him to step backward with a gasp. "The Dark Eye caused this?"

"No," Kohath said again in his grinding mockery of articulation. "The Dark Eye only permitted me to do what I must." Kohath turned back toward Diccona, his skeletal body moving with a disturbing fluidity. His free hand pointed a single bony finger at her. "She caused this."

Diccona screamed.

"The Dark Eye has given me power," Kohath said, "but my reasons-my motives-are my own. Look upon me and remember this. After the wrongs wrought upon me this day, I do what I do willingly."

Diccona began the frantic gestures of a spell.

"So, my dear," Kohath said, his hideous skull glaring at the queen. "You wanted magical power. You wanted a wizard as a king and as a lover. Let me now show you power." With that, he released his grip upon the Dark Eye, which floated slowly up to his brow, attaching itself as a ghastly third eye.

Skeletal arms upraised, Kohath cast a spell of his own.

Tiuren had no knowledge of sorcery, but Kohath's spell seemed to him a thundering avalanche of boulders crashing down a mountainside in comparison to Dic-cona's meager stone flung without skill. The spell she cast was lost in the rising magical might summoned by Kohath and his Dark Eye.

The floor beneath the three figures began to quiver. A rumbling rose all around, and the temperature began to climb. Tiuren could remain no longer. Terror, more from seeing what had become of his friend than for his own well-being, forced him out the door and down the hall. Diccona's screams rang long in his ears.

The entire palace shook. On the stair, Tiuren met a handful of guards who raced upward, their faces filled with dread.

"No," Tiuren told them, shaking his head. 'There's nothing you can do. Flee."

"But the king. The queen. We must-" a guard said, pushing past. He referred to Kohath, not Darius, Tiuren could tell.

"Do as you wish. Your life is your own-but you no longer have a king, and quite possibly no longer a queen."

"Gods!" another guard cried. "What has happened?"

"There is no time." Tiuren did what he could to keep his voice level and calm. "Flee." Without looking to see what decision these good, loyal men made, he raced down the stairs.

As he reached the bottom, the shaking intensified. The temperature continued to rise as he made his way toward the foyer, the doors, and the way out.

Something grabbed his arm and wrenched him backward. It was Darius, knife still clutched in his hand, breathing erratically.

'Tell me," he rasped, "what is going on?" The knife rose toward Tiuren's throat.

Tiuren had endured enough of this wretch's threats and demands. He shifted his weight toward the wizard, knocking him off balance, and grabbed at the arm holding the blade, turning it away.

Darius reacted quickly. Fear-strengthened muscles twisted the knife back toward the bard.

Tiuren threw his body into Darius. The two tumbled to the floor as some of the ceiling supports gave way from the shuddering quake and bits of plaster and wood crashed near them. As the two struck the floor, Tiuren made sure the knife found a home-in Darius's chest.

Tiuren rolled and gained his feet. The floor cracked open near him, steam and sulfurous air belching out of the ever-widening opening. Rumbles and crashes as loud as he had ever heard told him the upper levels of the palace had collapsed.

By the time he had reached the doors, steam and smoke clogged the air, choking him. He slipped out into the courtyard. Bodies lay everywhere, covered by rubble, crushed by what looked like-as near as Tiuren could tell-most of the south watchtower. A gaping hole in the curtain wall was all that marked where it had stood. Tiuren was dismayed to see so many friends among the fallen. Even noble Beanth lay under the ruined tower.

Kohath's slaying wrath was indiscriminate. The dead king's quest for vengeance knew no bounds.

The shaking of the earth continued, and fire burst forth from the numerous fissures opening all around Tiuren. He could do nothing-he couldn't even see anyone for him to help escape. Realizing that there was no time to reach the stables (if indeed they still stood), he ran for the opening in the wall, thunderous crashes and the roar of spurting molten rock behind him. Fire from within Faerun itself was consuming the fortress.

Across the rolling hills, Tiuren ran until he could no longer hear the rumbling or feel the vibration of the ground and the unnatural scorching heat on his back. In the distance, only a reddish, hellish glow marked the palace. He collapsed from exhaustion.

Weeks later, Tiuren stood at the edge of what was once-beautiful Vantir.

Nothing in his experience could have prepared him for the sight of his homeland smoldering like a charnel pit. The stench of death pervaded the air. Smoke filled the sky, dragging the whole realm into an unending night.

After he had destroyed the palace and surrounding city, Kohath had systematically razed the nearby towns and villages. The smoke that choked the sun rose from burning homes, trees, crops, livestock, and even people. All that had been Vantir now burned. Of the inhabitants of the dead land, precious few had escaped. Kohath had, intentionally and methodically, slain his own kingdom.

Yet Tiuren lived. He could not help wondering if somehow, deep within the creature that was once Kohath, his friend had let him escape. Perhaps he owed his life to that undead monster. Buried within it, his friend possibly lived on. Yet if Kohath could lay waste to the land he loved, the man Tiuren knew was so utterly lost in the cavernous pit of his soul that he had no chance of ever escaping. He wondered if somewhere, immersed in that darkness, Kohath-the real Kohath- despaired.

The new Kohath was different. A few mortals had escaped his realm, and told of its horrors.

Deep within the dark land of death, on the site of the old palace of Vantir, Kohath used sorcery and undead slaves to build a new fortress. This fortress was made from the bones and flesh of the fallen citizens of Vantir. In this subterranean castle, the former king had begun to call himself Kohath the Eternal.

Tiuren knew no reason to think the moniker an idle boast. Nor did he intend to find out. Never again would he bring himself to utter the names Kohath or Vantir.

Faerun was a big place, and there were certainly other realms in which to live out the rest of his life. Without another look, he turned his back on his former home, his former friend and king,and his former life.