Scream of Stone

59

23 Tarsakh, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR) Pristal Towers, Innarlith

The floor shook, and though Pristoleph wasn’t sleeping, the sudden motion roused him from a fitful rest. He sat up in bed and looked around in the dark. Phyrea was at Berrywilde, and save for the crackle of the fire in the wide marble fireplace, there was no sound, and no one else in the room.

The floor shook again, making the bed quiver under him. That time he was sure it wasn’t just his imagination. He threw off the bedclothes and stood just as the door burst open.

“Second Chief Gahrzig,” Pristoleph said to the wemic in the doorway, “what was that?”

The lion-barbarian said, “You had better come and see.”

In the time it took Gahrzig to say that, the ransar had donned a dressing gown and crossed to the door. The wemic led the way, trundling along the wide, high-ceilinged corridors with a clatter of weapons and armor, and the tapping of his sharp claws on the polished marble. By the time they reached a circular stairway that wound its way up to the top of the highest tower, the wemic had broken into a run, and Pristoleph panted trying to keep up with him.

The building shook again and again as they climbed the stairs. The motion was just strong enough to be felt, and at no time did Pristoleph feel as though it would knock him off his feet, or that it would put the structural integrity of his great manor in peril. Still, the ground shouldn’t shake like that, despite the storm that raged outside.

When they came to the topmost room they were greeted by three of Gahrzig’s wemics, who stood with wide eyes, clutching at their enchanted spears with tense hands. Pristoleph went to a window on the northwestern wall of the room to look out over his city, and his jaw fell open at what he saw.

A fierce orange glow lit the far horizon, brighter even than the lights of the city that stretched out below him. Lightning flashed all around and a strong wind whipped rain against the windows. The orange glow reflected in the droplets that clung to the glass, and on the faces of the wemics that stared off into the distance, unsure how to react to something they didn’t understand. The floor trembled again and in a moment the orange glow brightened and expanded. Pristoleph put a hand against the window frame and waited. It took a long time for the Shockwave to travel from the source of the orange light, but when it did, he felt the floor once more quiver under his bare feet.

“What is it, Ransar?” Gahrzig asked, his throaty voice quiet, muffled by awe.

“The canal,” Pristoleph whispered back, the sound of his own words making his eyes burn. “It’s the canal.”

The wemic shook his head. He didn’t understand, but Pristoleph didn’t want to explain. He touched his head to the cool glass and closed his eyes to hold the tears in. The glass steamed, made opaque by the heat of his forehead, and he stepped back. The distant orange glows continued to flare, one after another, tracing a line along the canal, straight from the north to the south. Each one grew brighter, and the floor shook just a little more each time.

“Everyone in the city must be able to feel iteven see itnow,” Gahrzig said. “What do we do?”

Pristoleph shook his head. By the time any of them made it out there what was happening would have long finished. Whatever it was, whatever cataclysm had befallen the canal, could hardly be stopped from miles away in the middle of a storm-ravaged night.

“We watch it,” Pristoleph said. “That’s all we can do.”

The wemic nodded. He seemed satisfied, but then Gahrzig and his tribe cared nothing of the canal, if they even understood what it was, and what it would mean to Innarlith.

“Phyrea,” Pristoleph whispered, the name coming unbidden to his lips.

“Ransar?” asked the wemic mercenary.

Pristoleph looked at him and blinked. He didn’t know why he’d spoken her nameand why, when he had, his heart sank in his chest. He held his left hand up in front of his face and saw sweat glisten in his palm.

“Ransar?” the wemic asked again.

Pristoleph said, “Nothing.”

“You’re worried about your female,” the wemic stated, his voice pitched to reassure his employer.

The ransar nodded at first then shook his head. “No,” he said. “Phyrea is at Berrywildeher family’s country estate.”

“Out of the city,” said Gahrzig. “Good. Safer. But where is?”

“To the east,” Pristoleph interrupted. “Far away from the canal.”

Pristoleph couldn’t resist looking off through the windows that faced-east. No fiery light glowed on that horizon. It wasn’t even early enough for the first hint of dawn. Thunder crashed, close and loud, startling both Pristoleph and Gahrzig, who also stared off into the east at darkness only occasional split by jagged bolts of lightning.

“She is safe, then,” the wemic said.

Pristoleph watched more brilliant orange explosions plume up from the northwestern horizon.