Chapter 30

The Chaldar, Hith’s Cauldron

Who am I?

The taunting question made no sense. He knew who he was. He was Maladar an-Desh, Lord of Emperors, Master of Aurim—of that there could be no doubt. He had dwelt within the Hooded One for a thousand years. He had come out and claimed the body that he wore. How could he be anyone else?

Yet the doubts circled… and lurked… and grew. Something wasn’t right. He didn’t know how it was possible; he didn’t even know how he knew. But he knew. It wasn’t how it was supposed to be; Hith wasn’t tormenting him just for fun. He could feel it, a growing disquiet inside. What had gone wrong? Why didn’t he feel the triumph he’d expected when he came there? Why, with his goals within reach at last, was he so ill at ease?

Who am I?

Maladar rose from his throne with a growl and walked to the edge of the pool surrounding the dais. The watery fire glistened, the flame-fish that lived in it flickering as they darted through its depths. He could see his reflection within… or, rather, Forlo’s. The face he saw was cadaverous, enervated from going so long without food or drink or rest. Only will kept him from dropping dead. His beard had turned white; much of the remaining hair on his head was gone. His skin was the color and texture of parchment, stretched tight over his skull. But the eyes were clear, flashing with malice and power. Because they were his eyes, the ones he’d seen when he gazed into that same pool long ago—the only part of his face that had been left intact when he came into his power. They were Maladar’s eyes. He was Maladar, all the gods damn it. But not really.

He shook his head, trying to brush the doubt aside, but it wouldn’t go away. It circled him like an irritating gnat, too quick, too agile to crush. It wouldn’t be reasoned with, and it made him wish Hith were there now, so he could seize the god and shake him until he made the doubt go away.

A thought occurred to him. Perhaps the problem was right in front of him. He looked into the water, at the face of the body he wore. Forlo’s face. Maybe that was why he wasn’t who he thought he was. He was Maladar the Faceless, after all. He held out his good hand, clenched it into a fist, and as it closed, a dagger sprang into being, made of solid flame. It was long and sharp and wickedly curved, flashing with inner, golden light as he turned it this way and that.

No, said Forlo’s voice inside his head, thick with fear and the anticipation of pain. Please.

Maladar ignored it, staring at the blade. Perhaps that was all it was; as long as he wore another man’s face, he couldn’t truly be Maladar—not completely. He raised the blade, setting its edge behind his left ear.

Don’t, please, no.

He wished he still had his left hand, that he hadn’t burned it off so impulsively. That would make it easier. Emaciated as he was, all he’d have to do was pull the skin taut, then cut and peel. After that, he’d bathe the wound in fire to stop the bleeding, as he’d done with his own flesh long ago. Perhaps he’d keep the face around afterward, preserve it to keep it from rotting and wear it as a talisman. That would be… amusing.

Oh, well. His left hand was gone. He’d have to do a bit more crude hacking and sawing, but it would come off all the same. He put some pressure on the knife, felt a hot line of pain as its edge pierced Forlo’s skin.

Stop! No! Don’t don’t don’t DON’T DON’T—

He stopped, his brow furrowing. It wasn’t right. He lifted the knife away and let it go; it flared and vanished as it dropped from his hand, turning back into the flame-stuff of the Chaldar. Warm blood coursed down his neck from the wound the dagger had made; he let it bleed, pushed the sting away, onto Forlo. The man’s voice had fallen silent, which was a relief.

Maladar turned away from the pool, annoyed, seething. The answer wasn’t in disfiguring himself. It lay somewhere else. But where?

“Enough of this!” he shouted at the air. “I am Maladar. Do you hear me, Hith, you liar? There is no one else I could possibly be!”

The god did not appear, though for a moment he thought he heard a hiss of laughter. The doubt kept circling, circling. He shook his head and turned to leave the throne room.

“Very well,” he said. “I will prove it.”

He could see the whole Cauldron from the top of the Chaldar. The tower was so high that the lowest cloud wisps scudded by beneath him, black and fuming. The storm seethed directly overhead, so close he could almost touch it. Red lightning flared in all directions, lacing the heavens with unholy light. Down below, the Burning Sea churned, spinning slowly about the tower. Looking around, he saw the lands that lay beyond the black volcanoes that encircled the Cauldron. To the south was the Emerald Sea; to the west lay the boiling waters of Indanalis; to the north were the columns of Bilo, where his army of fire minions was busy besieging the first of many gnomish colonies; to the east spread the dusty, ruin-dotted wastelands of the old empire.

Between, there was nothing but bubbling, molten rock: mile upon mile of it. The gods had done that to his empire, his beloved Aurim. They had sent flame and stone plummeting from the heavens, had delayed his return for centuries when they smashed the empire into oblivion.

Had it been deserved? Possibly. The later emperors had been seeking ways to push their power beyond the mortal realm, it was said. The Faceless Brethren had said that, in the end, one had found a way to achieve godliness, and the gods had acted to stop him. Of course, no one knew for sure: anyone there had died that day, so there were only scattered scraps of history to go by. The truth was probably more complicated. It usually was. But it was gone, lost forever in the fire… like Aurim itself.

“No,” he murmured. “Not forever.”

Maladar shut his eyes, opening himself to the black moon. Nuvis was waning, a mere sliver of itself, but it didn’t matter; he drank deep of its power, all the same. Some on Krynn saw the black moon change that day, saw it swell full. Few could see it at all, though, so it went unnoticed except by a bare, troubled few. Then it was done, fading back to a crescent again.

Maladar held the power, filling him with euphoria. Wine, dreamleaf, lovemaking—all were mere shadows of that rapture. He retained it as long as he could, savoring it. Then, when he feared he might burst, that the magic might burn him up from inside, he began to chant, to move his one good hand, tracing complex patterns in the air, forcing the sorcery out through his fingertips.

“Rise!” he cried, throwing his arms wide. “Rise, my kingdom!”

The magic erupted around him, forming clouds that spat black rain. The black rain fell all around the Chaldar, evaporating as it struck the lava. When it did, the sea stopped moving. A tremor shook the tower, making it jump beneath Maladar’s feet. He smiled, looking down at the Cauldron. The rain intensified, slashing down, raising great gouts of steam. Black thunderbolts flared, striking the magma, throwing gobs of it into the air. And the Cauldron began to roll, molten rock rising up from beneath.

Yes, it was working. Yes.

“I am Maladar!” he cried. “I am the one true emperor! This is my realm! Come forth, City of Songs! Rise anew, and be reborn!”

The roiling grew stronger. Geysers of magma erupted as the rain hammered down. The Chaldar trembled, green flames running up its length.

Then, at last, dark shapes began to emerge from the heart of the Burning Sea. They were dull gray and glistening black, obsidian and basalt, domes and spires and colonnades, clustered on hills of smoldering pumice. The lava receded around them, running down streets of cooling glass. Charred husks of trees lined the boulevards; gardens of ash trembled in the midst of broad plazas. An island was surfacing from the depths… and on it, a vast city.

His city.

It had begun. Aurim was rising again.

The streets were empty, silent. All the windows were dark. No water flowed in the fountains. No stalls crowded the markets. There were no bright awnings or banners, no blooms in the gardens, no frescoes on the walls; no colors at all to that place of black and gray, save for the ruddy glow of the Cauldron and the Chaldar’s blue shine. The scents of a city—the spices and incense, the sweat and filth—were absent as well. There was only smoke and brimstone. The wind sighed down vacant avenues, throwing up whirlwinds of soot.

Forlo walked the streets by himself and felt lonelier than he had ever felt in his life. Aurim was a metropolis three times the size even of Kristophan at its height; half a million people could dwell there easily, swelling to two or three times that number at the height of the summer trading season. It ought to have been packed with laborers and merchants, priests and soldiers, nobles and servants, but there was no one. Aurim was a place of ghosts, a City of Whispers.

He gazed up at a statue of black iron, perched atop an obsidian plinth, and felt his stomach clench. Like all the statues he’d seen since coming down from the burning tower, it was shaped in his likeness. It had his gaunt face, his charred armor and tattered clothes. But at the same time, it wasn’t him at all: its stance was one of arms-folded arrogance, the head cocked back. Its expression was twisted into a sneer. The sculpted figure looked like Forlo, but it was all Maladar.

His eyes turned away from the statue, back to the city itself, bereft and silent as anywhere he’d ever seen. Black rain continued to drizzle down from the clouds above.

This is what you will rule over? he thought at Maladar. Ashes and dust? Halls home to nothing but wind?

Maladar laughed, his mirth filled with scorn.

For now, he said. Only for now. Those who survive will bow before me. They will come dwell in this place. I will raise the meadows and mountains again, and my new thralls shall toil in the fields and mines. They will make war on my enemies. Aurim will find its old glory. It will surely take time—decades, maybe even centuries—but it will happen. Perhaps, if you are lucky, I will keep you alive long enough to see it. If not, your ghost can always be bound to this place.

Forlo wanted to scoff at the notion. He wanted to call Maladar mad, his dream empty, but he couldn’t. He saw it in his mind: men and dwarves, goblins and ogres, even minotaurs submitting themselves to the emperor who had traveled through time and death to rule again. If it was the only alternative to doom beneath the fire dragon and the Kheten Voi, many would submit. Not every being valued his honor above life; indeed, when it came down to it, most simply preferred survival. Good people bowed to evil rulers all the time; even in the League, they had submitted to Emperor Rekhaz. The power to choose between light and darkness meant that, at least as often as not, people made the wrong choice.

Maladar was right. Aurim would not stay empty long.

He kept walking, down a long slope from the hilltop where the Chaldar stood in place of the imperial palace—the only part of the city that was different from how it had been when Maladar reigned. Many-columned buildings loomed on both sides, their windows staring like the eyes of skulls. The main street opened into a broad square where more statues towered. Beyond that were docks, jet-black jetties extending into a river of lava, with another bleak, dark skyline rising on the far side. Towers and obelisks stood black against the crimson-glowing clouds.

The plaza by the riverbank was not empty. The Kheten Voi awaited him, assembled row upon row, standing still except for their heads, which tilted slowly downward, always staring directly at him as he descended a flight of cinder-caked steps to the square. Their eyes gleamed in the smoldering haze. His army stood ready, awaiting orders.

He had already sent the fire minions to war, unleashing them upon the gnomes of Bilo. It was time to send forth the rest of his forces. He strode across the plaza, beneath the towering pillars, and climbed onto a high platform where poets and musicians had performed, back in the days when Aurim was a living place. Drifts of ash lay scattered across its surface. He walked through them and turned to look out upon the Voi.

As one, they faced him.

“The time has come,” Maladar declared through Forlo’s lips. “Chaos reigns across the face of Taladas. The minotaurs war amongst themselves. The tribes of the Tamire are scattered, crushed. The Rainward Isles reel in disarray. Thenol has fallen to war. Death and destruction have visited Panak, Armach, and the Emerald Sea. All across the continent, the iron lies waiting upon the anvil. It wants only the hammer’s blow. And you, my children, you will be that hammer. The cities and the tribes will fall to you, one by one. Only those who lay down their swords before you, who agree to surrender, shall be spared. They will follow you. Your ranks will grow.

“You,” he said, pointing to the nearest of the stone soldiers. “Come forward.”

The Voi did as he bade, stomping toward him, up the steps and onto the platform. Its legs creaking and cracking, it dropped to one knee before him. Forlo laid his fingertips upon its brow and shut his eyes, murmuring spidery words.

Magic flowed through him, dark and intoxicating. It poured out through his hand, and into the Kheten Voi. The statue grew warm, the light in its eyes darkening to violet. When Maladar lifted Forlo’s hand away, there was more than blind obedience in those eyes: a malicious intelligence shone through. Forlo wasn’t sure, but he thought the statue’s draconic features changed as well; they seemed less fierce, more cunning.

“You will be my voice,” he said. “When our enemies submit, when they swear to serve me in exchange for their lives, they will kneel before you.”

“Yes, my lord,” said the Voi in a voice like stones being rubbed together. “They will bow to me.”

Maladar’s lips curled into a smile. He stepped back. “Rise, then, and go to war.”

He extended his hands, pointing at the blazing river. The power of Nuvis coursed through him, and the surface of the lava simmered again. More shapes rose from the depths: long ships of stone, with tall masts that looked like trees that had died in a forest fire. They emerged all along the banks and at the docks, more than a hundred within sight, and many more around the river’s bends. The Voi turned and marched toward them, following shouted orders from their leader. One by one, they stepped aboard the ships, and gray sails unfurled, throwing up clouds of billowing soot. Then the sails filled, catching the hot winds, and the boats began to move.

Forlo watched them go, pulling away from the docks and sailing downriver. He felt hollow inside. The League would fall, and the other realms of Taladas after that. Aurim would rise in their place. Maladar would forge a new world from the ruins. It had already begun. And he could only watch, helpless, as everything he knew came to an end.