Epilogue

The Ashen Shore

The roar of flames was deafening, the ruddy glare too bright to look at without pain. Stinking, yellow smoke hung in the air, so thick that every breath scorched. There was no relief, no respite. Those who ventured to these lands without magic to protect them died quickly—the only question was, of what? Poison, suffocation, burning… it was a race to see which would kill a man first.

Maladar feared none of these sorry fates. He had his magic, spells woven so tightly about him that he didn't need to breathe. He felt no hunger, no thirst, no weariness, no pain. He felt only hate, a golden-glowing coal of it, buried deep inside. He nurtured the hate, fanned it, made it grow.

He stood upon a beach, at the edge of a vast and roiling sea, ringed with roaring volcanoes. The beach was not sand, but soot and ash, black and white mingling into great, gray dunes. And the sea was not water, but molten stone, a wound in the earth so deep that in four centuries it had not healed. Left alone, it never would. Maladar had learned of the Burning Sea from the Brethren. It sat at the heart of Taladas, its heat and fumes so powerful that much of the continent remained unlivable. It had been like this since the First Destruction, when a massive ball of burning rock, ten miles across, had struck the city of Aurim. It had slain hundreds of thousands, and unleashed plagues and earthquakes that killed millions more. Entire nations vanished, and the survivors became nomads, settling in realms far away… the League, the Rainwards, and elsewhere. The world had never been the same.

This was mine once, Maladar thought as he gazed across the churning ocean. From here, I ruled the greatest empire Krynn has ever known—even greater than Istar across the sea. Gone now… burned away, lost. The fools let it fall into ruin.

"I could have stopped it," he uttered with absolute certainty. "I could have smashed the moon of fire that fell upon my palace. I could have prevented the Destruction, and all the suffering that followed. But I was trapped in that thrice-damned statue, lost to the ages."

"No more, though," whispered a voice to his right. "Now you are free."

Another man might have been surprised—frightened, even—to see what was coming toward him, walking through the ashes without leaving a single footprint behind. It was not a man, that much was certain; it had the barest shape of one, but mostly looked like an empty cloak of tattered gray cloth, surmounted by a hood where two red eyes smoldered. But more terrible was the aura that surrounded it, the sensation of formidable power. For all his might, all his arcane knowledge, Maladar nearly fell to his knees before the awe and terror that radiated from that wraithlike figure.

Nearly… but did not. Instead he folded his arms across his chest, the sensation strange after all these years. He had gotten used to his prison of stone; a body of human flesh took some getting used to again.

Maladar an-Desh knelt before no one. Not even a god.

"You came," he said. "I had some doubt."

The cloaked shape bowed—not a mocking gesture, as it might have used with a more insolent being, but respectful, grave. "Oh?" it asked, in a voice like a scorpion skittering over bones. "And why would you have doubt?"

"Rumors I have heard," Maladar answered. "Some say the heavens are troubled these days. That there is strife among the gods. Already one has died."

"Erestem, yes," the shape hissed. "And her counterpart, the platinum dragon, has lost his powers. Others may follow, before matters are settled. But that is not our concern. Not here, not today."

"No, Lord Hith. It is not."

Hith, god of lies, looked him up and down. "You have a new body."

"I do," Maladar agreed, uncrossing Barreth Forlo's arms. He eyed his hands, the scarred palms and callused fingers. "Not the one I wanted, though. It is… older. Not as agile."

"It will suffice," the god said. "Before long, you will have your pick of younger bodies, and you can give this one to the fire." The glowing eyes shifted, looking around. "I cannot help but notice that you are here alone. Where are your disciples?"

Maladar felt a flash of anger. "You know well enough. Surely you watched as they fell, one by one… the last three at the final hour."

"I did," Hith allowed. "A pity none survived. Their fear when they met me would have been… pleasing."

Maladar shrugged. The Faceless Brethren meant nothing to him anymore, now that he was free. They had served their purpose.

"So, then," Hith pressed. "One leg of your journey ends; another begins."

"With you to guide me," Maladar declared. "If you still wish this, that is."

The god looked at him, the hood cocking sideways. "And why should I not? I yearn for power, as much as you do. While my brothers and sisters quarrel, I will take what I can. Taladas is in disarray, ready to fall. Even the minotaurs' empire has collapsed into chaos. None remain who can stand against you."

"There are the Rainwards," Maladar said. "One from those lands came very near to thwarting us."

"You speak of the Keeper, Azar. I have his soul now, you will be glad to know. The torments I have shown him!" Hith laughed, a rusty, grinding noise. "The Rainwards will be dealt with. You are not my only agent in this world."

Maladar raised an eyebrow, but asked no more questions. "Well, then," he said. "Show me my road."

The god bowed again, an empty, flapping sleeve extending to point across the sea. Maladar's eyes followed the gesture, noting where the lava there began to roll and churn. Something was rising from its depths: something long and broad. After a time, it broke the surface: a bridge of rough iron, glowing golden from the heat. He watched as it cooled to amber, then to red. Its near end shifted, sliding up onto the beach. It extended away from the shore, out across the Burning Sea, until it vanished in the lethal haze.

"This is your road. It will lead you where you must go," said Hith.

"To the Chaldar?" Maladar asked. "The tower of flame?"

Hith neither nodded nor shook his head. The red eyes glinted with amusement. "It will lead you where you must go."

A noise arose, a loud blustering like a whirlwind. As Maladar watched, the god's shapeless cloak folded in on itself, crumpling into a smaller and smaller bundle, then vanishing altogether. Ash puffed up from the beach where he had stood, then slowly settled.

Annoyance gnawed at Maladar. Hith was vexing, but his power was necessary… for now, anyway. He could not have crossed the Burning Sea otherwise: even his own magic couldn't give him the power to walk a hundred leagues and more across molten rock. But this bridge—cooled to black now, its surface gnarled and pitted by the fire—would serve him. He started toward it—then stopped, a voice in his ears.

Help me, it begged, small and alone and afraid. Starlight? Hult? Shedara?

Maladar listened to its pleas with a smile. He cared nothing for the suffering of Barreth Forlo. The man had traveled half the world to attack him. He was paying the price now, trapped and helpless in his own body. None could hear the voice but Maladar, and so he let it whine. It amused him.

Chuckling, he stepped onto the bridge. He half expected it to vanish like smoke as soon as he was over the lava—Hith was a capricious god—but it was solid, firm beneath his feet. He gazed down its length, into the smoke, yearning to see what lay beyond.

Then he began to walk.