It raged on for an hour or more, the city tumbling down around them as its people died. The men in the red armour were inventive in their cruelties, delighting in the screams of those they raped or flayed, though apart from their laughter they were mute killers, going about their bloody work with no words exchanged.
“What are they?” Vaelin asked in a whisper.
“In time the people who will build the Volarian Empire will call them the Dermos,” Erlin said. “Imagining them the product of some fiery pit beneath the earth. When they’re done here they will cross the ocean to assail every place they can find where humanity resides, birthing legends and gods in the process.” Erlin pointed to something in the smoke-shrouded streets below. “Their onslaught will continue until the one who commands them falls.”
The figure moved through the carnage without seeming to notice it, stepping over corpses and striding through pooled blood in a steady, untroubled stride. The red-armoured men moved aside at his approach, not in respect, for they made no bows or other show of obeisance, but as if in answer to an unspoken command. Once he had passed they would return to their ghastly amusements without a glance in his direction. His face became clear as he neared the platform steps, pausing to gaze upwards, brow so deeply lined now it appeared scarred, the glow of a thousand fires flickering on the grey of his beard.
He grimaced as he began to climb, his legs stiff and back stooped from the effort. On reaching the platform he paused, issuing a loud, weary groan, then glanced back at the chaos below. The expression on his aged face was one Vaelin knew all too well.
“He did this,” Vaelin realised aloud. “He destroyed his own city.”
“And a great deal more besides,” Erlin said as the bearded man moved to the centre of the platform, halting before the black stone plinth, looking down into the void of its surface. He stood there for some time, until the screams and the last thunderous rumble of destruction faded, leaving only the continuing roar of the flames.
The bearded man raised his visage to the night sky, eyes closed as he extended a hand to the stone. His malice seemed to have vanished now, leaving a depth of weariness Vaelin found almost pitiable. Where before his hand had trembled, now it shook as if afflicted with palsy, the bearded man’s mouth opening in a silent scream . . .
Abruptly he whirled away from the stone with a shout, chest heaving and features livid with rage and another expression Vaelin knew well; the twitching, bright-eyed mask of a prideful man unwilling to acknowledge his own defeat.
A large troop of red-armoured men ascended the steps at a run, bearing several long wooden beams. The bearded man moved away from the black stone as his servants moved in. They placed the beams under the plinth’s wide, mushroom-like top and lifted it up, bearing it away quickly, seemingly uncaring of the weight as they proceeded down the steps and through the corpse-choked streets below.
The bearded man lingered for a moment, eyes narrow as they scanned the platform. There was also a slight smile to his lips, a faint glimmer of humour in his eyes.
• • •
“Did you know?”
“I had suspicions.” Erlin raised a hand to the memory stone. “But these memories are so ancient. So many lives have been lived since, a thousand kingdoms risen and fallen, spawning countless mysteries.”
“Lionen said you would touch the black stone,” Vaelin pressed. “But not be you when you did. What did he mean?”
“I think he meant we have much to think on.” Erlin extended his other hand to Vaelin. “Nothing else will occur here, though I once waited the best part of a month to confirm it. Wait long enough and perhaps you’ll see the Lonak arrive.”
