of the Karpash Mountains no longer remembered why, but they knew it for a mountain of death, and knew their souls were forfeit should they set foot on it.
Half of the mountain had gone in that last, titanic explosion, leaving a long oblong crater with a deep lake, nearly half a league across, at its bottom. Two sides of the great pit were sheer walls, towering a hundred times the height of a man. The other two were gentler slopes, and at the foot of one, abutting the lake, sat a palace such as only one pair of human eyes had ever seen.
Like a gigantic, infinitely faceted gem, the palace was, with towers and turrets and domes of adamantine crystal. No join of stonework showed at any place in it. It seemed a monstrous carving from a single montainous diamond, glittering in the sun.
In the center of that jewel palace was a huge domed chamber, its mirrored walls hidden behind long golden draperies. In the center of the room stood a narrow, pellucid plinth supporting a gem redder than red, a stone glowing as if fire and heart’s blood had been compressed and solidified to form it.
Amon-Rama, once a thaumaturge of the Black Ring of Stygia, moved closer to the thin spire, his scarlet hooded robes flowing liquidly about his tall, lean form. His swarthy, narrow face was that of a predator; his nose had the raptor’s hook. Ten thousand soulless sorceries had extinguished the last light in his black eyes. Like claws his hands curled about the gem, but he was careful not to touch it. The Heart of Ahriman. Every time his eyes fell on it he exulted.
It was when his former compatriots discovered his possession of the Heart that they expelled him from the Black Circle. Some things even those dark mages feared to know. Some hidden powers they dared not risk unveiling. His thin lip curled contemptuously. He feared nothing, dared anything. Merely by gaining the gem he had gone beyond the fools. They would have slain him, had they managed to find the courage, but each one of them knew his powers, now that the Heart was his, and feared the counter-stroke should their attempt fail.
On either side of the Heart his long fingers set themselves in a precise fashion, and he began to chant in a language dead for a thousand years. “A’bath taa’bak, udamai mor’aas. A’bath taa’bak, endal cafa’ar. A’bath taa’bak, A’bath mor’aas, A’bath cafa’ar.”
The crystal walls of the palace chimed faintly with the words, and with each word the glow of the Heart of Ahriman deepened, deepened and clarified. Still more crimson than rubies and blood, it yet became clear as water, and within its depths figures moved across stony hills.
Amon-Rama’s eyes narrowed as he studied the shapes. Riders. One girl and three men, with two extra horses. The pattern formed by his fingers changed slightly, and the girl seemed suddenly to fill the gem.
The girl, he thought, and smiled cruelly. She was the One, the One he had sought these many years. She was attuned to the Heart of Ahriman, and the Heart to her. The woman in Shadizar thought to use her. This Taramis had courage, that she dared think of using the Heart for its ultimate purpose, and she possessed no small ability in the use of powers, yet she reckoned without Amon-Rama. There were many powers of the stone, many uses other than that one she intended. Once the girl, the One, was in his grasp, he would have access to all of those powers. And he would know which to use, and which not to. He would let this foolish Taramis live, he thought, as a naked bondmaid cowering at his feet. But that was for later.
“Come to me, girl,” he whispered. “Bring her to me, my brave warriors. Bring the One to me.”
Yet again his fingers formed a new shape about the stone, and he chanted, this time in words never meant to be uttered by a human throat, never meant to be heard by a human ear. They burned in the air like purest pain, and the crystal walls groaned with the agony of them. The Heart of Ahriman
Half of the mountain had gone in that last, titanic explosion, leaving a long oblong crater with a deep lake, nearly half a league across, at its bottom. Two sides of the great pit were sheer walls, towering a hundred times the height of a man. The other two were gentler slopes, and at the foot of one, abutting the lake, sat a palace such as only one pair of human eyes had ever seen.
Like a gigantic, infinitely faceted gem, the palace was, with towers and turrets and domes of adamantine crystal. No join of stonework showed at any place in it. It seemed a monstrous carving from a single montainous diamond, glittering in the sun.
In the center of that jewel palace was a huge domed chamber, its mirrored walls hidden behind long golden draperies. In the center of the room stood a narrow, pellucid plinth supporting a gem redder than red, a stone glowing as if fire and heart’s blood had been compressed and solidified to form it.
Amon-Rama, once a thaumaturge of the Black Ring of Stygia, moved closer to the thin spire, his scarlet hooded robes flowing liquidly about his tall, lean form. His swarthy, narrow face was that of a predator; his nose had the raptor’s hook. Ten thousand soulless sorceries had extinguished the last light in his black eyes. Like claws his hands curled about the gem, but he was careful not to touch it. The Heart of Ahriman. Every time his eyes fell on it he exulted.
It was when his former compatriots discovered his possession of the Heart that they expelled him from the Black Circle. Some things even those dark mages feared to know. Some hidden powers they dared not risk unveiling. His thin lip curled contemptuously. He feared nothing, dared anything. Merely by gaining the gem he had gone beyond the fools. They would have slain him, had they managed to find the courage, but each one of them knew his powers, now that the Heart was his, and feared the counter-stroke should their attempt fail.
On either side of the Heart his long fingers set themselves in a precise fashion, and he began to chant in a language dead for a thousand years. “A’bath taa’bak, udamai mor’aas. A’bath taa’bak, endal cafa’ar. A’bath taa’bak, A’bath mor’aas, A’bath cafa’ar.”
The crystal walls of the palace chimed faintly with the words, and with each word the glow of the Heart of Ahriman deepened, deepened and clarified. Still more crimson than rubies and blood, it yet became clear as water, and within its depths figures moved across stony hills.
Amon-Rama’s eyes narrowed as he studied the shapes. Riders. One girl and three men, with two extra horses. The pattern formed by his fingers changed slightly, and the girl seemed suddenly to fill the gem.
The girl, he thought, and smiled cruelly. She was the One, the One he had sought these many years. She was attuned to the Heart of Ahriman, and the Heart to her. The woman in Shadizar thought to use her. This Taramis had courage, that she dared think of using the Heart for its ultimate purpose, and she possessed no small ability in the use of powers, yet she reckoned without Amon-Rama. There were many powers of the stone, many uses other than that one she intended. Once the girl, the One, was in his grasp, he would have access to all of those powers. And he would know which to use, and which not to. He would let this foolish Taramis live, he thought, as a naked bondmaid cowering at his feet. But that was for later.
“Come to me, girl,” he whispered. “Bring her to me, my brave warriors. Bring the One to me.”
Yet again his fingers formed a new shape about the stone, and he chanted, this time in words never meant to be uttered by a human throat, never meant to be heard by a human ear. They burned in the air like purest pain, and the crystal walls groaned with the agony of them. The Heart of Ahriman
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