utterly impossible to wield—but
should
and
impossible
were concepts for lesser beings than War.
And lesser weapons than Chaoseater.
Rock and cinders crunched beneath his heavy tread, while the hazy air swirled at his passing. War squinted against the stinging fumes and blistering heat, so intense it would have proved a tangible barrier for most beings, and once more studied the domain of his so-called lords and masters.
It was always the air that hit him first. The searing, sulfur stench of things burning that should never have been able to burn; of gritty soot; of toxins that partook of an almost sentient joy in the ravages they caused, and were best avoided by any sane creature.
Blackened rock spread before him, to every horizon and beyond. Through that stone, like blood from open wounds, ran endless meandering rivers of magma. They poured from cracks in the stone, from the tops of mountains, even occasionally from beyond the ceiling of smoke that obscured whatever might wait above. The lava gathered in pools, or cascaded into gorges so broad and so deep that they might as well have marked the edges of Creation. Spindly crags stood throughout, scattered with no regard for any laws of nature or geography. Some boasted gaping holes running straight through, or protruding ledges that could not possibly support their own weight. A few such peaks narrowed as they neared the thickest layer of haze, then broadened once more before vanishing fromsight—as though they were not mountains at all, but great stalagmites that joined halfway with their stalactite brethren. As though the entire realm boasted no sky at all, but sat instead within a cavern of unimaginable dimensions.
Columns of flame erupted with an even more haphazard disregard for any conceivable pattern, casting their hellish illumination over the broken landscape. They blazed despite an utter lack of fuel, as though the rocks themselves were burning.
It seemed that nothing should be able to live in such a fearsome environment, but every so often a scuttling shadow suggested the presence of some tiny entity, struggling to survive on the blasted plain.
And just as often, something else lashed out from within the magma, or the columns of flame, or just an empty crevice, to feast upon the hapless smaller beasts.
None made any move to attack War, or even appear within his reach. They wouldn’t dare.
For wearying leagues, the Horseman trudged. Eventually, a faint sheen of sweat broke out across his normally impassive brow. He cursed the Charred Council silently, internally, but would not offer the satisfaction even of wiping the perspiration from his forehead. The arrogant bastards could easily have permitted him to appear directly before them when he stepped across the barriers between realms—had done so before, in fact, in certain emergencies. But normally, they kept their wards impenetrable, save at the very edges of their dominion, even when expecting visitors.
War was quite convinced that it was entirely an effort to remind him of his place, to make him walk and work his way to them as some lowly petitioner. A brief snarl, a twitch where his hand longed for the feel of Chaoseater’s hilt, and then he took the only action he conceivably
could
have taken.
He kept walking.
Finally, just like that, he was there.
His destination hadn’t appeared on the horizon and drawn slowly near, as it should. One step, and War saw nothing but more of the same burning landscape. A second step and the stairway was before him, leading up toward the top of a short, thick column of rock. The Horseman didn’t slow at that impossible arrival, didn’t pause, but merely set his feet upon the stair.
Thus did War, not for the first time, enter the court of the Charred Council.
The top of that pillar—broad enough to have been dubbed a hill, had it been less of a perfect cylinder—formed a relatively flat stage, perhaps a few dozen paces wide. It was, in a way, a microcosm of
should
and
impossible
were concepts for lesser beings than War.
And lesser weapons than Chaoseater.
Rock and cinders crunched beneath his heavy tread, while the hazy air swirled at his passing. War squinted against the stinging fumes and blistering heat, so intense it would have proved a tangible barrier for most beings, and once more studied the domain of his so-called lords and masters.
It was always the air that hit him first. The searing, sulfur stench of things burning that should never have been able to burn; of gritty soot; of toxins that partook of an almost sentient joy in the ravages they caused, and were best avoided by any sane creature.
Blackened rock spread before him, to every horizon and beyond. Through that stone, like blood from open wounds, ran endless meandering rivers of magma. They poured from cracks in the stone, from the tops of mountains, even occasionally from beyond the ceiling of smoke that obscured whatever might wait above. The lava gathered in pools, or cascaded into gorges so broad and so deep that they might as well have marked the edges of Creation. Spindly crags stood throughout, scattered with no regard for any laws of nature or geography. Some boasted gaping holes running straight through, or protruding ledges that could not possibly support their own weight. A few such peaks narrowed as they neared the thickest layer of haze, then broadened once more before vanishing fromsight—as though they were not mountains at all, but great stalagmites that joined halfway with their stalactite brethren. As though the entire realm boasted no sky at all, but sat instead within a cavern of unimaginable dimensions.
Columns of flame erupted with an even more haphazard disregard for any conceivable pattern, casting their hellish illumination over the broken landscape. They blazed despite an utter lack of fuel, as though the rocks themselves were burning.
It seemed that nothing should be able to live in such a fearsome environment, but every so often a scuttling shadow suggested the presence of some tiny entity, struggling to survive on the blasted plain.
And just as often, something else lashed out from within the magma, or the columns of flame, or just an empty crevice, to feast upon the hapless smaller beasts.
None made any move to attack War, or even appear within his reach. They wouldn’t dare.
For wearying leagues, the Horseman trudged. Eventually, a faint sheen of sweat broke out across his normally impassive brow. He cursed the Charred Council silently, internally, but would not offer the satisfaction even of wiping the perspiration from his forehead. The arrogant bastards could easily have permitted him to appear directly before them when he stepped across the barriers between realms—had done so before, in fact, in certain emergencies. But normally, they kept their wards impenetrable, save at the very edges of their dominion, even when expecting visitors.
War was quite convinced that it was entirely an effort to remind him of his place, to make him walk and work his way to them as some lowly petitioner. A brief snarl, a twitch where his hand longed for the feel of Chaoseater’s hilt, and then he took the only action he conceivably
could
have taken.
He kept walking.
Finally, just like that, he was there.
His destination hadn’t appeared on the horizon and drawn slowly near, as it should. One step, and War saw nothing but more of the same burning landscape. A second step and the stairway was before him, leading up toward the top of a short, thick column of rock. The Horseman didn’t slow at that impossible arrival, didn’t pause, but merely set his feet upon the stair.
Thus did War, not for the first time, enter the court of the Charred Council.
The top of that pillar—broad enough to have been dubbed a hill, had it been less of a perfect cylinder—formed a relatively flat stage, perhaps a few dozen paces wide. It was, in a way, a microcosm of
Similar Books
