There was no time inside the Barrowland, only shadow and fire,
light without source, and endless fear and frustration. From where
he stood, snared in the web of his own device, Raven could discern
a score of Domination monsters. He could see men and beasts put
down in the time of the White Rose to prevent those evils from
escaping. He could see the silhouette of the sorcerer Bomanz limned
against frozen dragon fire. The old wizard still struggled to take
one more step toward the heart of the Great Barrow. Didn’t he
know that he had failed generations ago?
Raven wondered how long he had been caught. Had his messages
gotten through? Would help come? Was he just marking time till the
darkness exploded?
If there was a clock to count the time, it was the growing
distress of those set to guard against the darkness. The river
gnawed ever closer. There was nothing they could do. No way for
them to summon the wrath of the world.
Raven thought he would have done things differently had he been
in charge back when.
Vaguely, Raven recalled some things passing nearby, shades like
himself. But he knew not how long ago, or even what they were.
Things moved at times, and one could tell nothing certain. The
world had a whole different look from this perspective.
Never had he been so helpless, so frightened. He did not like
the feeling. Always he had been master of his destiny, dependent
upon no one . . .
There was, in that world, nothing to do but think. Too much, too
often, his thoughts came back to what it meant to be Raven, to
things Raven had done and not done and should have done
differently. There was time to identify and at least confront all
the fears and pains and weaknesses of the inside man, all of which
had created the ice and iron and fearless mask he had presented to
the world. All those things which had cost him everything he had
valued and which had driven him into the fangs of death again and
again, in self-punishment . . .
Too late. Far too late.
When his thoughts cleared and coagulated and he reached this
point, he sent shrieks of anger echoing through the spirit world.
And those who surrounded him and hated him for what he might have
triggered, laughed and reveled in his torment.
There was no time inside the Barrowland, only shadow and fire,
light without source, and endless fear and frustration. From where
he stood, snared in the web of his own device, Raven could discern
a score of Domination monsters. He could see men and beasts put
down in the time of the White Rose to prevent those evils from
escaping. He could see the silhouette of the sorcerer Bomanz limned
against frozen dragon fire. The old wizard still struggled to take
one more step toward the heart of the Great Barrow. Didn’t he
know that he had failed generations ago?
Raven wondered how long he had been caught. Had his messages
gotten through? Would help come? Was he just marking time till the
darkness exploded?
If there was a clock to count the time, it was the growing
distress of those set to guard against the darkness. The river
gnawed ever closer. There was nothing they could do. No way for
them to summon the wrath of the world.
Raven thought he would have done things differently had he been
in charge back when.
Vaguely, Raven recalled some things passing nearby, shades like
himself. But he knew not how long ago, or even what they were.
Things moved at times, and one could tell nothing certain. The
world had a whole different look from this perspective.
Never had he been so helpless, so frightened. He did not like
the feeling. Always he had been master of his destiny, dependent
upon no one . . .
There was, in that world, nothing to do but think. Too much, too
often, his thoughts came back to what it meant to be Raven, to
things Raven had done and not done and should have done
differently. There was time to identify and at least confront all
the fears and pains and weaknesses of the inside man, all of which
had created the ice and iron and fearless mask he had presented to
the world. All those things which had cost him everything he had
valued and which had driven him into the fangs of death again and
again, in self-punishment . . .
Too late. Far too late.
When his thoughts cleared and coagulated and he reached this
point, he sent shrieks of anger echoing through the spirit world.
And those who surrounded him and hated him for what he might have
triggered, laughed and reveled in his torment.