Hour of the Daemon by Aaron Rosenberg

Author:Aaron Rosenberg
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Fantasy, Epic, Action & Adventure, Fiction
ISBN: 9781844163687
Publisher: BL Pub.
Published: 2007-10-14T16:00:00+00:00

Alaric found himself on the edge of a vast forest, facing the Grey Mountains. Just in front of him were piles of rocks, which he quickly realised must be ruins, for they were too organised, too even to be natural. The structures were clearly old, and just as clearly abandoned, judging by the moss that clung to them in places, and the ivy that had begun to creep over the outer stones. The forest vanished as Alaric’s attention focused on the ruins, leaving only vague green smudges at the edge of his vision.

His natural curiosity awakened, Alaric stepped forward, moving quietly among the towering old buildings. He could see delicate carvings, flower and leaf traceries worn almost smooth with time, and he saw that there were flagstones beneath his feet, although they were partially hidden beneath a layer of grime and dirt. The ruins were too large to be a single building, even a temple. This had been a village, perhaps even a city, but who had created it? And what had happened to them?

He felt as if he were being watched, several times, but every time he glanced around Alaric found that he was alone. His footsteps echoed strangely among the buildings, distorted, but definitely his, and nothing else moved. The ruins seemed utterly abandoned.

Alaric continued on, deeper and deeper, the stone city unfolding before him like a life-sized map, marvelling at each turn. Whoever had wrought this place had been true masters of stone, making his old friend Rolf seem like a bumbling fool, and Rolf had been counted an expert craftsman back in Middenheim. Something about the carvings, however, seemed strange. They felt wrong, or at least different, as if their creators had possessed a different perspective. Alaric saw what he thought might be writing in several places, but the marks were too worn away for him to be sure.

Eventually, the ruins shifted, the walls sliding away to present a wide central area, a vast courtyard. Buildings rose on every side, with crumbling balconies and walkways facing the centre, where a massive fountain had once stood. Much of the fountain had crumbled away over time, but its base still rose from the flagstones, a short column of jagged marble and granite, its top shorn away to form an irregular surface like a crude slanted table. Something sat atop that shape, gleaming softly in the dim light, and Alaric’s pulse quickened.

A few quick strides, aided by the courtyard sliding beneath his feet, brought him closer to the truncated fountain, and he saw that he had guessed right. Even from across the courtyard, Alaric had thought that shape seemed familiar. It was the mask.

Alaric reached for it, unable to believe he had finally recovered the artefact, and in such a strange fashion, but as his hand closed upon the thin smooth stone of the mask, another hand closed upon his wrist. This hand was massive, considerably larger than his, and covered in a heavy gauntlet festooned with barbs and spikes.

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