That One Time I Went on a Quest

Rutherford's Wish (3)

Crimson light filters through the myriad holes in the high ceiling, illuminating a hall so vast its far walls are lost in the shadows. There are no pillars, no partitions to interrupt the infinite space; the low, rumbling groan that permeates the air sounds like the mourning of a hundred giants.

So this is the Seat of the Wardens: a great, empty belly in which all creations are left to rot.

And rot they have. All over the floor, from one distant shadow to the other, is a numberless hoard of things – machines, statues, little houses, little suns burning inside glass containers, bizarre trinkets of sizes so great the broken bits form a small hill or so small they are more trivial than grains of dust, rows upon rows of steel soldiers wielding great halberds, piles upon piles of gold, silver, obsidian, obsidian daggers, swords, great mountain-cleaving axes, gold-plated arms that hold said enormous axes, armies upon armies of diamond-carved giants, tumbled all over the floor like so many discarded dolls, half-buried in precious trash...

In the middle of it all, nestled upon a throne of obsidian shards that seem to have been melded together, is a dragon so disproportionately huge that it...it couldn't possibly be alive. Its majestic head, from which sprouts a misshapen tumour of horns, is almost as big as its body, which is little more than a withered husk of ribs and peeling scales. The forelegs it has splayed upon the mountain of ancient junk are essentially bones wrapped in skin, the wings attached to them shredded and discoloured like the sails of a storm-beaten ship. Its tail, long enough to wrap itself around the body twice over, is all bone.

The Apex, Rutherford, the mind behind so much screeching death, the scourge of the Realms and all things that live, looks like a skeleton from which all but the head had long decomposed.

From the broken balcony that seems to ribbon all the way around the wall, Kathanhiel and I stand still for a while, watching it in silence. There comes the breathing again: the many orifices on its snout – all nostrils, looking like fish gills – flutter at the intake of air, followed by a wet gurgling, the sound of lungs filled with water. Then, exhale, and a great plume of fire runs from its nostrils, its slack jaws, its hole-like ears, and washes over the hoard of stuff like a red flood, the heat almost unbearable even from up where we stand.

That puts the situation in perspective. There is no pitying such a creature no matter how tormented it looks: that half-dead sneeze could easily incinerate two hundred people.

Kathanhiel, her face an unreadable mask, speaks up: 'Under its right wing – do you see?'

I squint hard. There is...something small squirming underneath, human-sized...

'At long last, salvation.'

Rutherford's voice crashes upon the balcony like an invisible tide, shattering the already crumbling masonry. It isn't a big fall. Kathanhiel lands on her feet; I twist my ankle on a stupid rock and roll over three times.

Bad start. Can't run away now even if I want to.

She pulls me up. 'See me through to the end,' she says, her voice quivering with emotion. 'I need you, Kastor.'

Together, arm in arm, we approach the magnificent head, which is larger than the whole of an Apex candidate. Rutherford turns to face us, sending a river of junk cascading from its jagged throne. Its neck strains, flaky, withered-looking scales shedding everywhere – a quick turn and its spine might snap altogether.

'Kathanhiel. Herald of fire.'

Kaishen rises in her hand, flame spitting along the length of the blade and crawling all over her body.