Lore of Eternal Shadow: The Fugitive King

Chapter Twenty-Three

The stairway emptied out into a large chamber the likes of which Zicone had never seen. It was hundreds of feet tall and at least a quarter mile across. It was beyond any versions of huge any of them had seen before (aside from a few things Tiberan had seen). At the center of the chamber a large glass-like dome sat, maybe a hundred feet across. It glowed green in slow pulses and it looked almost literally like a vat of foggy pea soup.

Zicone closed in on the dome, slowing to stare and study it from top to bottom, "The plasma reactor, I presume."

"What does it do?" Runa asked him.

"I haven't the slightest idea," Zicone answered. He reached out a shaking hand to rest on the outside of the dome. He wasn't sure if it was dangerous to touch and immediately Zicone realized it was a stupid idea. But his hand was still his own and the enormous container was indeed solid; or more than solid... It felt like glass to Zicone's touch but it seemed harder than glass... harder than stone or metal either. The resonate pulses of green reminded Zicone of a heartbeat.

A figure emerged from the glowing haze much too swiftly. Zicone gasped. His hand flew off the dome as he jumped backward. Jutting out from the figure's lips were four fang-tips, two for each lip. His hair draped in cascades down his back but in some eerie way. His hair never moved as though suspended in time.

Zicone remembered the figure precisely down to the dagger-like nose. This was the raven haired man from Zicone's dream, unchanged in appearance though he had swapped his armor for a long set of moth-eaten old robes. "Ahhhhh," the figure said in a voice smoother than the dome over his head and softer than a whisper, "I knew someone would come for me eventually. To whom do I owe this great debt?" The light casting upon the man seemed to scatter in echoes, trails of every color in the rainbow left him as he moved minutely, cycling from green when the pulse was the strongest to red when the pulse was at its weakest.

"Wha—Who are you?" Zicone asked. His voice quivered despite himself but many things here disturbed him. Zicone was terrified just trying to comprehend the calculations binding this man within the dome.

"I've gone by many names," the figure replied oily. He looked to the side and left blues of increasing green behind him, "There was a time when my enemies called me The Blood Tyrant. Longer before, I was simply Ardelli the Magister. The people whom I ruled as king took to calling me the Vampirex." The man's voice still sounded like a whisper, but it carried for at least a room's length or two.

The Vampirex's eyes lighted on Zicone for a moment before passing to the group of friends who stood in fear and fascination behind. "I remember you," he said promptly as he returned his gaze to Zicone, "You were the boy in the window when I was first banished here."

"What?" Zicone asked, "You must be mistaken, I've never been in this place until now."

"You were there, I'm quite sure of that. You watched from the Command Tower. A hundred ages ago we would commence war councils there... I distinctly remember seeing your slack jawed stare as you saw them imprison me."

"You...you must be mistaken," Zicone half stammered.

"Don't listen to him Zicone," said Jannick, "He's just trying to screw with your head."

Zicone shook his head to clear it, "You're right."

"I suppose you're not here just to exchange pleasantries with me then," the Vampirex said.

"No," Tiberan retorted, "We are not."

"Was I speaking to you?!" The volume of the Vampirex's voice raised, though the timbre of it never changed from a whisper. Tiberan stepped back again, reverting to silence. The Vampirex looked straight at Zicone, "What is it that you want?"