Soon, as Zagros had told me it would, my route joined the new road forged through the mountains by Zeel’s men: a raw scar cutting westwards through the range like a jagged lightning bolt. It was utterly deserted, as we’d hoped it would be. I was going to find my friends. It was like a lantern lighting my way: the thought of them there at the Stronghold of Arraz, waiting for me. As I walked it seemed a strange false dawn was breaking on the high horizon ahead: the sky was streaked with crimson slashes banded with black. But no morning came, and there was no way of keeping track of time. No setting sun, no stars, no moons — gold or silver — in the dark sky. So I had no way of knowing when it was that I finally reached the summit and looked down on the Stronghold of Arraz … or where the Stronghold had once been. The Cauldron of Zeel had become a lake of fire and the fortress itself had vanished. Even where I stood the searing heat of molten lava scorched my skin, a red glow bathing Dark Face in a hellish other-worldly light.
