In the blink of an eye, Tarrin, Allia, Sarraya, and Sapphire were transported thousands of longspans to the west, appearing in a windswept ruin of such antiquity that perhaps not even Sapphire could remember it.

Faster than the span of a heartbeat, the four of them were in the Desert of Swirling Sands, and as soon as he felt the heat of the noontime sun beating down on his uncovered head-the desert was further east of Suld and as such it was later in the day there-and saw the sandy ruins, he knew they had arrived.

And for the first time in a very long time, he felt safe.

To: Title EoF

Chapter 10

Everything was even in the same place.

This was the only place in the desert where to which he was absolutely sure he could Teleport, and seeing it again made him go through all the memories anew. It was the broken arena in the Dwarven city that Jegojah had called Mala Myrr, with the collapsed tower on one side and the clear field on the other. Tarrin and Jegojah had fought in this arena, the grandest of all battles it had ever seen, a duel of sword and staff, magic against magic, cunning against cunning. Tarrin had won that battle, and in the course of it had freed both Jegojah's and Faalken's souls of the Soultraps, devices used to imprison them and make them do the bidding of Kravon. Tarrin had spent days memorizing this arena, coming to know intimately where every single pebble was located, to give him every possible advantage in his fight with Jegojah. That exacting familiarization was more than enough to allow him to Teleport back to this place. Since he wasn't very close to where he wanted to go or couldn't see it, it meant that he had to have a good knowledge of the place in order to Teleport there.

They had only just arrived, but it was like he'd been there for years. It had been many months since he'd last been there, but part of him expected to still find his and Jegojah's footprints on the ground. His life had changed in this arena, and it was here where events were set in motion that saved the city of Suld, saved the katzh-dashi from destruction. It had been many months, but the pain he felt at seeing the crypt was almost like new. He, Sarraya, Allia, and Sapphire had appeared facing its magnificent marble walls, gleaming like snow in the midday sun. It had been months since he'd last seen it, but it was completely untouched by the elements. Its white marble was just as brilliantly white, and the inscription etched into it was still clean inside, with no sand built up in it as it tended to do in nooks and crannies.

Faalken. How he missed his old friend, even now. The only one to die, and who had died because Tarrin, in a fury, cared more about killing Jegojah than he did about protecting his friends. He had been indirectly responsible for Faalken's death, and though he didn't let it consume him, it was a fact that he would never allow himself to forget. Just as he'd worn the manacles to remind himself of Jula's betrayal, he carried inside him a scar that would never disappear, a scar he would never allow to vanish from his mind. It was his reminder of what happened when he lost control, of how those around him he loved could pay the price for his own failings. Creating this wondrous crypt in the ruins of a Dwarven city, a race who had allowed itself to be exterminated in order to save the rest of the peoples of Sennadar during the Blood War, was the least he could do. And it seemed right to lay him to rest here. A new hero to rest beside those of antiquity, to add his name to their countless unknown ones, to remind everyone of the sacrifices that had been made both in the present and the past.

Tarrin had brooded a long time about the Dwarves when he first came here, he remembered. He had a towering respect for a people who were willing to sacrifice absolutely everything for others, who had been destroyed to the last man, woman, and child in order to defend their home. That was courage, and it was something that everyone on Sennadar, even now, five thousand years later, did not forget. They had been gone five millenia, but the songs and stories of the legendary bravery and sacrifice of the Dwarves still echoed from taprooms and parlors all over the Known World. In their own way, they had had a profound impact on his life. They had built the city where he and Jegojah had fought, but their sacrifice and his memories of this place had had quite an effect on him, and it was here that he had started significantly shaking off his feral nature. On many levels, in many ways, both blatant and subtle, Tarrin owed the long-dead Dwarves a great deal of gratitude and thanks. Though dead five thousand years, their hands had stretched across time and helped shape the present, and Tarrin thought that they would have been satisfied, even happy, to know that they had had one final chance to help protect the world that they had died to save.

Tarrin stared at the marble crypt a long moment, every memory he had of Faalken swirling unbidden through his mind, and then he turned his gaze to look past the broken walls of the arena. The city was exactly the same, every tower exactly where he remembered seeing it rise up over the walls and the rubble. He knew exactly where he was, and could guide them with unerring accuracy to any part of the city they wanted to go.

Mala Myrr, the Lost City of the Dwarves, protected from looters by the desert and the Selani, cradled in the arms of the Holy Mother. If there was anywhere he would want to begin a journey through the desert, it was this place.

A thought occurred to him. In all the confusion after leaving here, he had forgotten that the Goddess had moved a great deal of priceless Dwarven art after he had stupidly left it sitting out at the mercy of the howling winds. She had never told him where she put it, and after a while, he'd forgotten to ask any more. But the turning had restored all his memory, even things he had forgotten through time and nature rather than a curse, and it was again very fresh in his mind.

He was going to take this up with Mother as soon as he got back. He wanted that art put back where he'd gotten it from. To take it seemed wrong to him. It belonged to the Dwarves, it belonged in Mala Myrr. "Is this it?" Allia asked quietly in Selani.

"This is Faalken's crypt," he affirmed, looking at it again. "This is where I fought Jegojah."

"I remember this place," Sapphire said, looking around. "It looks much different from the air, though. It looks like time hasn't touched it very much. It looks the same now as it did a thousand years ago."

"I kind of like it that way, Sapphire," he told her. "This place is very special to me. I like the idea that no matter how much things change, this place will remain the same."

"Dwarves lived here?"

"They did," he answered.

"A pity I'm not old enough to know them. They look to have been quite remarkable stoneworkers."

"How old are you?" he asked curiously.

"About two thousand," she answered. "But a thousand of that was the time I spent as a drake, so it doesn't really count in my mind."

"Shew," Sarraya huffed. "I forgot how hot it gets out here."

Tarrin turned his attention to himself. He could feel the heat, but it didn't really bother him. His Weavespinner protection from fire made the searing heat of the desert actually rather pleasant. And it was hot. The heat shimmered off the stones and sand of the city in undulating waves, hot enough to burn unprotected skin that may touch it, and the sun struck down like a hammer on anything its rays touched. It was late summer in the desert, and summer in the Desert of Swirling Sands was one of the most hostile environments in all the world. But as summer waned, the famous storms that gave the desert its name would begin to spawn off the Sandshield, howling across the desert like tidals waves of raging destruction, scouring the rocks and threatening to scald and strip exposed flesh off the bone. "I like it," he told her.