Goran scrambled to his feet, fear causing his heart to pound. No longer solid, the moon had become a gigantic tidal wave, hundreds of feet high, roaring across the desert, sweeping towards the hillside on which he stood. Too frightened to run, Goran stood petrified as the black wall advanced, engulfing the red rocks of the desert. On the hillside the flock of sheep panicked, and ran. Goran just stood there.
As the tidal wave devoured the miles between them Goran saw that it was shrinking, and from his high vantage point he found he could see beyond the advancing black wall. Behind the wave, the land was no longer dead rock and shimmering heat hazes; there was the pale green of pastures and meadows, the deeper hues of forests and woods. And more incredible yet, as the shrinking black wave grew closer he saw a strange city appear behind it, a city of dark domes like thousands of black moons wedged together.
The tidal wave shrank and slowed as it neared him, until at last it gently lapped at the foot of the hills, seamlessly joining to the grass where his sheep fed.
Goran sat silently, jaw agape. There was no desert now, no hint of the gloomy, depressing stone. Verdant hills and valleys greeted his gaze, and away to the right a glistening stream rippled down over white rocks, joining to a river that vanished into deep woods.
Leaving his sheep to feed on the new grass he ran back down the hills and up along the deer trail, his heart thumping. Cresting the last rise before the village, he ran
down to the main street and found his father, the farmer Barin, taking lunch with the blacksmith, Yordis, outside the forge.
Swiftly the boy told the men what he had seen. At first his father laughed and, leaning forward, smelt his son’s breath. ‘Well, it is not wine you’ve been drinking,’ he said, ruffling Goran’s hair.
‘Perhaps he fell asleep, Barin,’ offered the blacksmith, ‘and dreamt the whole affair.’
‘No, sir,’ insisted the boy. ‘But even if I had, I would have had to be awake to run back and tell you about it. I swear the desert is gone, and there is a city no more than five miles from our hills.’
‘It is a dull day,’ said Barin, ‘and a ride will make it more interesting. But be warned, Goran, if there is no city I shall take off my belt and flay your buttocks till they bleed!’ Swinging to the blacksmith, he said, ‘You wish to see this city, my friend?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ said Yordis. The two men saddled their mounts and, the boy riding behind his father, set out for the hills.
Once there, the good humour vanished, and the two men sat their horses and gazed silently at the distant city.
‘What in Hell’s name is going on?’ asked the smith.
‘I don’t know,’ Barin replied. ‘Ride back and fetch the others. The boy and I will wait.’
The smith rode off as father and son dismounted. ‘It is a magical city,’ said the boy. ‘Perhaps the Eldarin have come back.’
‘Perhaps,’ his father agreed.
Yordis returned with some twenty villagers, and the group rode down to the rich grassland. Dismounting, they walked around in silence for a while, then gathered together and sat in a circle. ‘Someone should ride to the
garrison; they could send a rider to Corduin to let Lord Albreck know what has occurred,’ said Barin.
‘Who would be believed?’ asked a village elder. ‘I have seen it and I still do not believe it.’
‘Should we go to the domed city and make ourselves known to them?’ asked another.
‘That will not be necessary,’ said Barin. ‘It seems they are coming to us.’
The men rose and turned to see a hundred horsemen galloping across the grassland. The horses were huge, taller by six hands than anything the villagers had ever seen, and the riders were large, powerful warriors, seemingly wearing helms of white bone. But as they came closer, Barin realized that they were not helms at all. The riders were not human. Fear rose in him and, grabbing his son, he lifted him to the saddle. ‘Get to the Duke Albreck,’ he hissed. Then he slapped his hand hard on to the rump of the horse, which half-reared and then bolted towards the south.