buckled, and the rocks that composed Toril melted and re-formed, only to melt again. Volcanoes erupted from the plains, and rivers of lava flowed like water would millennia later. The very elements of the planet were in constant, shifting flux. The crust cracked open, revealing the scarlet and orange chasms of plasma bleeding beneath, and healed itself, only to be torn asunder again and again.
At the end of this cataclysmic time, the rock and fire at the heart of the planet folded in on themselves and were pushed to the surface, breaking through the crust. Mountain ranges hatched like a clutch of dragons out of one monstrous egg. Active volcanoes sprang up wherever the skin of Toril was thin, studding the ribs of the mountains like enormous, fiery gemstones.
One range pushed to the surface, high and jagged. It then became worn down over time by the elements and the restlessness of the earth, and rose again, newly forged in the liquid heat of the mantle. The second time, a volcano rose with it. Made of black rock, it spewed a constant river of bright lava to flood the slopes of the valley below.
A thousand years passed, and another, and the flow of liquid rock from the black mountain slowed, diminished, and finally stopped, leaving miles of rippled stone like a river frozen in time. Now and then a plume of smoke would belch forth, along with a rain of pumice and ash, but with less and less frequency until the volcano became a cinder cone, extinct, an enormous knob of basalt squatting on the weathered side of the mountain range, and the folklore passed on by the tribes that began to settle the area was the only testament to its original primal savagery.
At the base of the cone, years of weather and erosion had hollowed out caves, some shallow, some so deep as to extend halfway under the mountain. There were tunnels where lava had flowed, some with ceilings so low that a halfling child would have to duck its head to go inside. Some were enormous, tall enough to hold houses, roomy enough for any goliath that might choose to dwell there. Particle by particle, rainfall wore away the softer minerals throughout the monolith, leaving it honeycombed with more passages, some smooth as glass, some lined throughout with crystals. Erosion had also carved the softer material of the mountain away from the cone, so it was a discrete structure in itself.
At some forgotten place in history, a race of beings-dwarves, perhaps, or one of their relations-had come and constructed a stair, carved out of the living rock, that circled behind the cone, between the basalt knob and the mountain, and emerged at the top of the monolith. From the flat summit, an adventurous soul could see a dizzying view of the valley and rolling green meadows below, with tributary streams branching and tumbling through them to a distant river, and only traces in the landscape of the solid black lava beneath it all.
The ancient, mysterious delvers had refined the voids and tunnels of the cone, making wide passageways and series of rooms, stairways from base to summit, and hallways big enough to house an entire village.
Some said they disturbed a primordial evil that slept in the passageways and were devoured, while others said they tunneled too deep and broke through to the Underdark, and were killed or enslaved by gray dwarves.
Who they were, no one knew, or would admit to knowing. They left only their stonework, the marks of their tools on the surface of the basalt, a few ancient runes on some of the walls, and legends of their passing.
The folk of the surrounding settlements avoided the place and said that it was cursed, or haunted, or that strange eldritch creatures dwelled in the bottommost depths of its mazes. No treasure was hidden there that anyone knew of, and there was little of value to be mined on or around that basalt protuberance, save for a few pretty quartz crystals. It sat on the border of Erlkazar but was too far from any city of size for any of the baronies to take an interest in it for settlement or even for use as a way station. Twice or thrice throughout the centuries this or that local lordling had claimed it, only to find it too remote and barren to be either a dwelling or an outpost. Folk called it the Giant’s Fist, or the Blackstone, or the Eye of Leviathan, depending on the custom of their village and the fancy of their bards, but unless they were asked about it, or had to retrieve some livestock that had wandered that way, they mentioned it hardly at all.
Gareth Jadaren knew the Giant’s Fist was no palace. The wind howled over it in an unpleasant way, like a harpy chuckling over a trove of carrion. It was desolate, gloomy, and unaesthetic. But it was defensible.
“And the work of tunneling is done for us!” he called cheerfully to Ivor Beguine and Jandi M’baren.
Ivor and Jandi looked dubiously at the monolith that loomed against the mountainside. The valley they had come through was ribboned now with streams and well grown with small trees and fields of mountain flowers, but the occasional crunch of the donkey’s hooves against pumice and a black tumble of rocks peeking through the grasses told of the lava plains beneath.
They had ventured well south of Turmish when they began to hear travelers’ tales of the Giant’s Fist, its legends, and isolation. The stories fascinated Gareth, and he persuaded the others to skim the northern border of Erlkazar and seek out the strange monolith.
He patted the donkey’s neck with satisfaction while the animal snorted and tore a mouthful of sweetgrass from the ground.
“Does Berendel claim the land all around the base?” asked Ivor, coming to stand beside Gareth.
“He does,” said Gareth. “As much as he can. Men set themselves up as barons here, laying claim to a splotch on a map and a handful of villages so others will bob their heads and call them lord. This land’s been part of a half- dozen baronies over the last hundred years, as far as I can tell. Not that it matters, for no one cares to come near it or make it their home.”
“It’s a lonely place,” said Jandi, pulling up more sweetgrass for the donkey and regarding the Fist narrowly. “A sad place.”
“We’ll make it a happy place,” said Gareth. “A prosperous place. All for ten platinum and a promise to call Berendel ‘m’Lord’ twice or thrice a year.”
“Strange he would sell it so cheap,” said Ivor.
Gareth tugged the donkey away from its lunch. “All the folk hereabouts have lived with it all their lives, and it’s just a remote, haunted spot to them. The trading interests want dominance over the established routes, and few think of the wilderness save as a source of occasional good and a breeding ground for pirates. Here”-he spread his arm wide, earning a bleat of protest from the donkey as he accidentally tugged at its tether-“a well-fortified headquarters could command trade from the Eastern Reaches to Turmish and beyond.”
Ivor prudently took the lead rope from him. He patted the donkey, and the animal snorted indignantly. “And we fortify it how?”
Gareth tapped the pouch at his belt where the bracelet lay. “Jandi said she could ward a fortress with this.”
“That’s not a fortress,” said the cat-eyed girl. “That’s a rock you’ve bought yourself.”
“More of a long-term contract,” said Gareth.
“Nevertheless, a rock. A very big rock.”
“A rock we’ll make a fortress,” said Gareth, his eyes gleaming.
Jandi turned to Ivor with a laugh on her lips, and caught him looking at her with a peculiar intensity-a look he didn’t intend her to see. When she returned it, he looked quickly at the ground and his tanned cheeks reddened.
“The sun’s going down behind the range,” said Gareth, oblivious to the silent exchange as he watched the sky turn pink. “I suggest we camp tonight and explore tomorrow.”
If he hadn’t been so distracted by his plans, Gareth would’ve noticed his friends’ replies were more subdued than was their wont.
Jandi sat at the base of an oak, watching Ivor pile black pockmarked lava stones into a ring for their fire pit. Gareth had ventured into the woods a short way to find firewood.
Ivor positioned a stone and stood up, stretching his back. In doing so, he caught her gaze, as she had done his down on the plains, and like him she felt herself blushing. He smiled at her, and the breath caught in her throat. A strange tingle that had nothing to do with her Art spread over her body.
When he turned to look at the ponderous monolith, she could breathe normally again, and the evening breeze felt cool against her flushed cheeks. She tilted her head back to look at the oak above her. The enormous spread of its branches showed its age, and it looked out of place in a wood thick with elm and birch. Perhaps it was an ancient remnant from the oak vastness of the Chondalwood, surrounded here by upstart trees spreading from the forests at the base of the Cloven Mountains. It was as strange among these younger trees as the black stone of the
