Although he had known the blow would come for many months now, the sudden pressure was almost more than he could bear. The faces around him, ethereal and corporeal both, reflected the strain, the weight they bore. It was as if a sound he had heard every day of his long, long existence had suddenly intensified, as if colour had flared to a blinding light. No. It was as if all sound, all colour had burst at once, into a sensory riot that threatened to overwhelm the world.
The smooth stone under his feet shifted, his spectral form slipping out of the physical plane for a second before force of habit corrected and he found equilibrium once more. Had he the ease to survey the view from his high eyrie, he could have seen the change writ large. The land was already altered beyond hope: far below, where farms and forests had stood was little more than blasted ash and swirling smoke. The Saphery of his aeons of life and unlife ravaged beyond recognition by the followers of Khaine in the last bitter war of the elves. The ghost of Bel-Korhadris knew the time had come.
When Tyrion claimed the Widowmaker he had known that the fate he had feared for centuries was finally coming to pass, no matter what young Teclis schemed. The Rhana Dandra was coming. His guilt at his own part in the deception of the Phoenix Kings was deep. It was that guilt which had spurred him to one final desperate act, jealously storing magic deep in the Tower of Hoeth itself, secret reservoirs of power intended for one purpose. As the end of Ulthuan approached, Teclis had called on him and part of his spirit answered, but Bal-Korhadris knew there was nothing he could do to alter the future and his main strength remained anchored with his bones, his library and his tower.
Khainite forces had flung themselves at the magically sealed gates for weeks, seeking to rend and tear and burn his legacy, but Bel-Korhadris's wards were strong and their bolts and spells and fire had left no mark. Given time and power they would eventually have smashed a way inside, but the collapse of the vortex and the death of their God's avatar had sent them reeling in panic, just as the magical wards, rooted in the bedrock of Ulthuan, flickered and died with the land. Inside, Desperate refugees filled the lower halls, shielded by the few remaining apprentices, but the great strength of the tower, the elders and the shades of its greatest scholars, powerful mages all, were gathered at its pinnacle. "It is time" he said.
As one the mages turned, forming a wide circle at the tower's apex. Ulthuan shifted again as the magics which had held it in place for ten thousand years unravelled. Boulders crashed down mountainsides, geysers burst from gaping sinkholes, volcanoes spewed ash and rock and the remorseless cold ocean advanced as a continent died. Elsewhere elves scurried into the World Roots, but there could be no such solace for the Tower of Hoeth and the accumulated knowledge of the astari. All would sink without a trace.
Concentrating on holding the tower together as they chanted, the circle of elves focused their magic, their power, at the highest point of the vast edifice, as Bel-Korhadris opened the magical reservoirs, slowly at first but faster and faster as the spell gained momentum. Had any the strength to look outwards, they would have seen the crimson seas scouring the coastal lands to the west, sweeping aside mansions and palaces, cities and villages as they went. Below, the bereft followers of Khaine wailed their fear, fleeing into the wastes they had created or pounding on the doors. None with the power to open them could spare a thought for those outside, as high above the ritual reached its most critical moment.
Bel-Korhadris felt as if his spirit might unravel such was the torrent of magic gushing through him. Outside the tower he was aware of magic slashing wildly across the mountains and blasting craters in the earth. It was tempting to draw on it to relieve his burden, but he knew that even a fraction of that power would suck him out of the tower and into the stream of desperate souls pouring from the shattered waystones to the ravenous maw of the Dark Prince at the Isle of the Dead. That way lay oblivion.
On the faces around him similar strain showed. Some of the spirits were now mere suggestions in the air as the souls that drove them thinned and stretched. The living elves bled from noses and eyes, the droplets whipped into the spinning orb of their spell and hanging languorously in the temporal vortex they had created before flying out to splatter on the walls, forming daemonic silhouettes of the creatures which hovered just beyond sight, waiting only for the spell to break to feast on the souls inside.
The first waves reached the base of the tower, striking it with force that shook the structure. In the lower halls refugees screamed and clung to one another as the apprentices drew on the reservoirs of power to hold the waters at bay for just a little longer. Some, the weakest, collapsed like abandoned marionettes as their grip on reality tore. Still their spirits fought on, gradually disintegrating under the pressure of unimaginable forces. At the summit, the tower swayed wildly but not one mage lost their footing, steadied by the sea of magic on which they floated.
Gradually, so gradually, the spell began to take hold, the magic of Bel-Korhadris's reservoirs building into a structure that resembled the tower itself. Slowly this tower grew, sinking through floors and passing through walls. As it expanded details emerged: doors and windows, statues and archways. An image of the vast underground stacks, creations of physical impossibility and one of Bel-Korhadris's proudest achievements stretching almost-infinitely in on themselves, shimmered fitfully. And at the very summit, a tiny circle of glimmering elves, facing inwards and silently chanting.
Outside the waters rose inexorably, sweeping higher and higher up the tower. The ashy wastes and their Khainite creators were gone, replaced by boiling seas and swirling wreckage. As the wave reached the mountains it struck the torrents of lava pouring down their flanks and billowing clouds of steam enveloped the tower, unnoticed by the struggling mages at the very top.
Faster and faster the spell grew, mimicking the tower itself and all inside it. Books lined on their shelves matched their magical counterparts, terrified refugees were overtaken by their shadowy dopplegangers and far below the surface a shade of the ancient bones of Bel-Korhadris himself settled into their physical counterpart at rest inside his marble tomb.
The towers aligned, the spell almost complete. As if battling a great wind, Bel-Korhadris took one step forward into the centre of the circle, then another. Bourne on the winds of magic howling outside he could hear the screeching and chittering of the monstrosities that sought to feed on his soul and the millennia of magic he had invested in the tower, the greatest repository of learning anywhere in a world doomed to die. He would not allow that to happen. Reaching the centre, he faced his comrades, staring into the weary faces of pupils and colleagues of centuries upon centuries and, without ceremony, clapped his hands once. Darkness fell.
Gradually awareness returned. The storm had gone, replaced by a deep and abiding silence; the deepest Bel-Korhadris had ever known. His eyes opened and above spiralled unfamiliar stars, distant and cold. The mage slowly sat up. Around him his companions too were returning to consciousness. Bel-Korhadris ran his hands over his body. He was still a spirit, his ancient bones at rest in their tomb far below, but he felt energised in ways he had not since his death at his desk thousands of years before. He felt young again. He had forgotten. Slowly he regained his feet, strength returning to his ghostly limbs.
From the heights of the tower he could see other structures set against the darkness of the cosmos, walking to the edge he saw myriad shapes in the gloom, some as tall as the tower itself, others twisted in unusual ways. Pyramids, onion domes, slabs of steel and glass, giant trees, ornate minarets and marble columns sat beside one another and intertwined in a riotous and yet somehow gratifying orgy of architecture. Warily Bel-Korhadris surveyed his surroundings, aware that even a slight miscalculation could have deposited him away from his goal and into the arms of the Great Enemy. There was only one way to find out. With a gait unknown for long years, Bel-Korhadris strode for the stairwell.
Down and down and down the stairs spiralled, the mages and spirits following him in silence, their apprehension palpable. Through the high chambers and past the empty laboratories the procession continued, descending ever further into the tower. Occasionally elves or their spirits emerged from side passages, wordlessly joining the column as it moved. At the lower halls, wide-eyed refugees clutching their children attached themselves to the rear of the march, staring in silent terror at the mages but uttering not a sound. The all-pervading silence broken only by the shuffling of leather clad feet as the column trooped through passages and down stairwells, moving inexorably towards the great gates of the tower.
In the entrance hall the spirit of Bel-Korhadris halted and raised an arm. Fear and exultation passed through him in equal measure. Either he had saved some small portion of his people from disaster or he had handed their greatest enemies the most powerful magical library in existence. Without a shake or murmur a pulse of will swung the doors open and revealed the new world to which he had brought the Tower of Hoeth.
Beyond, instead of the lost fields and forests of Saphery, was a wide dark corridor, flagged with stone and lit by glowing sconces. Bel-Korhadris entered the passageway, followed by the people he had brought to this place. Branching aisles stretched away on either side, disappearing into the far distance and lined by wooden shelves laden with leather-bound tomes, piled scrolls, odd glass-faced slates and other inexplicable ephemera of knowledge. The silence remained, the vast archive still, but not dead. At tables positioned haphazardly among the shelves sat scholars of a thousand races pouring over texts in as many languages.
Most of the readers gave no acknowledgement of the elven convoy as it passed, but at one table an ancient long-bearded man in white robes poured over a handwritten manuscript, a long, unlit pipe clenched habitually between his teeth. Even a casual glace told Bel-Korhadris that this was a being of vast power, but as the figure noticed the elf spirit's stare he merely peered at him over the parchment and gave a short cheery nod before returning to the text at hand. At another table a young man odd clothes was dismantling a complex metal device and scanning lighted pictures on a tablet in front of him. On seeing Bel-Korhadris he gave a cheery wave, pressed a button and the device whirred into life. The young man hastily stilled it and apologetically peered around at a non-existent audience as a beaming smile appeared on his face. Abruptly he stood and left through a blue door without a second glance at the elves.
More rooms, more scholars. Some were human, some appeared elven, although they gave no sign of recognition to Bel-Korhadris and his people. Others were wildly strange; hairy brutish creatures absorbing beautiful poetry, jackal-headed figures examining rolls of papyrus, steel men reading from screens moving faster than the elven eye could register and many other readers, creatures unfamiliar and unknown.
Eventually the passage narrowed and at a crossroads, lit as if by a distant spotlight, stood a large semi-circular desk groaning with books of all kinds. In the centre was a clear patch around a small writing pad and a bewilderingly diverse set of stamps, seals and pens positioned before a huge, worn and grossly overstuffed leather armchair. The wall behind the desk was formed from thousands of small drawers, some with cards spilling from them, others shut tight. On the pad, incongruously, was a banana.
Seated at the desk, off to one side away from the overstuffed chair and deeply engrossed in a little leather-bound book, was a small man dressed in black, with a neat grey beard and spectacles. On his head was a wide-brimmed black hat. Walking up to the man, the shade of Bel-Korhadris halted, suddenly awkward. The man did not look up. Bel-Korhadris gave a small cough. Startled, the man peered at the shade and then stood, a smile creasing his face and his eyes glittering warmly.
"Why hello", the man said. Removing his hat to reveal a bald head, shining in the light.
"Greetings" Bel-Korhadris replied. "We are looking for the librarian. Might you be the man we are seeking?"
The man's smile grew wider. "Dear me, no. I'm afraid I'm not the Librarian, but he is, as you might say, a very old friend indeed." The man's eyes shifted to the left, just behind the elven mage, who felt a slight tug on his spectral robes. He turned to find an empty space. There was a second tug. Bel-Korhadris looked down into a friendly countenance, fringed with thick orange hair. A leathery hand seized his and shook it vigorously.
"Oook", the Librarian said.