storm by Unknown Page A

masculine traits.  His body was long and thin, the skin very white.  His black hair hung down his back in a strangely glistening flag, as if it was wet, yet it rarely was.  He dressed in tattered robes of darkest crimson, but kept his fingernails very short and neat.  It was important to him, in spite of everything, to have clean hands.  Because he was har, he possessed a freakish kind of beauty, but it would never inspire poetry in another har's heart, even though it might arouse some exceedingly dark prayers.  He concealed himself, for the most part, in an underground lair which was his hive.  In this place, hara of the tribe came to him and learned about how harlings did not have to be conceived in love.  Ponclast, like a monstrous queen bee, was fecund.  Most harlings of the tribe came from his body.  There were very few moments when he was not with pearl and because he was so long and thin, the sight of him in this condition was not pleasant.  His children were like the bursting boils of his hatred.  They tumbled from him twisted up and snarling in their pearls, sustained, as was their hostling, by feelings of injustice and bitterness, which in Ponclast's case were very focused indeed.
     
                On the night when Calanthe had locked in psychic combat with Thiede, something had happened to the magical barrier surrounding Gebaddon.  It didn't break or fade; it remained as strong as ever, and in some areas became even stronger, but something leaked through it and slithered through the warped undergrowth of the forest.  It found its way to Ponclast, brooding as usual in a deep cave, where tree roots were like stalactites around him.  It came to him like a little bird and landed on his outstretched hand.  It was the ability to see through the veil.  It was Thiede's destruction and because Thiede had put so much of himself in Gebaddon to keep the exiles at bay, when he transcended the earthly realm, part of his essence went looking for a place to rest, a place called home, where it would feel comfortable.  It was unfortunate that Gebaddon was the nearest it could find.
     
                Ponclast felt knowledge enter him like a blade to the throat.  For some moments, he was held in stasis, in pain.  He witnessed and experienced firsthand some of Thiede's torment, fear and confusion, and didn't know what it was.  It could just have been another miserable torture conjured up by the poisoned soil of Gebaddon.  But when the sensations subsided and Ponclast lay heaving upon his throne of damp dark boughs, he knew.  Thiede was gone.  The barrier still stood, but the Teraghasts were somehow changed.  Ponclast knew that he might now find a way for a part of them, if only a small insubstantial part, to squeeze through the boundary.
     
                For weeks Ponclast worked in secret upon his plans, trying many, discarding all.  Some of his hara, lured in ignorance into his subterranean hive, died during the experiments.  He toyed with sending hara into trance, so that they believed they could pass like smoke through the barrier.  He performed dark rituals of Grissecon to invoke unmentionable forces into hara's bodies, which might find the barrier no more obstructive than mist.  None of these trials worked.  He needed something bigger, more daring.  And yet he knew he must be subtle.  If he acted too quickly or too rashly, the Gelaming would no doubt pick up psychically on his activities.  They would be alerted to his newfound freedom, albeit small, and would squash it swiftly.  Sometimes Ponclast wondered whether he was dreaming a cruel dream, and that the possibility of justice at last was an illusion.  He dreamed often of Terzian, had always done so.  In death, Terzian had transformed in Ponclast's mind into a shining angel.  Their past disagreements had been forgotten.  Terzian was a martyr, a dark saint.  He must be avenged.  And vengeance could not be