Of Light and Shadow

SHADOWS

Prologue

It began with a whisper.

Autumn was fast approaching the rugged lands of Northern Derania. The cool night winds conveyed the promise of impending winter and the tallest peaks of the Vhagar mountain range, the ceiling of the north, were already draped in white. The hearty men and women who worked this land found that the mornings greeted them with increasingly darker skies and with each passing day the soil was becoming more and more resistant to their tools.

It was around this time of the year that the people of the north would normally be busy preparing for the final harvest of the season and the celebration that went along with it. However, this year would be different. This year the only thing to harvest would be the bodies of the dead.

The old stronghold stood just south of Forsaken’s Gap, a three hundred yard break in the eastern half of the Vhagar mountain range. Beyond the gap stretched the wide valley known as the Abandoned Lands. The stronghold’s walls had once been manned by the finest soldiers, each honor bound to defend the realm from any creature that would attempt to venture south of the gap. But that was long ago. It had been nearly forty years since a soldier had been stationed there. And nearly twice that long since the last stone mason had come to seal up the cracks and shore up the walls. Now the place looked more like a ruin than a fortress and it was rarely occupied by anyone other than vagabonds, criminals and vermin.

Its most recent inhabitant had been a drunkard named Jaren Drummel. Jaren had come to the old stronghold to hide out after abandoning his job at the Snow Crest Inn. He had been hired not even a month before as a favor to an old childhood friend, one of the few who still regarded him kindly. Jaren had felt compelled to leave when he had found himself inexplicably left alone, holding the reins to the lead horse for a wagon loaded with six barrels of ale. Jaren had perfected the art of burning bridges and souring friendships but this act of selfishness would be his last.

Nearly two weeks after his abrupt resignation only two barrels of ale remained and all feelings of guilt and remorse had faded away into the haze of blissful, constant, drunken oblivion. It was a wonderful, faded, meaningless existence, an existence that Jaren prayed every night he could sustain. But, all drunkards know that these seemingly idyllic times inevitably come to a disappointing conclusion. The only difference this time would be the amount of pain that the end would bring. So much pain.

To unknowingly commemorate his last night alive, Jaren had hacked apart the bed of the wagon and made a large fire in the small central courtyard of the stronghold. He had danced naked around the flames, dark brown skin taking on a golden hue, as he sang nonsensical songs and tossed pebbles at the rats that were drawn out of the cracks and crevices in the walls by the warmth of the blaze. He had ended the evening by stumbling up the stairs to the top of the watch tower located in the northeastern corner of the stronghold. He had a filthy, threadbare blanket draped over his shoulders like a cloak, one hand clutching the handle of a dimly glowing lantern and the other a half empty flask of ale.

At the top of the tower was a room. Moonlight shone down through a gaping hole in the roof, its pale light revealing the shattered remains of a desk, a table, a cabinet, multiple chairs, and other unidentifiable pieces of furniture. The light also revealed that a large portion of the floor was sagging, its floorboards rotted and collapsing. Still standing against the northern wall, just beside a small window, was what remained of a multi-chambered cage once used to house messenger pigeons. All of the tiny pins were empty save one. Someone had carved a crude sculpture of a horse or possibly a cow and placed it in one of the cages. Its eyes were large hollowed out black holes. Its mouth hung open, no doubt to signify it was whinnying or mooing, but instead, the thing looked as if it were moaning in agony.

Jaren had stumbled around the balcony that encircled the top of the tower, arguing with phantoms and drinking his ale, until the chill night air had eventually chased him back inside. He had finally passed out on a stone bench built into the wall at the top of the stairs, a fool’s smile shaping his flushed, stubbly face.

Now Jaren’s scrawny, naked body lay sprawled on the old, stained floorboards just below the bench. The flickering light from the nearby lantern revealed bulging eyes and a face twisted into an expression of anguish. There was a sheen of moisture on his skin as if his body had been coated in morning dew and his right hand still held tight to the strap for the flask. He had died in confusion and agony and without ever knowing what it was that had happened to him.

One of the many rats that inhabited the ruins was hunched over Jaren’s outstretched left hand, yellow teeth gnawing away at flesh and bone. The little creature was working frantically, body jerking and flexing as it chewed and chewed on the man’s wrist. It was trying its best to secure a meal and escape back to the safety of its nest before the one who had killed the man returned.

The rat’s ravenous hunger kept it focused on its goal, but it instinctively knew that it was in grave danger. It shivered uncontrollably as the temperature began to drop with unnatural speed. Still the determined rodent continued to tear desperately at the last bit of tendon that was connecting flesh to bone. It would not give up its prize.

The darkness at the top of the stairs swelled and deepened and then moved. Shadows writhed and bulged across floor, ceiling and walls like the dark waters from a nightmare. Their movement was accompanied by an almost imperceptible whispering sigh, like the sound of fine silk being drawn across a woman’s cheek. The darkness moved into the room and surged over both Jaren’s body and the rat, the terrified but determined rodent still urgently tugging and jerking on the hand. Its tiny claws scrapped against the ale soaked floorboards as it struggled to flee with the still tethered meal. The glow from the lantern dimmed to near obliteration as the shadows overcame it, the flame a pale, flickering smudge, the color no longer yellow but a sickly, ugly shade of violet.

The shadows that flowed over the walls, ceiling and floor of the room moved with an unnatural purpose, for at their heart came the creature whom they served. He was a being not of this world, though few knew this or could comprehend what it meant. The consequences of his arrival here had been so great that the world had been permanently reshaped by the event.

Once this had been a world full of magic, the Source at its core so strong and pure and the paths to it so numerous that nearly every living thing was connected to it in some way. Many even had the ability to access the Source to such an extent as to be able to perform the most fantastical of feats. But no longer. Now, the Source was bruised and corrupted, like a fallen peach left to rot on the ground beneath the branches to which it had once clung. The few paths that remained linked to it were slender and brittle and those who still sought to access its power had to do so cautiously or risk being tainted themselves. As a result, there were now more charlatans playing the magician then actual Wizards and Sorcerers.

Once the term monster was rarely used except to describe the twisted creatures that populated children’s nightmares. But, there were now creatures walking the land that even the bravest of men took great efforts to avoid. And there were numerous areas where few humans dared to journey.

The one responsible for this change had been given many names over the years: Master of Shadows, the Dark Dweller, Shadow Spawn, the D’Shaden (translated from the old tongue: Shadow Lord), but it was a Bard named Danwell who had given him a true name: Decimus. The name had first appeared in The Fall of the D’Shaden, a celebratory song depicting what everyone had believed to have been the Shadow Lord’s demise at the hand of the hero Edebrin and his band of five. But, although Decimus had in fact been defeated as depicted in the song he had not met his death, for to the D’Shaden, death was little more than a concept. For as long as the vessel that had brought him to this world remained hidden, undisturbed and unharmed, it would continue to grant Decimus the ability to return, his purpose and determination unwavering.

It was nearly five hundred years ago that a lance of fire and smoke had split the night sky and announced the Shadow Lord’s arrival on this world. Few witnessed the event, occurring a few hours before sunrise, but among those who did were a small band of young Dwarves out hunting wild mushrooms. Curious, they had gone to investigate. The skies to the east were just beginning to brighten when they finally located the impact crater and the thing that lay almost hidden in the darkness at the bottom of it.

They called their discovery the Acreum, Dwarven for dark star, for that is what they at first believed it to be. Massive and resembling a twenty foot long, pitch black apple seed, the Acreum radiated such a bitter cold that it was impossible to lay a hand upon its surface. Even the leather straps that were used to haul it from the ground had to be replaced multiple times because they kept freezing and breaking. It was as if a piece of the night sky itself had broken off and plummeted to the earth.

Dwarves were usually a wise and cautious people, but their obsessive need to solve all the mysteries of the world occasionally led them to make uncharacteristically poor and even reckless decisions. Consumed by curiosity, the Dwarves decided to transport their discovery back to Lorador, the undercity they called home. It was the most fateful decision their people would ever make; because of it, neither they nor the world would ever be the same again.

When the Acreum was presented to the Lumeron, the Dwarven Council of Wizards, they immediately recognized the danger that such an unusual and foreign object represented. In a decision that very nearly saved the world from the Shadow Lord’s taint, the Lumeron had the thing taken down and locked away in one of their most secure vaults. But, alas, the need to understand the strange and unusual, inevitably led one of the Wizards to seek it out.

Feeling safe within the security of the rune etched walls of the vault, the dwarf had used his abilities to study their mysterious discovery. It was during his efforts, that the Acreum first became linked to the Source. With that momentous act, this dark star, this vessel, this womb was awakened. And so was the being that dwelled within.

Nearly five centuries had passed since that fateful day. So much had changed since then. No one had laid eyes on a Dwarf or an Elf or even a Dragon in hundreds of years. Many had begun to doubt that such creatures had ever existed at all. In fact, the only thing that remained the same since the Shadow Lord’s arrival on this world was the Shadow Lord himself.

In the room at the top of the tower, Decimus didn’t even pause as he passed over the bodies of the drunkard and the ravenous rat. Behind him the shadows slipped and slithered over every surface in pursuit of their master. Eventually the flame in the lantern on the floor returned to normal, its golden light reflecting off the fine dusting of frost that now covered the lifeless forms of both man and rodent.

In the northern wall of the room were the collapsed remains of a pair of double doors that led out onto the balcony. Decimus and his escort of shadows moved out onto the platform and found a sickly looking man waiting there for him. The man wore dingy black robes that hung loosely on his body. His face was hollow cheeked with a pinched, pointy nose, closely cropped piss-yellow hair and a short, unkempt beard. His skin was pale and the unusually dark veins beneath it ran their course looking like the undulating, branching lines of a river drawn on a map made of cheap parchment. The vast majority of the inhabitants of this land were Ulion, an old Deranian term meaning True Blood, and could trace their lineage back to their homeland of Bauliuon far to the southeast, now long abandoned. Their skin was the color of freshly tilled soil and their hair was black as night. This man was clearly not one of the Ulion. Even if he could color his skin and hair to the correct hue, his thin lips and narrow nose would reveal him to be Abaku, an outsider.

The man was staring down at the unseen horde that surrounded the stronghold. The glow from the campfires and burning torches made it appear as if the lights of a thousand stars were being reflected off of the still, dark waters of an encircling lake. Only the constant sound of guttural voices, accompanied by occasional shouts, shrieks, screams and the unmistakable sound of metal clashing against metal dispelled the illusion.

The man moaned softly and shivered. Stuffing his hands into the armpits of his robes, he turned and regarded the one who had caused the temperature to drop so suddenly.

Darkness.

A swelling mass of constantly moving shadows filled the doorway and at its center was a depthless, impenetrable black form, vaguely humanoid in shape. There was the semblance of arms and legs, a torso and a head, but little else was discernable. The creature’s face was featureless but for the eyes; thin, glowing slashes, each spilling a pale, blue mist. Around the creature swirled silent ghostly flames that produced neither smoke, heat nor light. Danwell, the Bard, had called it Shadowfire.

Staggering, the man reached out a hand to clutch at the nearby railing. He would never get used to the unsettling feeling of vertigo that struck him whenever he looked upon the D’Shaden. It was as if he were teetering at the edge of a bottomless pit, just moments from toppling in.

Master, Azcadarian said in a hoarse voice and was immediately overcome by a coughing fit. When he finally recovered he was leaning heavily against the railing, black sputum glistening on his lips and chin. Wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his robe, he produced a silver flask from his pocket and, after unscrewing the cap, took a long drink. Sighing, he said, I’m sorry. It seems that I need to come up with another potion. This one isn’t having much of an effect any longer.

Decimus remained silent.

Taking another swig, Azcadarian closed the flask and returned it to his pocket. Turning back to the railing, the Wizard regarded the restless horde hidden in the darkness below. The Rocha, Berenti and the last of the Minotaur tribes have come to join your army, my master. Even if the Northlanders were somehow able to amass all their forces, they could not hope to stand against your numbers. I don’t believe we need delay any longer.

There was a whisper of a sound and a brief, painful drop in temperature. Azcadarian felt a sharp, icy pain in his head and his stomach twisted.

What of the Dragons? the Shadow Lord asked.

Eyes watering, Azcadarian took a moment to respond. The D’Shaden’s voice was just as unsettling as his appearance. It was soft and echoed as if they were standing in a large cavern instead of under the night sky. And, even though the creature was standing right behind him, his voice always sounded as if it were coming from far away. Then there was the piercing pain that lanced into ones’ brain whenever the Shadow Lord ventured to speak aloud. He had the ability to simply send his words directly into a person’s mind. But, so many people ended up in a convulsing heap on the floor as a result, many dying, that he now forced himself to audibly vocalize whenever direct communication was unavoidable.

It appears the rumors were true, Azcadarian said, fighting through the pain. Bolazar is all that remains of their kind, my master. Seeing the shadowfire surrounding the D’Shaden suddenly flare up, a sure sign that he was agitated, the Wizard quickly added, But the good news is that the Dragon comes to serve you once more. He should be here by…well, I expected him to have arrived already actually.

What became of the other Dragons? Decimus asked, the ghostly flames still spiraling around his body at a much more rapid pace than usual.

Struggling to repress a cough, Azcadarian replied, This I do not know, my master. No one does. Since you were…uh, last seen, the Dragons, they just…they just started disappearing. Perhaps you could ask Bolazar himself, once he arrives. He must have some idea as to what happened to them all.

Decimus didn’t respond and the shadowfire continued to swirl angrily around him.

Clearing his throat, Azcadarian tried to steer the conversation to a less irritating subject. Two of the Vorakye have requested permission to join your army. Scratching at his beard, the Wizard shook his head. I’m not sure if it’s wise to allow their kind amongst us. They’re simply too dangerous and unpredictable. I was tempted to— The man’s voice cut off as the cold pain in his head suddenly intensified.

"Vorakye?" The Shadow Lord asked, his voice so soft one could have mistaken it for a whisper.

I’m sorry, my master, Azcadarian said, suddenly realizing the obvious. Of course you are unfamiliar with these creatures. They were created after your, er, while you were away. Swallowing hard, he continued. A few hundred years ago the Sorcerers of Koramar created these beings. What their original intentions were for the creatures is unclear. However, after a short time, the Vorakye began to behave in a manner the Sorcerers found to be displeasing. Basically, they began to think and behave independently and turned on the Sorcerers. From what I’ve been told, only five of the creatures survived the rebellion.

Finding he was enjoying the act of teaching the Shadow Lord something for a change, Azcadarian continued, "Vorakye have the rather frightening ability to absorb those they come into contact with and, though the person or animal is killed in the process, they can then take on the victim’s form. They even retain their memory for a time to further aid in infiltration. They are, unquestionably, a very dangerous enemy to have but also, and for the very same reasons, a very dangerous ally. Although I doubt they would be of any threat to someone like you, my master. Still—"

Bring them to me, Decimus said, simply.

Uh, yes, of course, Azcadarian replied with a frown. As you wish. It’s just that word of the Vorakye’s presence has already caused some disruptions. No one wants them around. Even the Berenti won’t tolerate them in their camp.

No matter, Decimus stated, his voice an icy needle in the darkness. They will not be here for long.

Oh, excellent, my master. The Wizard nodded his head and shuffled his feet nervously. He wasn’t too happy to have even a single Vorakye nearby. He knew how their kind never stopped trying to add to their collection, and a powerful Wizard would make a tempting target. Granted, his powers would only be accessible for as long as they could retain his memory. Still, it was enough to keep him on his guard until they were gone. I will have them brought to you. Shall I inform your army when we will begin our march?

The bitter cold that radiated from the Shadow Lord intensified as he spoke. As soon as the Dragon arrives we will remind the humans that this world no longer belongs to them. To defy me is to welcome death. It will be their final lesson.

Azcadarian clutched his robes tight to his body, a moan escaping his mouth in a billowing cloud that hung before his face. When the D’Shaden got worked up a man could quickly find himself turned into a pillar of ice. Squeezing his eyes shut against the stinging pain brought on by the plummeting temperature, the Wizard spoke through clenched teeth, Your patience…will soon…pay off, my…master.

There was no response from Decimus but the temperature was growing warmer by the second. Relieved, the Wizard turned and found that he was alone. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a slight movement and watched a trailing blotch of darkness slither across the remains of the balcony doors before slipping around the corner and disappearing into the room beyond.

Azcadarian released a breath that he felt he had been holding since he first discovered Decimus had joined him on the balcony. He was alone again. He felt the tension finally begin to ease from his body. But, then his eyes were drawn to the darkness beneath the collapsed doors. Movement. A subtle shifting in the shadows. It could simply have been caused by a cloud passing in front of the moon, or…

Azcadarian frowned and willed himself to turn away. Ever since he had first been in the presence of the D’Shaden, he had never been able to look at a shadow without suspicion. He knew the stories of the shadows being alive, being Decimus’s servants, his spies, were all nonsense. The shadows that followed the D’Shaden around, the ones that truly did serve him, weren’t natural shadows. They were some sort of extension of the creature, or possibly of the thing that had brought him here, the Acreum. But, it wasn’t as if he could command the shadows beneath someone’s bed to come to life, reach up and drag them down into the dark. Or, at least the Wizard was fairly certain that wasn’t the case.

Fighting the urge to glance over his shoulder at the shadows behind him, Azcadarian placed his hands on the railing, and stared down at the flickering lights of a thousand campfires. So many different creatures were hidden in the darkness below. More than a few of the races gathered here hated each other almost as much as they hated humans. The Minotaur and the Rocha had been fighting for countless centuries. And the Trolls and the Berenti had a natural animosity towards each other. And yet, here they all were, side by side. Granted, this temporary truce, if one could call it that, was not exactly peaceful, and there had been plenty of bloodshed between the various races. But, overall it was a remarkable feat. A feat that had only been achieved once before; the last time the D’Shaden had attempted to conquer these lands almost five hundred years earlier. Whether or not he would be successful this time would depend on a number of factors, perhaps the most important of which was the Dragon.

Bolazar.

Just saying the legendary Dragon’s name would cause many a man to look to the sky in fear. And even if he were truly all that remained of his mighty race, a single Dragon had been known to decimate entire armies, reduce whole cities to cinders and turn the mightiest fortresses into rubble. It was difficult to imagine a more valuable ally.

Azcadarian lifted his eyes to the star filled skies to the north and frowned. Where are you, Dragon? His right hand slipped into his pocket to clutch a small, hard cube resting there. Your master grows restless. Tracing a symbol on one side of the cube, the Wizard’s frown slowly curled into a crooked grin.

He had a feeling he knew what was delaying Bolazar’s arrival. The Dragon, no doubt, wanted to confirm with his own eyes what the Wizard had told him. After all, nothing could block a Dragon’s gaze; not magic, not rock, not even an entire mountain. And seeing it was Azcadarian’s momentous discovery that had finally given Bolazar a reason to reenter the world, it was understandable that he would want to be certain the reason was legitimate.

Azcadarian knew that it was. He wasn’t foolish enough to lure the mighty Dragon out of his long slumber with a lie. And although he could appreciate Bolazar’s need for confirmation, the Wizard hoped he didn’t linger long. It wouldn’t be wise to make the Shadow Lord wait, no matter who you were.

The Wizard took another sip from his flask, swallowing with a grimace. If all went as he hoped he wouldn’t need this foul elixir for very much longer. But, if they were to be successful, a great many preparations still needed to be made. Their enemy mght have no idea that the D’Shaden had returned, or that he had once again gathered an army to serve him, but keeping that a secret would be all but impossible in the days to come. What worried him the most were the Sorcerers of Koramar. To Azcadarian they were the only true threat to Decimus’s almost assured victory. Granted their numbers were a fraction of what they once had been. And, it was true that over the past hundred years or so they had barely been seen, having isolated themselves in the security of their tower. But the truth was, that if they chose to oppose the D’Shaden, they could present quite the obstacle. They were, after all, part of the reason Edebrin had defeated the Shadow Lord so many years ago. However, defeat may not be the right word. Delay was a more accurate description. Nevertheless, the Sorcerer’s needed to be dealt with before they had a chance to decide whether or not they would interfere this time.

Now, before anything else, he needed to find the two Vorakye and bring them to Decimus. Maybe then he would learn what the Shadow Lord planned to do with them. Whatever it was, he hoped it would be something that took them far away. He was constantly on edge as it was; he didn’t need two shape stealers lurking about adding to his anxiety.

Steeling himself, the Wizard used a skill few possessed. He reached out with mind and spirit, located one of the remaining paths to the Source, and linked himself to it. He immediately felt the taint assail him and he had to fight the urge to vomit as his body instinctively tried to rid itself of the poison. Drawing on the power of the Source to fuel his spell, the Wizard stared out into the darkness surrounding the stronghold until, to his eyes, two forms began to glow red.

Good, they were together.

Azcadarian wished he could ensnare the two Vorakye right then and there, reduce them to ash and watch the breeze carry them away. But explaining his actions to the Shadow Lord, who would be very displeased, did not appeal to him. Someday, the Wizard assured himself as he ran his hands back and forth over the stone railing. Someday soon. Then, with a deep sigh of resignation, Azcadarian once again drew on the Source and his body suddenly seemed to fold in upon itself, twisting and collapsing until, with an echoing snap, he was gone.

In the skies above the old stronghold, the moon broke free from the clouds for a moment and the shadows beneath the collapsed balcony doors seemed to darken and expand. In the room at the top of the tower the lantern still sat on the floor beside the bodies of the man and the rat. The light from the gently flickering flame caused the shadows in the room to sway and dance, stretching out and retreating, as if each one desired to be closer to the light but then thought better of it. However, not all the shadows in the room reacted to the lantern’s flame.

The shadows that lay over Jaren’s body, completely enveloping him, did not retreat from the light. Indeed, the light didn’t even cause them to fade. The darkness clung to his body like a shroud, throbbing, pulsing, as if with the beat of a heart. Only Jaren’s heart had been stilled hours earlier.

It continued like that for well over an hour until, with a whispering sigh, the shadows began to slip away. They retreated from Jaren’s body and disappeared into the darkness that filled the stairwell. But what they left behind this time was more than just a sheen of frost. A ghostly flame now flickered around the man’s body. It was a weaker, fainter version of the shadowfire that surrounded the D’Shaden but it was shadowfire nonetheless. It flickered slowly, moving down and around each limb, swirling around his torso, neck and head.

And then the body moved. First one arm, then the next, each bending back as the corpse of Jaren Drummel pushed itself onto its knees and then climbed clumsily to its feet.

The naked corpse of the man whose name no one would remember stood at the top of the stairs swaying slightly, head hanging low, chin practically resting on its chest. At the end of its left arm its hand spun & twisted on a thin length of tendon. Eventually the weight of the appendage finally caused the fleshy tether to snap. The hand dropped to the floorboards with a loud thunk, the shadowfire that surrounded it fluttered dimly for a few seconds, sputtered briefly and then vanished.

The corpse didn’t even seem to notice or care; it just continued to stand there, silently swaying in the dim light from the lantern. It stayed that way for a few minutes, then suddenly turned and began to shuffle off towards the stairwell. As awkward as its movements were, it didn’t hesitate as it reached the top of the stairs and stepped down onto the first step. It swayed there for a second before taking the next step, paused, swayed, and took another. It continued in this manner and soon disappeared into the darkness.

In the room at the top of the tower, the tiny flame in the forgotten lantern continued to flicker, the shadows in the room ebbing and flowing like the waters along some unholy shore, the only sound; the occasional soft thump of the corpse’s halting footsteps as it continued to make its way down the stairwell.

***

Almost fifty miles to the north, the last known Dragon in the world sailed in a lazy circle through dense, icy clouds high above the Vhagar mountain range. His eyes, large, multifaceted golden orbs, were directed downward, his gaze easily penetrating snow, ice, dirt and rock to study that which was concealed deep within the earth below. The mountain that held his attention was one of the tallest of the Vhagar ridge. The Dwarves had named it Dravahn. The simple translation meant God’s Tooth. It stood like a towering sentinel at the northern most edge of the Abandoned Lands. A jagged, earthen fang reaching up to rend the sky.

Bolazar had reluctantly reentered the world and was about to ally himself once again with the only creature he had ever feared. And all because a sickly Wizard had been bold enough to seek him out, clever enough to find him and wise enough to know what could lure the Dragon away from the safety of his lair after so many years.

With great intensity Bolazar studied the secrets hidden away within the bowels of the mountain beneath him. He had never truly doubted Azcadarian. After all, who would awaken a Dragon with a lie? But it wasn’t until this moment that Bolazar really believed that what he had wished for for so long could soon be made a reality.

As Bolazar continued to peer into the depths of the mountain, marveling at what he beheld there, he didn’t even notice when his trajectory shifted and he began to descend. A warbling hiss escaped from between the Dragon’s clenched teeth as his gaze remained locked on that which he desired most in this world. What began at first as a slow, downward spiral, quickly increased in speed as the circle of his descent got tighter and tighter, the mountain’s peak getting closer and closer with each passing second.

So close.

The reason.

The answer.

The cure.

The Dragon plummeted towards the mountain in what was rapidly turning into an all out dive. It was almost as if the mighty creature meant to spear himself into its rocky side in an attempt to reach that which was hidden below. But then, with a rumbling snort that sent sulphurous steam belching from Bolazar’s nostrils, the Dragon suddenly twisted, scale covered muscles in his massive arms straining as he banked away from what would have surely been his grave.

Shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, Bolazar tried to understand what had just happened. It had been as if he had slipped into a daze; a humming, fuzzy numbness clouding his mind. It was a sensation unlike any he had ever experienced before or any he ever wished to experience again.

Beating the air with enormous leathery wings, the Dragon continued to lift himself higher and higher into the night sky, all the while pondering the situation he found himself in. Eyeing the mountain below a bit more cautiously, a low growl rumbling deep in his throat, Bolazar knew there was little else to do but to keep his promise. He would join the D’Shaden and his horde and would endeavor to change the world once more.

Doing his best to convince himself that fear was not a motivating factor in his decision, the Dragon turned and put the mountain and its secret at his tail. To the south an army awaited his arrival. But more importantly, the one to whom he had chosen to ally himself was waiting there as well. No doubt, impatiently.

***

Not long after the Dragon had departed, on an outcrop of rock on the eastern side of the Dravahn, a mound of hard packed snow suddenly shifted. Chucks of ice and snow crumbled and fell away as the being concealed within suddenly shook itself to life. Strong winds ruffled a large mound of gray, ice encrusted feathers. Then a pair of enormous, yellow eyes blinked open on either side of a long, black, talon-like beak.

Flexing its wings, the owl turned its head to stare after the Dragon. The winds buffeted the creature with gusts that flung icy clouds of snow at it from all directions but the owl appeared rooted to the spot. It stayed that way, silently staring, wings flexing, until the Dragon was barely discernable in the distance.

There were many similar creatures stationed throughout the lands. These sentinels were each assigned specific tasks by those who had created them. This one had been perched on this mountainside for nearly three hundred years. In all that time it had never left its post; not when one of the Vorakye, in the form of a Cliff Drake, had come sniffing about, no doubt sensing its creator’s influence nearby, not when the one known as the Myridian Man had met his death at the hands of the creatures who dwelt within the mountain below, not when the earth shook with such force that god’s tooth was nearly split in two, not when the pale faced Wizard had slipped into the mountain just a few weeks earlier, and not even when the Shadow Lord had emerged just a few days after that. No event in all that time had prompted its masters to send it from its post. Until now. Until the Dragon had arrived.

The owl that had been perched on this outcrop of rock for nearly three centuries, observing but never moving, suddenly tipped forward, wobbled on the edge for a moment, and then toppled over.

The owl fell like a rock, plummeting nearly a hundred feet before its wings suddenly snapped out and it swooped upward. Shedding the last bits of ice and snow from its feathers, the owl turned and headed south, its course precisely lined up with that of the Dragon’s. Its new mission was a dangerous one. But there were questions that needed answers and those who controlled the owl were eager to discover them.

I

The cows were restless.

Meilan Aberill grumbled under his breath as he rolled out of bed and tugged on his boots. He knew he wouldn’t be getting back to sleep. Once again those damned wolves were forcing him to get an early start on his already long day. Casting a glance at his wife who lay sleeping on the other side of the bed, the man pushed himself onto his sore legs, the hem of his nightshirt brushing the tops of the boots as he paused to stretch his aching back. Finally, with a groan, he shuffled out of the room.

Outside the cows sounded irritated. Rond could be heard barking out by their corral, but the farmer doubted the dog was doing any more than that. Not brave enough to go chasing wolves, the mutt never-the-less served his purpose.

Scooping up the old axe leaning beside the front door, Meilan was just reaching for the handle when the small voice spoke up behind him.

Papa, do ya need my help?

Not tonight, Brikin, the farmer smiled down at his six year old son. The boy’s eyes were wide white circles, stark against his dark brown skin. In his right hand he held a makeshift sword carved from the branch of an old oak Meilan had felled a week earlier. Why don’t you go watch over your ma. I’ll be back shortly.

Brikin pushed his plump lips out into something that was half pout and half frown, opened his mouth as if to say something, seemed to reconsider, and finally nodded. The boy turned and scampered barefoot towards his parent’s room, nearly tripping over his oversized night shirt as he did so.

Meilan didn’t know why the lad insisted on wearing that thing. Well that wasn’t true, actually. He knew. He missed his brother, the shirt had belonged to him. The man sighed. Thoughts of his first born, dead going on two years, was not a good way to start the day.

Turning, Meilan pulled open the front door and stepped out onto the small porch. It was raining heavily, the ground outside muddy and dotted with puddles. Reaching back inside the open doorway, he grabbed his wide brimmed hat and popped it on his head. He felt for his leather jacket but couldn’t find it. Kalli must have taken it to mend the tear in the shoulder. Meilan grumbled under his breath but tried not to let it irritate him. Looks like I’ll be getting an early bath. Stepping off the narrow porch, Meilan allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness before making his way across the yard to where the corral and stable were located.

Glancing at the starless sky, Meilan considered going back to get his lantern but decided it would be a waste of time. He just wanted to scare off the wolves and return to his bed. Stepping up to the corral he saw all five of the cows were pressed up against the southern fence, mooing and jostling each other nervously. Rond was barking with all his might into the darkness to the north, stopping just long enough to glance up at the farmer when he stepped up beside the dog.

What do ya smell out there, hmm Rondy? Meilan asked, resting the shaft of his axe on one muscular shoulder. The dog’s only answer was more barking.

Squinting, his nightshirt already soaked through, the man tried to make out anything in the distance.

He heard them before he saw them.

Rond’s barking turned into a low throaty growl as a strange hooting echoed over the hills. The hooting was immediately repeated, the tone lower, and then repeated again.

Moments later Meilan and Rond got their first glimpse of the creatures that were making the sounds, and the man’s face became almost as pale as the bony plates that covered the monster’s bodies. Monsters that were rapidly leaping and scrambling in their direction.

Man and dog were quick to react.

Gripping the axe tighter in his hand Meilan spun and ran back to the house. He lost his footing on the rain soaked floor boards of the porch and literally crashed through the front door, Rond at his heels. Turning he slammed the door and secured it with an iron-banded cross beam.

Papa? came the questioning voice from behind him.

Wake your mother! Meilan shouted over his shoulder as he scrambled over to the shuttered window, making sure the bolts were in place. Gods, what are they? he whispered as the cow’s terrified bellows reached a sudden frantic crescendo before coming to an abrupt halt.

Meilan…what’s, what’s happening, came his wife’s tired voice. Are the wolves back?

Not wolves…not wolves, Meilan shuddered and moved over to where his wife stood, blanket wrapped around her narrow shoulders, little Brikin gripping her left leg.

Whatsamatter papa? Brikin asked, his eyes wide and afraid.

Just then the hooting started again and Meilan could make out what sounded like claws scraping along the porch. To the back door. Hurry! the man said, pushing his wife and child ahead of him.

They were just jerking the back door open when a loud crash came from the front of the house.

Go! Run! Meilan yelled, not glancing back as the three of them bolted into the night, Rond at their heels. Ten yards from the house the man hollered for his wife to keep running, Brikin now in her arms. Skidding to a halt, Meilan spun to confront their pursuers.

Nothing. No sign of the creatures he had seen by the corral.

Rain dripped from the brim of his hat as the man stared at the rear of the small house, the sour smell of fear filling his nostrils. Gritting his teeth and tightening his grip on the axe, Meilan tried to prepare himself for what was to come.

The eerie hooting preceded the creature as it stepped around the northeast corner of the house. The sound was immediately repeated by another of the tall, skeletal-looking creatures standing in the dark rectangle of the back door and once more from a creature crawling along the roof.

Meilan raised his axe, an axe that up until this point, had never been used for anything other than chopping wood. Fighting off the overwhelming surge of terror that hit him like a wall, he readied himself for the attack.

The farmer watched in horrified wonder as the three lanky monsters crouched, their long heads lowering between their rigid shoulder plates. An odd rattling sound now accompanied the hooting. Meilan recognized these creatures. He knew what they were. Berenti. He had seen them depicted in one of old man Mikle’s books. The old herbalist had insisted that the creatures in the book were real; that they still existed beyond Forsaken’s Gap. But Meilan hadn’t believed him. Even now he thought he might be having a really bad dream. If only.

A familiar growl came from beside him and Meilan looked down to find Rond crouched against his right leg, yellow fur bristling above his front shoulders.

Good boy, the man whispered and glanced behind him to make sure Kalli and Brikin hadn’t returned as well. There was no sign of them. Fifty feet away stood the well and thirty feet beyond that he could just make out the edge of the radish fields. Meilan had no idea where his wife and child had gone. He just prayed that they had kept running. Maybe they could make it to Harlyn DeVondey’s place before-

His thoughts were interrupted when a loud roar filled the night sky like thunder from a nightmare. The man turned back and watched in horrified wonder as an enormous plume of fire suddenly came down from the sky and engulfed the stables a hundred yards away.

Rond’s growls turned into a whine.

Almost as if in response to the roar, the Berenti perched on the roof leaped to the ground and bounded toward the farmer and his companion. The other two moved forward as well, but more cautiously.

Meilan pushed down the surge of fear that provoked the instinctive urge to flee. He readied himself, axe gripped tight in both hands, as the Berenti reached him in what seemed like a blink of an eye. The monster sprang forward, impossibly long arms outstretched, boney claws seeking the man’s flesh.

Meilan dropped to one knee as he brought his axe around, avoiding the attack, although a single claw still managed to rake him across his forehead. The blade of his axe struck the creature in the gut, normally been a crippling blow. The Berenti was sent flipping onto its back in a clattering crash, a warbling hoot coming from the holes on the back of its neck.

But it was far from dead.

Meilan had felt the blade turned aside by the bonelike plates covering the creature’s body. He had known he was outmatched from the start but this just made any flicker of hope vanish completely. The Berenti was already twisting onto its feet, a sinister hissing coming from those odd holes on the back of its neck. Suddenly a blur of growling yellow fur shot past the man and Rond was on the thing, forcing it once more onto its back.

The dog snapped and bit at the Berenti’s neck but the creature had its head held low and its armor allowed no purchase. Rond cried out in pain as the monster grabbed at him with both of its skeletal hands, claws digging deep. Meilan swung the axe, meaning to lop one of the creature’s arms in two much like he did when chopping up a branch for kindling. But once again the blade failed to penetrate and all he managed to do was knock one arm down to its side. The Berenti barely seemed to notice as it tossed Rond to the ground in a heap of bloody yellow fur. It began climbing back onto its feet.

Desperate, Meilan ducked low to avoid a swinging arm and swung the axe at the creature’s right leg. The blow landed and the Berenti stumbled as it momentarily lost its footing. Meilan spun the shaft of his axe around in his hand and swung as hard as he could at what he believed to be the side of the creature’s head. The blunt backside of the axe connected with a satisfying thwack and, as if a puppeteer had suddenly cut its strings, the creature collapsed to the ground in a motionless heap.

But there was no time to celebrate. No time to even catch his breath. The other two Berenti were still coming. The one to the right was closest. Crouched low to the ground, it was scrambling forward like some monstrous insect. But it was the one to Meilan’s left that drew his attention. That one didn’t seem to be coming for him at all.

Stepping to his left, Meilan waved his arm and called out, Hey! Here you devil! To me! But, the Berenti paid him no mind as it leaped past him, once again accompanied by that eerie hooting. And then the other one was on him.

Meilan turned and swung his axe but it was too late. One boney arm smacked the axe aside as the Berenti slammed into him. Meilan crashed to the ground, hat flying off, a pale nightmare pressing down on top of him. He cried out as he felt claws rip into his side. Twisting, he tried to free one of his arms but the creature had a viselike grip on his left wrist, and his right forearm was being pressed into the mud by one of the thing’s knees, or its leg, or…something.

Ignoring the pain as he continued to struggle beneath the monster’s crushing weight, Meilan craned his neck back to look behind him. He saw the other Berenti’s pale form in the distance. It had already reached the radish field.

No! Meilan shouted, twisting and jerking as he fought to free himself. Again he cried out in pain as the Berenti’s claws ripped into him, that sinister hiss escaping from the back of the creature’s neck. Finally, his efforts seemed to be paying off as he felt his right arm begin to slip free. But the Berenti must have felt it too as it suddenly lifted up and pressed down hard. Meilan felt the breath forced out of his lungs, his arm once again held immobile.

And then a growling Rond was there, the dog’s teeth clamping around the Berenti’s left arm and tugging it away from Meilan’s side. The creature jerked to the side with a warbling hiss, right arm lashing out but the dog held on. It was a momentary distraction but it allowed Meilan to catch his breath. That’s when he realized his right arm was free.

As Rond snarled and jerked at the Berenti’s boney appendage, Meilan used the opportunity to drag his mostly numb hand up to his chest and just as the Berenti finally managed to fling the dog away, he smashed his open hand up into the gap between the plates covering its head and neck. He felt flesh; wet and hot. He squeezed. The hiss coming from the back of the thing’s neck became a squealing whistle. The Berenti grabbed at the man’s arm but Meilan shook it off. Again it grabbed at him and this time it got hold of him and pulled.

The thing’s arms may have been as skinny as a skeleton’s but it was still surprisingly strong. Meilan groaned as he used all of his strength not to lose his grip on the mass of slippery flesh. He could feel something just beneath it. Something fragile. Something he could crush if given just a little more time. The Berenti began to thrash and suddenly released Meilan’s left wrist as it was forced to use its right hand to grab at him. He nearly lost his grip when the thing wrapped both of its hands around his arm. But, instead of using his now free hand to grapple with the creature, he instead slammed it up into the gap with his right hand. The Berenti’s thrashing momentarily relieved him of the press of its weight and with a quick bucking twist he suddenly found himself atop the creature.

Using all of his strength, the farmer squeezed the thing’s neck, pressing the back of its head down into a shallow mud puddle. Large muddy bubbles started to belch up from the holes on the back of the Berenti’s neck. The creature released Meilan’s arms as it began to viciously claw at his face, neck, sides, back, anywhere it could reach. Meilan clamped his eyes shut and pressed his chin to his chest as he felt his flesh being ripped apart. But, he also felt the Berenti weakening, its efforts quickly slowing to little more than slaps and scrapes.

Just a little longer, the farmer thought, arms trembling from exertion. And that’s when he heard it. From the darkness just beyond the radish field; a scream.

Meilan’s eyes popped open and his head snapped up. "Kalli! he gasped, and in an instant all the strength left him. Releasing his hold on the Berenti, he crawled forward, tried to get to his feet, failed. Kalli," he croaked, eyes blurring with tears as he continued to crawl on hands and knees, bloody nightshirt dragging in the mud beneath him as the rain pounded at his back.

The Berenti lay motionless behind him, long pale arms splayed out at its sides. But, the farmer was far from alone. He had crawled barely ten feet before a large, ebony-hoofed foot slammed down on his back.

Meilan clawed at the mud but made no attempt to fight off this new attacker. He simply had no more fight in him. He felt no pain, except that of his aching heart. He was vaguely aware of the sound of Rond growling nearby. Then, there came a loud yelp and he didn’t hear the dog any longer. A deep voice spoke from above him in a language the man had never heard before. It was answered by a similar voice nearby. And then the weight was lifted from his back.

Meilan rolled over with a groan. He didn’t even bother to look at the figures gathered around him. He just stared up at the night sky. It was almost entirely black, no stars to be seen. But, a break in the clouds allowed a large portion of the moon to shine through. He stared at it, not even reacting when a massive shadow passed in front of it on outstretched wings. Time to wake up, Meilan, he whispered to himself. Time to wake up and start your day.

A deep voice grumbled something nearby.

Time to wake up, Meilan whispered again as he watched the large, curved blade of an axe lift into the sky and momentarily block his view of the moon. But then it came down and he found his view suddenly shift and he was staring at what appeared to be the hooves of a herd of horses or maybe cows crowded close together. The clouds must have closed back up overhead as everything rapidly began to grow dim and he suddenly felt so sleepy. But he mustn’t allow himself to fall back to sleep. There was work to be done. But the pull of one’s final slumber could not be ignored and even as the farmer drifted away into the black, the Shadow March continued.

***

A single tired guard stood at the rear gate to the city of Laeth.

The night sky was clear and beautiful, the stars sparkling like diamonds on black velvet, the clouds that had hung around for most of the day tickling the peaks of the mountains to the east.

The guard noticed none of this. The night shift not being his regular duty he was finding it difficult to remain alert. Every time he blinked, it was a struggle just to raise his eyelids again. His head nodded up and down so often it looked as if he were listening to some unseen commander give him his daily orders.

As his chin once again dropped to his chest, his eyes closed for just a moment. His brief nap was haunted by a short, terrible nightmare before the deepest of slumbers overcame him.

The three Cliff Drakes looked up from their feast as the sounds of the approaching army reached them. Ripping a last bit of flesh from the corpse at their feet, the trio of lesser Dragons leapt into the air as the scarlet haired Giant stepped up to the now unmanned gate.

In the hours that followed, dreams became nightmares, nightmares became reality, and screams filled the streets of Laeth.

And the Shadow March continued.

***

Glancing over his shoulder for those he knew were pursuing him, Farvaro spurred the horse to go even faster though he knew the beast was already at its limits. If he could only reach the trees of the Silver Reed Forest, their black outline just discernable in the distance, he could surely lose them in the dark interior.

The belt at his waist was empty, his sword lying in one of the blood-soaked streets of Hereford. He had been lucky and he knew it. The cloud of smoke had momentarily obscured him from the monster’s sight.

Gods, a Minotaur!

He found it impossible to believe even though he had seen the thing with his own eyes. He had also seen a number of other creatures racing through the smoke, the memory causing a shiver to race up his spine.

Maybe I’ve gone mad; maybe none of this is really happening. It could all be a horrible dream, too much of Remmy’s special stew. I just need to wake up and I’ll find myself in my bed or passed out on the floor of the tavern with Maggie’s frowning face staring down at me.

But Farvaro wouldn’t wake up from this dream nor would he reach the forest in the distance. Instead, he found himself flying through the air as his horse was suddenly dragged, kicking and screeching, out from under him.

Sadly, the young man didn’t lose consciousness upon landing and so felt each of the spears that the wolf-headed Rocha repeatedly thrust into his body. He died quickly, though painfully.

As did the town of Hereford.

And the Shadow March continued.

***

The skies had remained clear for most of the day, allowing the farmers and field workers to make up for the rain-soaked day before. The shopkeepers had once again taken to selling their wares on the main thoroughfare, claiming theirs was unlike any seen before. Or, if someone claimed to have seen a similar item before, then the one they were offering would be of a much better quality. Needless to say, a sunny day was never wasted in the Northlands.

And so it was that the tavern at the Inn of the Snoring Giant was full this night. A night that arrived just in time to hide the dark clouds that had blown in from the Jurago Sea, bringing the rains that would muddy the ground by morning.

Lohren strolled through the crowded room squeezing his expansive bulk between tables as he made sure everyone was having a good night; discussing the flavor of the ale with some or the cut of the meat with others, all the while a smile shaping his chubby face.

Of all the people in Camby, Lohren was possibly the only one who was pleased when the rains came. For a steady downpour outside almost always resulted in the same, though in coin, on the inside. And though most were cursing the rains and hoping they would cease by sunrise, Lohren was hoping they would continue through the day. For it would mean a group of weary individuals would likely be trooping to the tavern the following night after doing double the work to make up for lost time.

The innkeeper never voiced his feelings aloud, of course. Instead, he lent a sympathetic ear to the people that came into his establishment, nodded at all the right times, and voiced his agreement whenever someone would curse and complain. It wasn’t that Lohren didn’t feel for those whose livelihood was being compromised by the wet weather. It was just that he had learned early on that in this world, one needed to look out for oneself.

It was as the innkeeper continued filtering through the room with his pleasantly chubby smile and sympathetic eyes that Kenton Releam, the silversmith from the edge of town, stumbled through the