***
In a small woodland, near an abandoned ogre mound, four halflings staggered out into the fading light of day. In a clenched fist, one of them held a peculiar insect. The fly, the size of a large beetle, was no more, crushed in the fist of the halfling. Opening his hand to examine what he had caught he found only blisters on his reddened palm. The halfling and his comrades thought nothing of it. They went back to the village to report that the dragon had left the mound.
The halfling rubbed his neck with his infected hand, breaking the blisters on his palm and thereby spreading the infection across his skin. Soon his neck was itching and sore. He shrugged off the discomfort, even as the hair on his neck began to fade and fall out. The coughing began, softly at first, but soon it became a painful hacking, tearing at his throat. The next morning he had a terrible thirst he could not quench and by nightfall he had drunk himself to death.
the fall of Meregith
The Dragon's Teeth rose from the earth piercing the skies with their fanged peaks, the highest points lost in the breath-like clouds. Dolomire reined in his horse and slid from the saddle, his skin pale and drawn. Fumbling with the straps of his saddlebags, he thrust his hand inside to pull out a battered portal ring. Every action ate away at the last reserves of his life. Had he not taken precautions, surrendering his soul and will to the One when the assault on Castle Thraw had first begun, he would have already succumbed to a living death. Dolomire dropped the portal on the ground where he stood. Thoughts of death swirled through his mind like footsteps muddying a mountain stream. His concentration was fading as the darkness gnawed at his will. A veil was falling over his mind, hazing his thoughts. He stared up the sky for revelation. He should have used the ring earlier. Despite the goblins and undead scourging Meregith, the risk would have been worth taking.
“The University.” Dolomire activated the portal, consuming the last of his mana.
Only Magnus was in the Great Hall when Dolomire arrived, retching as he stumbled through the shimmering gateway; the journey through the portal had not gone well. Magnus rose from his seat, and rushing to Dolomire's aid he lifted the stricken elder into one of the vacant seats.
Dolomire's eyes swam into focus, and a gentle smile broke on his troubled face.
"There is not much time," Dolomire murmured, his throat dry and hoarse. "Possessed by undead vapors," he slid from his chair.
Magnus ran from the chamber calling for his aides, even though he knew they did not possess the skills to help Dolomire.
There was a soft bleating as a Talloran ram bearing its owner appeared in the great hall.
"Arrborn, I'm so glad to see you. Your timing could not have been more fortuitous," Magnus cried, bustling to his side. "He arrived only moments ago."
"I noticed that his portal had been opened without being set properly. I'm gone for a short time and everything collapses." Arrborn stared at Dolomire as though he were looking right through him. "What is your name, spirit?"
Dolomire's head swung slowly upright, his eyes darting wildly about the room, spittle drooling from his mouth.
"Who wants to know?" The stench of Dolomire's breath was enough to fell a dragon.
"Leave this man," Arrborn said coolly, not relinquishing his gaze even to blink.
"I'll not leave until my master orders it, dwarf," the spirit hissed back at him, the veins in Dolomire's temples standing out in thick cords.
Dolomire's eyes rolled inward. "Leave me!" Dolomire screamed clawing at his own face.
"I'll leave when you are spent," the spirit growled back. Dolomire's eyes rolled back, red with blood.
Arrborn took a long, deep breath. "You will go now or face the One." Narrowing his eyes, he focused on Dolomire's face. In a brusque tone he commanded the spirit again, "Leave, now."
"The One cannot touch me, I belong to another," the spirit snarled.
"We'll soon see," Arrborn pushed his face against Dolomire's, "won't we?" With a cold edge to his voice, he continued, "Lord, I hand this creature to you for eternal torment."
Arrborn stood up and walked away.
"You'll pay for your insolence, you dark-skinned maggot!" the spirit raged, dragging itself free of Dolomire's body. "You'll be my next host."
A shaft of pure white light dropped from the ceiling, piercing the spirit through the middle of its skull and pinning it to the floor.
"You will not touch my children," the voice of a caring father resonated through the room.
Magnus fell prostrate to the floor trembling.
The light picked the skewered spirit from the floor and flicked it nonchalantly at the wall where an opening formed revealing a world of swirling flames over a sea of boiling sulphur, filled with all manner of screaming demons and tormented souls. A hot, scorching wind blew ash into the council chambers. Disembodied faces contorted with pain appeared at the opening, their mouths gaping in never-ending screams. The sound of heavy iron doors being drawn to a close with a grating clang silenced the scene. It was gone as swiftly as it had come; everything gone, the spirit, the light and the fires of hell.
"You can get up now," Arrborn said, calmly poking Magnus with his staff.
Magnus defiantly thrust the probing staff aside. Dolomire rubbed his face with his hands. Looking upward, he sighed and dropped them to into his lap. He blinked twice, looking about the chambers before settling his gaze upon the two men, utterly mystified.
"Is Magnus all right?" Dolomire asked. Climbing to his feet, he reached out his hand to Magnus who was still lying with his face pressed to the floor.
"I'm fine, and so, it seems, are you," Magnus replied, struggling to his feet as he dusted himself down.
"I have been sent by Barramon and Vargor to give you a full report on Castle Thraw." Dolomire's color returned to normal porcelain white.
"You'd best get on with it then. I am preparing the city's defenses for when the horde come. I would guess that we have some time before they can gather sufficient forces together to mount an attack on Belgor."
"My lord, we have to prepare for imminent invasion," Dolomire said coldly. "Castle Thraw was overrun in moments. The elders have all been converted to undead. Vargor's pet now guards the sea cavern in the Cove of Hope and the undead cover the cliffs like moss on a riverbank. The goblins are more capable of dark magic than we ever thought was possible; they opened a fire tunnel across The Reach allowing thousands of the horde to flood across. Mounted patrols guard the way to the castle and they hold all of the surrounding villages. Meregith is overrun. Many could not escape in time and are now slaves and playthings for our enemies. Those who still can are fleeing for their lives to Grimlaw. If it were not for Royd and his brawlers, all would have perished, I am sure.”
His audience looked shocked.
"However, they do not know about The Reach valley floor as they are convinced it is no more than briars and thorns. I do not think we have the resources to withstand them since the army is no more. All we have left is here: a handful of fighters and us few remaining mages. There is no way to muster all of the alliance together since the portals between us have all been closed. We must hold them here while you make good your flight to Grimlaw. You must save as many as you can in what little time still remains."
"That is preposterous! Castle Thraw fell because we were caught off guard. No amount of goblins or undead can thwart the Mage Guild here at the University. There are over a thousand of us in Mor alone. Within a short time, we can get three times their number. Goblins are no match for mages." Magnus was resolute. Grasping Dolomire by the arm he continued, "I'll not hear another word about running our tails out of Mor. We will not let this land fall into darkness again. How great would that darkness be, the second time around?" Magnus's chest rose and fell with his breath.
"In that case,” Dolomire wiped the spit from his face, “I have no other option than to leave the guild and take my family to where it is safe." He turned toward the door. "Release me, Magnus," he requested li
fting Magnus' hand from his arm. "My family means more to me than dying again. I have seen what they do to their captives. My soul is worth more than your pride. So long my old friend."
Dolomire removed his cloak and folded it, placing it gently on the table. He walked toward the door.
Magnus fumed, "You'll not be a part of this guild again, not here or anywhere in Alzear. There is no place for cowardice in leadership."
"By the next moon, I doubt there will be an Alzear." So saying, Dolomire walked from the room, closing the door softly behind him.
"He is right, Magnus. Mor cannot withstand the horde in such numbers. I have seen the mist of the shire testing the waters of the Tibus. Wolves roam the Hushed Bank in daylight and something wicked stirs the mists," Arrborn said adjusting Yakkob's reins.
"Don't tell me he has turned you into a coward too with his exaggerated talk?" Magnus rounded on Arrborn. "First you turn your back on us, leaving our people to die on the battlefield, and now this? We have the Divines on our side; nothing can stop us if they favor us."
"If?" Arrborn took a step toward Magnus, his face flushed with rage. "If? You mean you do not know! You spend hours, wailing and chanting, before the Divines and yet you come away no wiser for it! Are you leading these people by your own ideas? It is no wonder we are about to be overrun. This land has been given over to rules based on your own lust and convenience."
At this assault, Magnus stepped back.
"You have brought this upon the people by trusting in demigods and denizens of the darkness. It is no wonder that the blasphemous article has been raised in the temple of the One. You no longer care for the foundation of this land so long as you get your way." Arrborn stormed across to Yakkob and jumped onto his back. "So be it. Have it all. Your way."
Magnus stood alone in the great hall of the University of Elements listening to blood rushing in his ears. The Council of Twelve was no more. Magnus brushed the last of the ashes of hell from his robes with a carefree flick of his hand. The Elders of the Guild were all gone, but he could lead without them; only the strong were needed, and he was the strongest of them all. Now even Arrborn had disowned him, leaving him to follow his chosen path alone.
"Imbeciles," Magnus muttered to himself walking out of the main hall toward his private office. "I'll show them all. I'll gather all the mages together, and alone we will face this threat and drive it back screaming into the swamps from whence it came."
Magnus waved a hand toward his chamber. The door swung open before him. Striding inside he turned to face the map of his beloved Mor, where it hung in pride of place over the mantle.
"There is no way the horde could break through into Mor in sufficient numbers," he muttered to himself, waving his hands around as though he were addressing a meeting. "They would have to scale the Dragon's Teeth first and that will take weeks to accomplish; the undead are no climbers. The border guards would alert us the moment they saw their green hides coming over the mountains. The only other way is by sea through the port of Draymass," Magnus jabbed a finger at the map, "but its fortifications have seen off greater threats than Vargor’s massed forces. That blue-skinned ape lacks the ocean-going vessels to attempt a seaward invasion. I have all of time I need to prepare for war, of that I am in no doubt."
Magnus tugged thoughtfully at his beard and lifted an empty cup from the table. Looking into it, he sighed. "Be filled," he commanded, his hand trembling slightly. There was an uncomfortable pause before Magnus smiled at the full cup, and raising it to his lips he drank deeply from its contents.
driftwood
The spring tides were unusually high. Magnus succeeded in drawing in every available warrior and mage who had ever been listed in the annals of the University of Elements. He had outdone even his own best estimates as to the numbers of able bodies who were still willing to lay down their lives for the greater good of Alzear. Fortunately the goblins and the undead had been strangely quiet since the siege of Castle Thraw. In truth, most of Meregith had been silent. Save for a handful of trustworthy reports the land was all but closed to the outside world. Magnus assumed the worst; Meregith was now horde territory. Any remaining people had become slaves to their oppressors. The goblins had built their own towns and villages, finding human designs distasteful, whereas the undead were happy to live anywhere where there was life to torment.
Magnus stood on the battlements of the sea fort, one of six erected after the orc invasion, surveying the distant coastline. Draymass was ready. Belgor was ready. The eerie, unending silence jangled his nerves. Tensions were running high. Outside the land might well have been quiet, but inwardly everyone was on edge. Magnus was not used to being constrained to the fields of his homeland, but with all of the portals sealed, both in and out of Mor, he was going nowhere. The only way anyone could enter now was through the sea defenses or on foot, and his army was ready.
"Master Magnus?" murmured Illicia, the last druid to remain in Mor, despite the insistence of the high elves to return to Deep Delving and secure the home-world against invasion. "I'm getting unusual readings from the Tibus."
Magnus, sighing irritably, turned to face Illicia. "What is it now? What does the water have to say?"
"The waters are tainted by death," Illicia said, waiting for a response which was unusually slow in coming. "Such a thing has not happened in over four hundred years, my lord," she added.
"Well, what does it all mean, Illicia?" Magnus demanded roughly, looking beyond Illicia, out to sea, toward the coast of Meregith where Castle Thraw stood as a proud symbol of all Mage Guild represented. "I am not familiar with the ways of druids. The tides are high, what do you make of it, hmm?"
"My lord," Illicia coughed politely, doing her best to disguise her offence, but deceit was not something she was particularly adept at. "I do not understand..."
"No, quite. Perhaps that is the whole problem." Magnus sighed again, running his hand through his hair. "It is probable, is it not, that since the Tibus borders Drakeshire, it has so become tainted by the mists?" he rounded on Illicia. "Well, is it not?" he demanded, raising himself onto the balls of his feet.
"No my lord, it is not. The mists only affect that which breathes air; the Tibus draws no breath. The issues of the tide and the Tibus are one and the same. But as you quite obviously have no time for anyone other than yourself and your own beliefs, I will leave you as such. Good day!" Before Magnus could get another sound out of his mouth, Illicia had ported herself back to the sea wall.
"Druids!" Magnus tutted, watching the flotsam drift past the fort, thinking nothing more of it. Had he looked a little closer, he might have noticed the debris in the water was from one of the supply ships from the Cove of Hope. More was happening than he realized. He was looking in the wrong direction. He decided it was time to leave the sea fort and return to Belgor, but first he would check out the Tibus for himself.
Illicia had told him the druids would provide a barrier along the banks of the Tibus to contain the undead should they attempt to ford the river. All Magnus found was a dense growth of thorn bushes making the whole place look reminiscent of Gamran Thorn. All it needed now was a few trolls to complete the picture.
His attention was drawn by movement on the periphery of his vision. At first he thought it had been the debris he had seen earlier drifting up the river that had caught his eye, and then he saw it again. Veiled by the cloying mist, nothing more than shadows, ghosts in the fog. He knew what they were, but he would not acknowledge the truth. Arrborn had once again, been correct; the dead were rising. There was no way of finding out just how many were out there. One thing he now knew for sure, thought, was that it was too late to save Mor. He scanned along the Tibus, looking for signs of bridging where the undead might make their crossing. However, it was not the undead themselves he feared, but the armies of the living dead, those who had risen from the grave – the mindless zombies. Perhaps he had imagined it, but he was sure there had been driftwood. No, it must have been his mind. He
was tired, had been working too hard, worrying too much; a full night's sleep was in order. He turned at once, heading home to Belgor.