***
The University echoed with footsteps as Magnus made his way through the empty corridors. Here the young apprentice mages would gather, swapping stories of the day under the watchful eyes of their masters. Garrant was still there with Finlay, who had himself only recently returned from Draymass. The three of them sat around the enormous circular fireplace, the dominating feature of the ancient dining hall. The few remaining servants had prepared them a meal, setting out three places around the elders' table. Now only Magnus remained of the Council of Twelve, together with his war master Garrant and Finlay of the Fighters’ Guild. They alone were left to guide the forces into battle against the coming horde.
"Thank you my dear, that will be all for now. You may bring us a pitcher of ale in a while." Magnus waved the serving girl away with a friendly smile. A time would come when he would need all the friends he could muster.
"Gentlemen, I do not need to tell you how grave our situation is. We no longer have the support of the druids. Today the last of them returned to Deep Delving. I cannot say I blame her. If the horde discovered the entrance to the elves' kingdom, then it would not be long before it too would be reduced to rubble and ashes." Magnus tore the leg from his pheasant, sucking the meat from it before throwing the bone under the table for the hounds. "I have just come from the Tibus," he paused to swallow his mouthful, stifling a belch as he did so. "I saw with my own eyes that which Arrborn has been warning me about for many months, years even. There are indeed stirrings in the shire that are not right. The dead have risen and are now walking in the light of day. For all the good it will do us, the druids have raised up a defensive line of thorn bushes all along the banks of the Tibus." Magnus raised his eyebrows, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "It must be a quarter mile wide in places, but what good thorns will do against the undead I do not know."
"It is paramount that we have a contingency plan for the people." Pushing his plate to one side Finlay took up his tankard. "I would hate to see Mor fall like Meregith. It is said that in the Needles and at Stone the sound of picks and hammers can be heard night and day."
"I agree," Magnus wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "As much as I hate to admit it, I think our best hope lies in Grimlaw. We will need to make a defensive evacuation of the whole land."
"Do we have the time?" Garrant belched aloud. "We may well be caught defenseless. Will the people willingly get up and simply leave everything behind for the horde to possess?"
"I sought the Divines' guidance in this, but the heavens are as brass to me. No matter how hard I try, I cannot seem to break through to their throne room. I fear that despite all my efforts, my prayers fall on deaf ears," Magnus conceded.
"Why, with the horde closing in around us like this, would the Divines abandon us?" Finlay asked. "I have never heard of such a thing."
"Perhaps they have taken up with our enemies as they have done before," Garrant put his empty flagon back on the table with a heavy hand. "Was this not so in times of the great darkness? Did they not cavort with our oppressors then?"
"Indeed they did, my learned friend," Magnus said, "all except the One."
"Perhaps then, we should be seeking his wise counsel and not that of the Divines?" Finlay suggested, loosening his belt. "I have little faith in the Divines, having spent all of my life fighting against the horde. The only thing I have been able to trust in is my blade. Never has it failed to cut through my enemies and deliver them into my hands."
"The Divines are all that we have left. Mor is the last outpost for human kind. We will not be able to get to Luz and rally the aid of our cousins there, and as for Decapolis, well, by the time we completed the round trip, we would have fewer forces than when we had started. We have not the time to seek any further allies. Not only that, but searching for help in such a desperate time could lead us deeper into disaster by opening us up to opportunists." Magnus rose from his seat and went over to the fireplace. "No, our best hope is in salvaging what we can of the populace and perhaps striking back in the future. Maybe I've been a fool, lost in my own arrogance and pride. Perhaps I should have listened to Arrborn more often when he was telling me how things were going to be. To the best of my knowledge the prophecies of the Divines have never come to fruition." He watched the dancing flames of the fire as he spoke, seeing perhaps his own future amongst them.
"You cannot blame yourself for everything that has happened. H'rat..." Garrant stopped when he saw the tears rolling down Magnus' face. "Very well," he said softly, placing his hand on Magnus' shoulder. "We will do all we can to evacuate the people. We will send our fastest riders throughout the length and breadth of Mor. We will open every possible portal to speed the exodus. The sooner we begin, the fewer lives will be lost."
"My lord," Finlay stood by his other side, "it is often in the darkest moments that true courage of the heart is found. This is the hardest decision that any leader could make. It is better that we leave the land intact. That way, when we return, there will be the least change."
"Thank you for your support. This is no easy thing that we do. The Walk of Faith has been opened to us all. I suggest we learn to take the step of faith that we all need to do at some time and let others lead us into a new world. The Holy Order has been called to arms. It is said the promised one has been born and that this is all a part of the Great Prophecy. If that is so, then staying to fight will be the most futile thing we could do." Magnus spoke with a quiet resignation, his eyes wet with tears, his voice cracking.
"Now I must retire to my chambers. We shall meet again at first light and go our separate ways. Garrant, I want you to sweep along the northern towns whilst I take those along the central highway. Finlay, I want you to take the southern route. Get as many as you can through the portals. If people do not wish to leave, do not force them to go. Pray that the protection of the One be upon them, but leave them as they are. We have no idea how much or how little time we have in which to complete this. Go now and prepare yourselves. When the next morning comes, this whole place will be empty."
"At first light we will both be here waiting. Rest well, my lord, for tomorrow we ride for Alzear," Garrant said embracing Magnus.
"I think that tonight we should remain together," Finlay said. "I feel ill at ease on the inside. Something is not right within these walls."
"Very well," Magnus replied. "On this last night we will all retire to my chambers, for there are plenty of beds there and it is still guarded by loyal battlemages."
"It is good," Finlay nodded, taking the only sword and shield from the racks, which until recently were bristling with armor and weapons. "That way we can all watch over each other."
There are times in the lives of everyone when the hand of the One reaches out to inspire and protect. He has a way of making His plans known, and of bringing them to pass. He even has the audacity to announce His plans through His prophets so men may see He is there. Unlike the Divines, the One cares, He loves those whom He chooses and He showers blessings upon all those He calls, calling them each by name. This night He would show His care through His protection in as much as He stirs the heart of a warrior to feel concern for his fellow man. The One knows the heart, and He knows what it takes to make each heart listen. Magnus was vulnerable, his pride had taken a battering, and his mind was weary from the weight his many worries.
As they ascended the broad staircase leading up to the empty dormitories, the trepidation Finlay had felt earlier was growing with every step. Garrant, too, could feel something was amiss, but he could not put a name to it. With the absence of life, the halls of the University had quickly grown cold and stale. There was a darkness beyond the mere absence of light – a darkness that permeated the very essence of the life of the University, draining its soul.
At last they reached the chambers of the Archmage, with its ornately carved frame and heavy oak door. Above it were the words 'From a brilliant mind comes the power to rule', but something was wrong. Even Magnus could feel it n
ow. Backing away from the door he looked to Garrant whispering, "Do you sense anything, a presence?"
"Aye, I do, my lord, that I do." Garrant pulled his sword from its sheath and tightened his grasp around its handle.
Finlay turning to check behind them. "It is the Brotherhood," he said drawing his sword.
Magnus, drawing on his mana, asked of the darkness, "What do you want?". Silence was the only response. "Speak or die."
The three men all slipped on their Eye of Night rings and now saw their assailants for the first time. Extinguishing their torches they plunged the University into total darkness.
"I sense three beyond the door, two in the neighboring rooms plus these three in the corridor," Magnus said quietly. "We'll take the three in my quarters and draw the others through. Do not kill them, but make sure none of them escapes."
Magnus focused his mind on the three undead in his chamber. With a click of his fingers he froze them solid.
“Now Garrant,” he ordered. Carefully opening the door they stepped quietly into the room, sealing it with ice.
"Well these three are quite useless," Magnus said examining the frozen figures. A thick, pale blue, hoary frost covered their bodies, freezing their tattered skin and fusing their exposed bones together in icy knots. "The others are right outside the door now. Be ready."
Magnus coated the floorboards with ice on both sides of the doorway, topping it with a dusting of rime.
"Wait there." Garrant did as instructed.
Magnus closed his hand around the door handle, a gentle fire spreading from it melting the ice seal. With an ear pressed to the door he smiled at Garrant and Finlay mouthing, “Ready?”
Magnus yanked the door open, startling the Brotherhood who slipped on the ice as soon as they moved their feet. The three men tumbled into the room landing in a tangle of limbs and ill-fitting armor.
"We have a message for the Archmage," one of them said, feeling the prick of cold steel pressing against his neck. His hand edged toward the blade. Finlay, looking down at the undead assassin, shook his head and pressed the steel a little harder against his throat.
"I am the Archmage," Magnus declared, pulling the man to his feet with the merest gesture of his hand. The man hung there, his feet inches from the floor. "Do not even consider going for your weapons, I'll kill you before you can move." Grasping the man by the throat, he turned his neck into a block of ice. "Now what is your message?" Magnus asked. Withdrawing his hand le left the man staggering on his feet.
"We come to offer you a chance to surrender," the victim gasped, fingering the ice around his throat. "Our master has instructed us to bring you back in one piece."
"There will be no surrender. We do not bow down to evil," growled Magnus. Thrusting his hand forward he cast the hapless intruder against the wall, shattering his bones. "Does anyone have anything else to add? I was hoping for something more from Barramon than this."
"I thought the Brotherhood was connected to Barramon, but I was never sure," Finlay said, pulling another Brother to his feet. “Where are the other two?”
“They have gone,” a female assailant spat, “we are enough to bring you in to justice.”
"It would appear not,” Garrant laughed.
“Barramon is the Brotherhood," said Magnus gesturing Garrant to tie up the remaining assassins. "It all began centuries ago when Barramon was being groomed to head the Fighters' Guild in Drakeshire. He wanted so much more. Then the darkness took his heart and he began lusting after the Dark Mistress until one day, he learned how to cheat death," he sighed. "Then one thing led to another. Eventually he was driven out of Mor and went to ground in the shire. One day the mists began to fall over the shire taking every living soul beyond death. The Brotherhood is nothing more than a group of hired killers, living in the sewers beneath the city and preying on the living. I can only assume that is how they expanded their ranks. Now they are comprised of every type of criminal scum that you could imagine. Is that not so?" Magnus asked his prisoners.
"For what it matters. You can do nothing to us; we will rise again as the undead," the female spat vehemently.
"Is that so? If you think that I will bow to you just because you demand it, then your arrogance will cost you dearly," Magnus unhooked an axe from a wall display. Raising it above his head he brought it down across the neck of the assassin.
"How about now?" he stared at her coldly.
"You will pay for every life you take," she glowered back at him.
"Add it to my list." Magnus twisted the axe, splintering the floorboard in which it was embedded. He swung it up over his head. Pausing for a moment, he considered his next target, then, with a step, he brought the axe around in a smooth arc, right through the neck of the man tied to her. The girl screamed as the severed head landed in her lap.
"Curious," Magnus looked at the girl. "Afraid to die after all?"
"Everyone fears death for the first time," she said, quivering.
"Not so the undead," Garrant injected. "You are all supposed to be fearless."
"Kill them all," Magnus said. "They would let none of us live. This is not a time for mercy, and I'm too weary to waste any more time on my enemy."
Before the girl could object, her head was removed from her shoulders, and tossed on the fire with those of her brethren.
"Let us stay at the inn by the main gate. But first we must open the sluice and flush the sewers."
It was a night the Brotherhood would long remember as they were washed from beneath the city, along with the rest of the detritus of society who had sought refuge there.
Magnus slept soundly for most of the night. As the cock crowed the morning sun had barely stirred the mist on the meadow. Magnus and his loyal guard were already at the city gate.
"You both know what must be done. Get as many as possible through your portals. All of the portals must be linked to the Walk of Faith. The people must be aware of this; without the smallest seed of faith they will not be able to use the Walk. We have already seen how much our society has been corrupted by the freedoms allowed to it. I can only hope, in future times, lessons will be learned from this. Everything might be permissible, but not everything is beneficial. Now, ride like the wind. The future of Alzear depends on us."
"For Alzear!" the three men cried as one, their horses rearing up then lunging forward into the breaking morn.
For the first time in its long history, the gate of Belgor remained open. Its octagonal stoned streets were beginning to fill with sounds of life. Families were filtering out onto the streets drawn by the tolling of the town criers' bell as they rang out the news. "Alzear is under threat. The horde are coming in. Meregith has fallen. Get out whilst you can. Stay at your own peril. The last mage in the city has left the University of Elements."
Pushing a two-wheeled barrow laden with silver portal rings, beginning at the Archmage's' gate, he dropped a ring opening a window to the Walk of Faith with a caution of the Walk's requirements. To those who held no belief whatsoever in the One, the portal led straight into the unforgiving face of the Dark Iron Hills. To those who had belief, as tiny as a seed, the portal led to salvation in Grimlaw, directly through the body of the Dark Iron Mountains themselves. As the sunset over Belgor only a remnant of the population remained.
From Draymass on the coast, as far as Stedd where Dekor had grown up, Mor was all but deserted. Magnus visited village after village until at last, weary of mind, he found himself at the inn in Bethraim. Eliazer stood behind the bar of his tavern polishing the tankards for customers who would never come. Martha placed a plate of food on the table in front of Magnus, joining him with a horn of ale. Looking at the woman, he could not fail to notice how much her looks had faded these past twelve months since her only child had been sentenced to exile. It was clear from her red-rimmed eyes she spent most of her time in grief. The once jovial Eliazer was as somber as a mourner. The life of the tavern had been torn from it and thrown into hell. And for what
reason? The child had done no wrong, neither had either parent. However, the law decreed the spawn of an evil seed must be cast from the land to prevent its spread.
"Will you not be leaving?" Magnus asked, already knowing the answer.
"No," Martha sighed wearily, her voice as empty as her heart, "there is always the hope that she will one day find her way home." She stared blankly at the fading fire.
Magnus leaning forward spoke in kind whispers, "The horde will show you no mercy, you know this?"
Martha looked up at Magnus, her eyes laden with tears. "That makes them the same as us."
Magnus reached out to touch Martha but his hand closed on the space where she had been as Martha withdrew from his reach, her eyes devoid of life.
"As much as I value your kinship, you are the one who wrote the law." Martha rose from the table taking her ale with her. "You can take any room you wish, they are all ready. Good luck, Archmage. May you prosper in all that you put your hands to."
Martha returned to the kitchen where she spent the rest of the night weeping for her lost child.
Magnus finished his meal with disinterest. It seemed to him, just lately, all of the wrong decisions he had ever made were returning to haunt him. This was the hardest lesson he had ever learnt, seeing the consequences of the judgment placed upon an innocent child and how it had destroyed this community. Two of his lifelong friends no longer wished to spend time with him, seeing him as the source of all their woes. How he wished he could heal this heartache. If only somehow he could turn back time and erase the law. However, magic of such power did not exist. Magnus would have to learn to live with the consequences of his less than brilliant decisions.
There was always tomorrow. Perhaps the gods would bring Magnus the turn of fortune he so desperately needed to soothe his heartfelt pain? Experience, however, told him that in a time of need, you could not depend on the Divines. By nightfall on the morrow, he would be one day nearer to completing the exodus of Mor. How he wished he could stay and fight the horde, but it would be a futile gesture at best. No, it was better this way. Sometimes, admitting failure was the greatest victory anyone could ever have.
Meregith
"Think yourselves fortunate to be alive," Gestorn lashed the back of the nearest man with his flaming whip, cackling at every scream. "These rocks won't move themselves."
The heavy cart squelched through the mud, cutting deep furrows in the wet earth as it labored toward the new village of Eastole, the hub of the goblin mining works at the southeastern corner of the Dragon’s Teeth in Meregith. The enslaved humans, their hair matted with a thick mixture of clay and dung, their bodies bruised and exhausted from the hard labor at the hand of their goblin master, kept their heads low as they pulled the cart through the driving rain.
Gestorn stood with his hands on his hips surveying the scene before him. His tunnel was close to breaking through to Mor. His legions of soldiers stood in readiness for the final push, their dull steel armor a rough assembly of sharp edges and ragged joints rubbing their skin raw. Humans acted as mules carrying heavy burdens until they collapsed in the dirt where they were left until they either found the strength to drag themselves to safety or were crushed beneath the wheels of the next wagon.
All human prosperity had been wiped away with a calloused hand. Goblin towns were springing up wherever there was woodland and water. Skitterlings ran through the marshlands finding themselves a match for the lagartos. Undead patrolled the cities and towns enforcing law and order while the goblins dug their way through the mountains.
Gestorn had followed his master’s instruction, taking some of the stronger cave goblins he had grown his own workforce on the giba forests of Meregith and set them to work doing what they did best: mining. By the end of the second month, all three tunnels were nearing completion.
By day, the land was patrolled by the goblins riding their skitterlings, running to and fro throughout the land, carrying messages and supplies, keeping themselves busy. At night, the undead would arise and stalk the land. Meregith was no longer a green and pleasant land. Its rolling meadows were torn open, its heart gouged out as the goblins terraformed it into a paradise of their own design. Over at the Great Wall, bridges were under construction into Gamran Thorn. Vargor and Barramon would not rest until all of Alzear bowed before them.
Deep in the northern forest of Yule lay a small mound in the earth, easily overlooked beneath the tangled roots of an oak tree. The goblins, under the instruction of the undead, had felled the tree as they believed it to be sacred to the elves. Beneath the oak, they found spiral stairs carved out of granite. The steps were ancient and broken, fractured by the twisting roots of the old oak. But the stairs led nowhere, ending abruptly at a solid block of stone. Barramon was convinced it was a door. His only question was how to open it as there were no apparent locks.
"You sent for me?" Jourell appeared in the clearing, his presence causing a stir among the goblins.
"You were here when the elves ruled this land. Do you know what this is?" Barramon pointed to the stone stairwell.
Jourell stared into it, neither moving nor speaking. Finally he took a step forward, gently placing his foot on top step. Slowly, almost reverently, he descended the nine large steps, running his fingers all over the walls on either side. "I can feel them," he said in a hoarse whisper. "Long gone,… yes." He placed his ear against the stone door. "But their life force remains." He stepped back raising his hands high into the air. "Jumtak throg nar." The watcher opened; a tiny eye, looking into the realm beyond the stone door.
"What are you hoping to see?" Barramon asked as he set his foot on the first step. When the ground beneath trembled, he withdrew his foot quickly. "What is it?"
"See." Jourell pointed to the watcher. "It lives."
The watcher flashed white then faded to a dark image of a long corridor lit by pale green stones embedded along the walls in place of torches. The path wound slowly downward, descending to a spherical cavern where it formed a spiral, disappearing into an impossible darkness.
"What is this place?" Barramon asked, staring intently at the watcher.
"I do not know for sure, but it is most certainly…" Jourell ran his hand over the stone door, "… elven." He looked around at Barramon. "Entrance to their city," he breathed, returning his gaze to the watcher.
"How do we open it?" The earth trembled again as Barramon stepped onto the staircase. "Why does it do this?"
"Your blood must be tied to the stone," Vargor announced, brushing the goblins aside. "The ancient elves' magic is blood-tied. This entrance can only be opened by a blood descendent of an inhabitant. The elves must still be alive, and it looks as though humans went with them."
"So, how do I open it?"
"According to ritual, you will need blood." Vargor held out the vampiric blade.
"We shall see." Barramon drew the blade across his palm as he descended the stairs before pressing his hand against the cold stone door. The trembling ceased abruptly. Barramon attempted to withdraw his hand, but discovered that he had become fused with the stone. He pulled harder, but to no avail. A loud rushing wind could be heard throughout the Yule as the stairwell began to creak and groan. Slowly the well rose from the ground until it was a smooth, flat circle with a door standing wide open at its center. Barramon's hand slipped down to his side. For a moment, there was silence. Then, suddenly, thousands upon thousands of spirits burst from the doorway swirling wildly, in an angry blizzard, around the goblins and the undead. As suddenly as it began, it ceased. All of the cloned goblins had vanished leaving only those who were a part of the covenant between the undead and Vargor.
"I guess that means we're safe to enter." Barramon stepped through the doorway.
"Barramon," Vargor called out, "I will leave you to explore the ruins. We must proceed with the conquest of Mor before that buffoon Magnus comes to his senses.”
"Very well," Barramon emerged from the doorway. "Get a detachment of our m
en up here to secure this place and have them explore it thoroughly," he ordered. "Vargor, do you have any spare troops?"
"Gestorn, summon Belfor and have his men set up their camp here." Vargor called Tharon to his side. "In a few more days we can explore at our leisure – when we are the kings of Alzear," he smiled, leaping onto Tharon's back. "I will go and check on the progress of the digging. We can be no more than three days away from victory."
"Three days." Barramon stepped aside as Tharon swung his head toward him. "What have I ever done to you?" he grunted at the belkin.
"They don't like the undead much. Peculiar." Vargor raised Tharon into the air. "I'll see you at the Needles."
"You look troubled?" Barramon standing with his hand on Jourell's shoulder, looked into the orc's eyes.
"I have a vision, a warning."
"This place?"
"No, a child." Jourell put his arm around Barramon's shoulders as they walked over to their horses. "I see a child surrounded by red shields. In its eyes, I see the gods staring back at me."
"What does it mean?" Barramon pulled himself up onto his night-mare, its tattered skin drawn tight across its bones. "I am not one for riddles and religion; a child is no threat to me." He urged his horse forward into a trot.
"This is no ordinary child. In my land, among my people, there is a legend of a child-warrior that rises up to unite a nation against us. It has a power greater than all the Divines together and strength beyond a Dandril."
"And you think this is the child?" Barramon thought for a moment. "Then all we have to do is kill every human born child."
"The child is not among humans, though it is human. It is somewhere where it cannot be reached."
"Mountains?" offered Barramon. "The worst place for us. We will have to work on this after the conquest. Perhaps Vargor can provide us some goblins."
"That is good, the goblins will be ideal. I could lead them myself," Jourell pushed his destrier into a full gallop. "The sooner we get to the Needles, the sooner we can begin the hunt."
the end of mor
Before the mists had cleared on the dawn of a new day, the end had already come for Mor. Thousands of screaming goblins surged through the tunnels beneath the Dragon's Teeth. At the village of Eastole, Gestorn climbed onto the back of his skitterling and led his troops through the mountains into Mor.
The caravan of stragglers, those who could not bear to leave their worldly wealth behind, wound its way past Stone up toward the Walk of Faith as the Dragon’s Teeth shattered. The jaw of the beast erupted, a putrid abscess spewing its rot upon the land of Mor. A sea of green flesh poured over the caravan, making sport of human lives and plundering their possessions. The air rang with the screams of the dying; those who showed resistance were slaughtered. Some, however, were left alive. Those who could serve the purposes of the horde became their playthings and slaves. Some ran, others tried, but nothing could outpace the incoming tide. The detritus of lost lives littered the roadways as the horde swept through Mor. The caravan was burned to ash, Stone was ransacked and the bodies of the dead were stripped naked and left for the crows.
The horde swept across Mor at a ferocious pace driven by the lust of conquest. The scourge swept across Mor, tearing down homesteads and woodlands in order to build up their defenses. Nothing was going to escape their grasp. Vargor sped down the face of the Dragon's Teeth as the last barrier was torn down, casting fireballs at the farmhouses and cattle alike. As waters breaching a dyke, the goblin forces flooded over Mor raining destruction across the fertile farmlands.
One last tunnel remained. Driving his men into furious haste, Gestorn burst from the mountains in a ball of flame, destroying the futile allied defenses in a heated moment. Their goal was to reach Belgor and defile its soul. The goblins raced forward, their voices a cacophony of laughter and bloodlust. Barramon led the final surge through the Needles sweeping down the western seaboard in a flesh-hungry plague.
Draymass, the fortified port, lay waiting for its fate to come. A scant detachment of warriors and mages remained in defense of their country, though they kept the portal open to Grimlaw in readiness for retreat. From beneath the calm surface of the turning tide, the tip of a ship's main mast rose from the ocean, slicing through the shimmering surface like finely honed shears cutting silk. Steadily climbing toward the clear morning sky, its beams draped with the ocean's foliage, its hull an eerie lantern glowing an eldritch green. Magic pulsed throughout the ship. Other masts appeared on either side as the three supply ships rose from the depths. From the ocean forts of Draymass, the ram's horn sounded. Silently the empty vessels passed them by, gathering speed toward the massive wooden doors which no invader had ever breached. The guards could only watch in terror as the ships sped ever closer, the sea foaming at their prow. Beneath the ocean the legions of the undead gathered in numbers, their footsteps swirling in the soft silt of the estuary basin.
The first vessel ploughed into the giant oak doors with a deafening crash, its newly armored prow parting the doors wide enough for the undead to enter. As the guards stood watching, the second and third vessels careened harmlessly into the walls of Draymass.
“Run for your lives, the undead are upon us,” an old mage cried aloud, racing for the portal and assured safety.
All around the sheltered harbor the undead were emerging, clambering up ladders and clattering up the stone steps, in numbers beyond counting. Soldiers ran to the portal, urging the mages through. Just a few scant minutes after it the siege had begun the harbor fortress had fallen into horde hands. Seeing all hope was lost hope, the guards, with their hearts in their hands, leapt through the portal to the safety of the Walk of Faith A few steps behind them the undead were storming across the walls. The first of their men to reach the portal stopped, staring in bewilderment at the solid rock before them.
All along the Tibus, roughly bound timbers were rising up from the water to make crude rope bridges into Mor. Along the silent banks of the river, the mists began to move as the stumbling, shuffling feet of the living dead staggered forward. The countless, mindless zombie masses began lumbering across the makeshift bridges toward the land of Mor. Illicia's thorns bristled, budding with a shudder. Huge buds creaked against one another, smothering the bushes in a mass of green buboes. The zombies shambled mindlessly onward their sole purpose to seek out the living. The buboes split open, revealing broad white flowers, with thick, dark lines running from their centers to the outer edge. The flowers darkened, their life cycle passing in seconds, drying into rigid, razor-edged blades, launching themselves at the approaching dead.
Heads rolled and limbs fell twitching to the earth. Wave after wave of flowers blossomed and died. The bodies of the dead began to pile up forming a second barrier denying the zombie masses entry into Mor. The remainder halted, muttering their discontent in muted groans. Their feast would have to wait for another day.
By nightfall, Mor had fallen into the clutches of the horde. No town or village escaped the invasion. Those few human souls still remaining in Mor were quickly enslaved. In Bethraim, Eliazer and Martha waited in the fatalistic silence for their turn to come.
One fine spring day a new era began in Mor. Vargor stood at the top of the tower of the University of Elements, surveying his new kingdom. By his side his faithful aide, the goblin Gestorn, who had successfully routed all opposition from the eastern counties of Mor. They looked down into the city where the last portals stood showing nothing but a shimmering wall of solid rock. Of the goblins and the undead who had strayed through the open portals, none had returned. Their bodies were now a part of the Dark Iron Hills keeping Grimlaw and its refugees safe from the invading horde.
On the southern boundary of Mor, Barramon and Jourell scanned the thorn barrier.
"Why do they not cross over?" Jourell asked.
"They fear the thorns and cannot pass them." In frustration Barramon swung his sword into the bushes, discovering for himself the reason for the zombies' hesita
nce. The bushes crackled and snapped, budding instantly and spitting their razor-edged blooms at Barramon. One blade pierced his throat and lodged in his spine. Barramon staggered backward, clasping his throat with both hands watching, horrified, as the bushes drew his sword into their depths.
"Get me out of here, Jourell. There was a large house back up the way. I can regenerate there." Jourell, lifting Barramon gently in his arms, carried him carefully back to the farmstead.
The house was not too far, standing in a wide clearing with a broken barn to the rear and a good supply of logs stacked neatly down one side. Pushing the door open with his foot Jourell entered the house. Settling Barramon into a chair he lit a fire. Barramon looked around the room, taking in every detail of the unusual decor. Jourell, too, was fascinated by some of the larger aDornments. All along one wall, little red shields the size of a man's palm had been forged together forming a dado bedecked with many pieces of highly crafted armor, all of them the color of dried blood. Jourell, taking one of the pieces of armor, a pauldron, marveled at its lightness. Tossing the pauldron onto the floor he drew his sword and struck it with all his might.
"Incredible, there is not a mark."
Pulling his mace from his belt he struck the pauldron again and again, but the result was the same. Tearing off his armor Jourell threw it carelessly into a corner and went in search of something new.
"It looks like dragon scale," Barramon observed, having recovered sufficiently to stand. Adding breathlessly, "Dandril," he took a pair of gauntlets from the wall. "Fine craftsmanship, not like any I've seen in centuries."
Barramon pushed past Jourell, examining everything he saw, going from room to room in an almost frenzied blur.
"What is it?" Jourell growled. "What can you sense?" He grasped Barramon as he tried to push past him again.
"I know this place. I have seen it in my youth." He looked around the room, noting a dusty black tome tucked into a corner. Grabbing the book he opened it, staring wildly at the well-thumbed pages. "That is why I healed so quickly. This was the home of Arrborn, the holy priest. The presence of his god still remains in this place." He looked at the gauntlets on his hands then at the armor Jourell had taken. "The dragon lived."
"What dragon?" Jourell asked, tracing the patterns in the armor with his fingertip.
"The pup," Barramon exclaimed. "The priest must have found it. It still lives. We can find it, and add it to the female in Blade’s Rock. The extra blood supply will enable us to expand our ranks further." He gestured toward the goblin soldiers with a wink.
"The female is a fireborn, but these are not fireborn scales," Jourell tapped the armor. "The pup is a crossbreed, part Dandril and part fireborn."
The two men looked at each other, laughing ominously.
"Even better. The life of a fireborn and the strength of a Dandril. We will be as gods amongst men," Barramon beamed. "This has been a most fortuitous day."
"Indeed it has," Jourell nodded as they left the farmhouse, gently tucking something bulky under his armor. "Strange how they rebuilt the house but not the barn." Jourell pointed to some dilapidated remains. “This has been this way for centuries, some of it has been eaten.” He ran his hand along a jagged timber.
"You've been through here before?" Barramon kicked at the floor.
"When my people first came here my ship landed where now Draymass stands. We came this way." Jourell waved his arms languidly about him. "Not a memory that I care for. They should have torched everything as they retreated. Scorched earth was the orc way of leaving what they could not have."
"This stone looks too worn to have made by a thresher." Kneeling in the shallow basin, Barramon ran his fingers along some of the deeper grooves.
"The pup's nest!" Jourell watched Barramon as he sifted through the ancient ruin. "Left because it was no longer needed. The priests did not harvest or need barns. They were fed by the offerings of the faithful."
to the victor…
“Let the victory feast begin,” Vargor announced to the cheering crowd, throwing his arms wide with a flourish of flames.
Goblins leapt at the trenchers of food, knocking each other aside in their rush to be first at the spoils. Barramon sat at the opposite end laughing at the little green-skinned creatures bickering over every possible thing. The great hall of the University of Elements had seen many changes of leadership, but never a warlock and an undead. Ale flowed freely from barrel to flagon as the company sank steadily down a decadent slide to drunken debauchery. The remnant of the human population had been gathered to serve as slaves for the riotous elite of their horde masters. The acts they were subjected to should never be done to any living soul, but the undead had no cares for the living – none at all.
"All this drunken revelry." Vargor drifted quietly around the edge of the room watching the undead subject their captives to more pointless suffering. "They won nothing," he muttered through tight lips. "Cowards, all humans are the same: cowards. Running at the first sign of a fight. I'll hunt them all and scourge every last one of their stinking hides myself." Tossing his half-drunk wine into the face of a girl forced to dance naked on the table, Vargor grabbed her by her hair and dragged her down the corridor to Magnus' old office where her screams continued long into the small hours of the morning.
"I no longer have the lust for this," Jourell yawned, revealing his wicked fangs to a group of goblins who fled at the sight. Then he too snatched a young girl from the table, throwing her effortlessly over his shoulder.
"Scream all you want I'll not hurt you. I am not like them." Jourell thumbed toward the braying horde. "Perhaps in my youth I would have joined in, but now… now this revelry does nothing but tire me."
Winding his way through the corridors his thoughts drifted back to the days when his people had been driven from Mor. When he had first set foot upon these lands, even then, in his youth, he was not to be found among the revelers as they consumed the flesh of the vanquished. Neither was he one to gather scalps as trophies. Jourell was drawn to the spirits as were all his caste. His life was guided by the unseen ones. As a seer, he could see futures yet to come, and it was by these things Jourell navigated his course through life. He understood prophecy and its purpose. He could discern between the spirits and reveal the intent behind the words of those who claimed to come in the name of their god. His people did not follow the Divines, though they did not deny their existence. They had gods of their own to foretell the ways of the world. It was the false prophets who had convinced the Emperor to invade Alzear. It was these same prophets who had not foreseen the elves. And it was the same prophets who deceived the Emperor into ignoring the seers, and the high caste.
It had been Jourell's family who had warned the Emperor about the silent ones that dwelt among the trees and about the little people that heralded from the mountains. The prophets had laughed at their warnings, mocked the high caste and had them driven out of the palace. These same prophets who went on to control a puppet Emperor, who was of no use to anyone. It was because of this Jourell had remained behind, knowing all along that the Empire would soon collapse into the shadows of unrighteousness and chaos would reign in its absence.