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The coming of night to the Southern Lands should have heralded the new day in the northern hemisphere, yet the glow of dawn eluded the skies that morning. As long minutes of waiting stretched into even longer hours, the people’s minds filled with a sick dread as the horizon remained stubbornly dark. It wasn’t until mid-morning that their fears that some terrible fate had befallen their sun were suddenly realized. When Pallos finally lifted its head, it was as if the sun itself was ashamed of what it had become. No brightly glowing orb greeted the people that day, but a sullen, jaundiced disk of sickly hue that hung in the sky casting malevolent, ill-defined shadows over lands that cried out for the warmth it could no longer give.
As the ocherous light touched the ground below, the people of Falgorin turned away shunning the sun’s pallid face, no longer welcoming but fearing it. Not a single cloud graced the skies to mask the awful sight, and as the day progressed so the fear deepened, fuelled by the lack of explanation for what had occurred. By the late afternoon, many were foretelling the end of the world, a prophecy to be much seized upon once the curtain rose on the day’s final act. As Pallos sank towards the horizon, the world breathed more easily, welcoming the growing dusk in anticipation of Meerah’s return, yet the relief was premature.
Long before Pallos deserted the sky to the west, a new and terrifying sight greeted eager observers, as a tiny paring of deepest indigo appeared above the horizon in the east. With their hearts filled with fresh horror, they saw that the width of the still small crescent had already grown too great for it to be the expected moon, denying them even that moment of illusory comfort. Never in the history of the world had such a thing occurred, and the panic it created was immense, as folk fled the streets and fields in their thousands, desperate to hide themselves from the hideous sight.
Whilst the people of the north responded to the awesome changes of their dawn, events no less dramatic were taking place in the southern hemisphere. Here there was a more subdued initial reaction, simply because most people slept in ignorance of the change. As the sun’s new companion rose in the north so too did Meerah’s in the south; of identical size yet of the palest blue, it would be several hours before the sleeping people awoke to its presence.
Sadly the inhabitants of Falgorin had seen no value in examining the skies above their planet; even their navigational instruments were only crude sextants and their telescopes never developed beyond the earliest designs seen on earth, with their inverted images. Consequently, they had no appreciation of astronomy, no comprehension of stars and planets, and therefore lacked the knowledge that might have explained at least part of their present predicament. Unfortunately, the one person on their world who might have relieved their fears was no longer to be found.
True, that knowledge and understanding of such things as planetary eclipse might have spared them some of their worst worries; it would not have explained how the two worlds came to be where they were. From their ignorance was bred fear, yet in reaching their conclusions, they came closer to the truth than they could possibly have imagined. Their minds rapidly filled with untold thoughts of death and destruction, certain that it was the work of Shegrimoth.
For some of frail mind, the sight of the two suns was enough to destroy their sanity, leaving them to stare blankly skywards as they whimpered uncontrollably like frightened infants. Others became obsessed by thoughts of demonic possession and embarked on orgies of bloody slaughter, desperately hacking to pieces both adults and children alike, in a crazed bid to free them from whatever evil they imagined now threatened them.
That night and day brought change to all the creatures and lands of Falgorin. In Caregoron, the war with the forces of darkness took a new turn, which despite the arrival of the first reinforcements from Antalek, now seemed doomed to failure. With hundreds of their number fleeing in frenzy from the heavenly display, the defenders that remained were once more being slaughtered as they came under renewed attack from magical powers. Even as Randufil and Toldran rallied their men, legions of the Phyrith’s walking dead again supplemented the forces of Shegrimoth.
Ships at sea, transporting troops from Antalek, suddenly found themselves in the teeth of a fierce storm, no more than the result of the massive magnetic forces suddenly being exerted on the globe, but they knew nothing of such matters. The huge waves drove many of the ships onto the shore, pounding them to matchwood on the rocky coastline, whilst a few beat out to sea to ride out the storm. Reaching deeper water provided no escape for the unfortunate mariners, whose craft were soon attacked by monstrous creatures of the deep; stirred by the currents and driven to the surface, they crushed the vessels like fragile toys.
Corindell fared no better as the population of the city saw the two suns rise late in the sky. Here the problems worsened, when fighting suddenly broke out between traders in the market place, forcing Antor to send in what troops he had to quell the disturbance, which resulted in hundreds dying whilst many more were injured.
Only the cities and towns of Jelvoa greeted the dawn without the violence and despair it evoked elsewhere; its people extraordinarily resigned. Of all the inhabitants of the world, only the Jelvoans had some prior knowledge from which to draw comfort, although it was little enough. For centuries their legends, passed down from one generation to the next, foretold the arrival of a second sun, the precursor to the end of the world. Discarding all of their warrior traits, the Jelvoans flocked in their thousands to their places of worship, seeking comfort from the words of the spiritual leaders as they awaited the death they were certain would soon descend upon them all.
The effects the dawn had were many and varied across the lands, yet everywhere there was unrest and disquiet, as even the oldest of friends suddenly found fault with one another. Old enmities, long buried, suddenly surfaced to be honed and polished until they gleamed in the minds of their keepers, grasped like weapons ready for use the moment opportunity presented itself. Nowhere seemed free of these emotions, as petty squabbles boiled over to become pitched battles of words and finally swords.
By evening time, it was as if all that was good had suddenly deserted Falgorin, to be replaced by a seething cauldron of sickness and evil that spilled across the globe, affecting all in its path. As Meerah and Pallos finally dropped below their respective horizons, the skies’ new inhabitants continued their interminably slow progress, their presence certain for days to come.
Only two beings shared a complete lack of concern at what was taking place on the face of Falgorin, each separate from the other, yet the two inextricably bound together. One, the architect of the changes wrought upon Pallos, whose knowledge embraced the twin planets, revelled in the chaos their presence created, whilst the other no longer cared about events outside its own tortured mind.
Meanwhile, deep in Castle Randufil, the sorcerer Ichabod felt a chill seeping into his old bones, reminding him of his own mortality. Dragging his hooded cloak tighter to his body, he shivered as he continued to search his books for an explanation for the events of the day. Whatever knowledge he might lack, of one thing he was certain, some terrible fate had befallen the young man Adam Goodchild, and with his failure had come the second Awakening.
Although much disturbed by the sight of the two planets in the sky, Ichabod was a man of learning, and for the present felt no fear, since they appeared to pose no threat. He had studied the second object for many hours, observing that although it was imperceptibly slow, it moved in the same way that Pallos and Meerah did, concluding that perhaps it was a natural phenomenon that need not signify an end to the world as he knew it.
He was in no doubt that Shegrimoth’s hand played at least some part in the events, yet his books gave little of value regarding the first Awakening. His greatest worry was for his friends Adam and Quilvar, and for King Randufil and his new ally King Toldran, who both fought to save the city. He had visited its walls to see for himself the damage being inflicted by the renewed efforts of Shegrimoth’s magicians, and although he had managed to deflect the fireballs by his own magic, he knew it was a hopeless task for one man to undertake. He wished that Adam and Vorcan were back in Meriandor, so that he could again destroy the enemies’ mages, yet it was a vain hope.
Deep in his cave beneath Mount Kaldshard, the mighty dragon Vorcan heard Ichabod’s silent wish, yet he was powerless to help the magician. Aware of what was happening beyond the rocky crags of his home, Vorcan could only wait and hope to hear the call of the one person to whom he would respond, yet he too had sensed a change.
Although he knew nothing of what had happened to Adam and his elf companion, the dragon shared an empathy with his master, which at the time of Adam’s fall from the path of light, had suddenly snapped like a piece of string, causing Vorcan to sigh mightily at the loss he suddenly felt. He could no longer be sure that Adam would summon him for them to ride the skies again. Such thoughts saddened him, as did his concern that he would not now win his right to return to his own world to be amongst others of his kind.
Far away across the other side of the world, Shegrimoth’s preparations had finally reached the point where he was ready to take control of the hordes assembled in his name. With his power now fully developed, he found the island of Laanis too small and constricting, and sought fresh targets for his vengeful acts. Across the water lay Gholthos, his first major conquest of this his second awakening, and already he could feel its evil force fill him with its energies.
He missed having his servant, the Ghyyrox, at his side but was too devoid of emotion to feel the loss too keenly. His captives, the puny creatures taken from the Great Marish Swamp, still languished deep in the dungeons of his castle, although he cared little whether they now lived, having not bothered to provide them with sustenance since they had been brought to the island.
Only one thing bothered the demon lord; the being they called Adam, Master of the Manifex, since he could no longer sense its presence. Ever since that day, when he had faced the creature as it stood atop the walls of the city and been struck by its fire that had burned deep into his flesh, had he kept watch on its movements. He had no need of spies to inform him where it travelled since he could tell from its scent, its glowing brightness, just where it walked, yet now it had disappeared.
Barely two days past, he had felt its coming across the lands of Gholthos, sensed its disquiet as it saw the results of the efforts of his legions of the night, then nothing. The Dark One no longer feared the Manifex or its guardian, since his own power now surpassed that of the crystal, yet it felt in some way cheated by the creature’s disappearance, as if robbed of the chance to destroy it.
Such thoughts were but idle twinklings in the maelstrom of lightning flashes that filled Shegrimoth’s evil mind as he plotted his future. This time he could not fail as he had previously, since the mortals of the land had no champion able to bind him with magical powers, nor would he permit his hated alter ego, Beorhtán to subjugate him a second time.
The time was right, yet he must move swiftly if he was to succeed with his plans, to reach his ultimate goal far beyond the boundaries of Falgorin. As day turned to night in the northern hemisphere, so night continued to rule in the south. Taking advantage of their simultaneous eclipse by the new planets, Shegrimoth’s immense power had halted the passage of the sun and moon, hiding them from view. Only the surreal glow cast by the intruders lit the face of the world, their blue light forming dark, unmoving shadows as they hung seemingly without motion in the sky.
Gathering his forces, the Dark One left his island fortress and set off for Gholthos. His army being unfettered by mortal constraints, passed across the water separating Laanis from the mainland, as if it were a continuation of the land. Once on the shores of Gholthos, his troops grew stronger as they drew on the corruption and evil that dwelt in the land, its energy their food and drink. Relentlessly on, the demonic army marched, with Shegrimoth at its head, riding astride a massive four-legged beast, its tusked head and armoured flanks like that of some prehistoric monster.
With diabolic senses tuned to recognize even the smallest sign of light or goodness, Shegrimoth searched ahead until he saw in the distance the place where Quilvar had fallen and Adam disappeared. Turning his mount, he rode towards it eager to see if any clue remained that might tell him what had happened to the Guardian. As he approached, he saw the body of the elf lying where Adam had left it, and close by a golden sword. Dismounting, he strode across, bending down to seize it by the hilt, but before he could grasp it, a bolt of light leaped from the blade, knocking him from his feet and burning the flesh of his outstretched arm.
Enraged beyond reason by the injury, he cast around for something on which to vent his anger, his gaze alighting on the body of the elf. At first his instinct was to destroy the corpse, but knowing it to be already dead, saw little satisfaction in such an action. As he stood there his anger spilling over, he suddenly knew what he must do. Lifting the tiny body in his mighty arms, he ripped the clothes from its chest and using the talons of his hands, scratched his mark S deep into the skin. Then summoning his powers, he threw the body into the air and hurled it across space sending it spinning towards the elven island, as a grim warning to its inhabitants.
Satisfied with his hideous crime, he touched his blood stained claws to his lips in a gesture of mock obeisance, then turned away, his eyes again falling on the sword that had prompted his action. Once more he made to lift it from where it lay, but again it repelled him. He knew it to be the magic sword carried by the Chosen One, but its secret remained hidden from him. Denied ownership of the weapon, he drew comfort from the knowledge that its keeper had to have departed, since he would never leave such a powerful talisman where all could see.
Although disappointed at his inability to make the sword his own, he decided to waste no more time on the matter, and remounting his beast, resumed his journey. Once across the border with Skardour his army divided, with Shegrimoth proceeding north with part of it, whilst the remainder headed east to Harkeld. Nothing impeded its progress; all resistance being swept aside as the ghoulish hordes savagely destroyed all that they encountered.
Although the passing of days was no longer signalled by the rising and setting of the sun and moon, time marched on, and with it Shegrimoth’s growing army. The undead of the Phyrith marched side by side with the living dead of Shegrimoth; their souls all lost to their evil masters. As they passed across the land, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake, nothing remained but the bare soil and a few sticks and bones. And on they marched, their destination known only to Shegrimoth himself.
As the Dark One continued his march across Falgorin, unseen and forgotten creatures stirred within his now abandoned castle. Deep within its granite walls, down countless cold and damp passageways, a heavy wooden door remained tightly closed, the secrets beyond still secure. Yet behind its massive shape, from a space of total darkness came a muffled sound, snuffling and sniffing like the laboured breathing of a sick animal.
No light had entered their tiny cell since the door had first closed with a thud, and the key rattled in its heavy lock, nor visitor come to speak with them. Hour after hour, day after day the two Caregoron women had clung to one another in the darkness, too afraid even to speak. Without even the tiniest glimmer to illumine their small stone chamber, they had resorted to feeling out its confines with their fingertips, tracing the lines of huge granite blocks.
At first it was their hunger that drove them to calling out, imploring their captors to feed them, but their words went unheeded. Then came the thirst, more terrible than their need for food, striking at their very souls. Drifting from bouts of fitful sleep through periods of lucid thought to times of madness, the two women endured, until their exhaustion overcame them and they both fell into a state of collapse. It was some time during this period that Princess Esperia began to experience strange dreams.
A young man, one whom she had never seen before came to her in her dream and began talking to her. At first she ignored his words believing him to be a figment of her imagination, born of her desperate situation. He had a kind face with a ready smile, and in his dark hair a white streak that ran from his forehead almost to the crown of his head. Something about the insistent way he kept calling to her made her finally take note of what he was saying, and his words suddenly filled her with fresh hope.
He was telling her that there was water enough for them to drink, and that it was there in their cell, running through a crack in the walls. If she moved to the corner farthest from the hinge side of the door and reached up, she would find a chink in the stones. Here in a small depression, lay a puddle of water, constantly replaced from a stream outside the castle, which sank beneath the ground near to where their cell was.
Coming awake, Esperia lay motionless, her energies so low as to make any move a great effort, yet she knew she had to find the crack in the wall, and the water it promised. Never for one moment thinking that it had only been a dream, she finally forced herself to her knees, and dragging herself across the floor, made for the indicated spot. She had to climb across the inert form of her mother, who barely responded to her weight as she hauled herself over her legs.
Once in the corner, she had to rest awhile, panting from the exertion of her efforts, yet more determined than ever to complete her task. As her breathing returned to normal, she slowly raised herself up, using the meeting of the two walls to support her wavering legs, and when she was standing, gradually worked her hand up across the stones. It took several minutes before she encountered anything but the joints between the blocks, and she almost gave up in despair, but as she relaxed her muscles and began to flop down to the floor, her finger tips touched something cold and wet.
Once more in a heap on the floor, her tongue quickly explored the tips of her fingers, the sweet moisture like nothing she had ever tasted before. Water, there was water, and the discovery drove her to her feet again in search of more of the blessed life-giving liquid.
That had been the first time the young man had visited her in her dreams; since then he had appeared on a few occasions, coaxing her and encouraging her as she and her mother gradually recovered after finding the water. He never once mentioned who he was, how he could speak to her in her dreams, or how he knew where they were, yet his infrequent visits became her reason for living. Although the discovery of water delayed death’s call, the lack of food still left the two women severely weakened; yet again it was their unknown saviour who provided the answer.
Small fish swam in the stream that found its way into their cell, and in its waters they too drifted into the little hollow. Although the pickings were lean, raw and barely palatable it mattered not as little by little they provided sustenance. They would survive at least long enough for their gallant hero to rescue them, for this was what he had promised, and they knew him to be a man of his word.
Now the prisoners stirred restlessly, impatient for the freedom they knew would soon be theirs. Esperia, fearful because of the way she knew she must look after her incarceration, yet full of excitement, longed to set eyes on the man of her dreams. Her mother no less joyful tried to remain calm, whilst all the time her own emotions threatened to crack her resolve. Now they could hear footsteps in the passage beyond the door, and then hear the key enter the lock, its rasping sound as the tumblers fell, and finally the creaking hinges as the door swung wide.
Blinking against even the dim glow cast by the few burning torches fixed along the passage’s length, the two women searched vainly for sight of their liberator, but the granite stared back emptily. Edging out of the door, their movements slow and laboured after so long without exercise, yet still regal; Queen Jessima and her daughter Princess Esperia began the long walk up from the bowels of the castle with their arms linked in support. All the while they looked for some sign of their deliverer, yet never once did he reveal himself to them.
Had they not seen the door of their prison open before their eyes, they might have dismissed the matter of the young man in the Princess’s dreams as one of fantasy, yet their freedom insisted otherwise. It took them a long time to find their way beyond the dungeons, stopping frequently to rest between periods of faltering steps, not considering the possibility that danger might still lurk elsewhere in the castle.
Hours after their release, the two women found themselves in one of the great halls of the fortress, where tables had been prepared with vast quantities of food and drink. Long couches covered with furs beckoned their weary bodies, and a fire burned brightly in the grate. In no time, mother and daughter were sleeping soundly from the effects of good food, warmth and freedom. Only when their sleep had deepened beyond the point where even gentle sounds might waken them, did a third figure enter the room.
Keeping to the shadows, the dark misshapen being moved awkwardly around, its shambling, uneven gait causing its bare feet to slap noisily on the stone floor, yet all the while its gleaming red eyes remained fixed on the sleeping forms. Apparently satisfied with what it saw, the thing withdrew a crumpled piece of paper from a pouch around its waist, the only attire that it wore, and slowly and carefully placed it beside the head of the younger woman. Its task complete, it edged back until it was beyond the room where it scampered noisily away.
Nothing disturbed the sleeping women, until they awoke many hours later feeling stronger and more refreshed than they had for a long time. Stretching as she lifted herself from the couch on which she had fallen asleep, Esperia knocked the paper that their unseen visitor had left onto the floor. As it drifted down, her mother caught sight of it and bent to retrieve it. Straightening up, she unfolded the paper, and saw that it was addressed to her daughter.
Handing it to Esperia, she asked how the girl had managed to keep the paper hidden from their captors who had thoroughly searched them both. Having never seen the paper before, Esperia ignored her mother’s question, and began to read the words written on it.
My Dearest Princess, it began, the three words filling her with a warmth and affection that was unnaturally strong for so normal an opening. Then continued, As I write these words sitting here in my room in your Father’s castle, I do not know if you will ever read them, yet pray that one day soon you will. Although we have never met I feel that I know you so well and live for the day when we might see each other. Soon I leave for the island of Laanis to search for you and your mother, Queen Jessima, perhaps then we shall meet. It was signed,
Adam Goodchild.
The writing was a flowing script far beyond the capabilities of the implements with which the Princess was familiar, and across the bottom in barely legible characters had been added two words, STAY HERE, in what might have been blood. Twice Esperia read the note, before she handed it to her mother, whose patience to find out what it contained had begun to wear out as her daughter continued to ignore her questions.
Whilst mother and daughter pondered the meaning of the note it had left behind, the unfortunate creature moved slowly away from the castle, its head turning every few steps so that its wretched face looked back, searching without knowing what it sought. At a time past it had been different, but it remembered no detail, only the tiny spark that had briefly flared in its dark mind, driving it to the castle to complete some long forgotten task. It knew not why it had done what it had, recalled nothing of the reasons for drinking from the bottle in the pouch at its waist, yet remembering the importance of doing so before it opened the locked door.
Now, its task complete, it set off across the island, drawn as if by a magnet along the path taken only hours before by Shegrimoth. No rational thought entered its head as it dragged its crippled body across the uneven ground, mouthing silent obscenities culled from the turmoil of wicked and evil passions that filled its mind, yet it felt an undeniable calling.
Far away, the forces of darkness had reached the northern shores of Harkeld and Skardour, their ranks swelled by the lost souls gathered en route. Behind them, the Southern Lands lay totally wasted by their passing. Waiting their arrival in every port and harbour were hundreds of ships ready to transport them across the Middle Sea to Caregoron. No ordinary ships these, but rotting hulks raised from the bottom, manned by the skeletal remains of their former crews. Most would never stay afloat were it not for the black magic of the Demon Lord, their broken timbers heavily encrusted with barnacles and covered by slimy green weed.
No sails hung from the shattered masts, no rigging adorned the few remaining spars, yet one by one the ships all sailed gracefully from port, the moment the troops embarked. With the storms abated, the sullen skies were filled with clouds that scudded towards the horizon, blown by a brisk, chill wind. In silent convoy, the grey shapes of the ships drifted away from the land, pitching and rolling to the heavy swell as long dead seamen hauled on invisible lines or turned unseen wheels in a grisly parody.
Unaware of the dangers soon to face them, Kings Randufil and Toldran were already at their wits’ end; their minds too filled with their immediate problems to dwell on what fate might have befallen Adam. Yet Randufil’s wife and daughter were never far from his thoughts. With both their armies and the population of Meriandor completely decimated, they knew that the constant pounding of the enemy catapults would soon breach the city walls. The effect of the two suns had heightened the mortality rate as many people no longer responded to the threat of the bombardment, dying in their hundreds just standing in the streets.
A council of war, to be attended by the two kings, Kawuhl, Ichabod, the few provincial heads left in the city, both Antaleki barons having given their lives in the battle, and a handful of minor dignitaries, had been called. There was only one subject for the assembly to discuss, that of how the lives of the remaining people could be saved.
They immediately ruled out capitulation because they knew that their enemies had no desire to see any of them remain alive. Continuing the fight would have the same result, albeit perhaps a little later, the only alternative being to flee the city in the hope that some would make it to safety. With it soon agreed that this was the only real plan available, they fell to discussing its implementation.
Although concentrated mainly on the eastern side of the city, the enemy had progressively moved substantial numbers of his forces around to the north and south. The west entrance had recently come under attack, but so far the number of troops there was still relatively light.
Since Shegrimoth had made his appearance during the early stages of the battle, then not returned, the forces mounted against Meriandor had seemingly lost some of their direction. Only through sheer weight of numbers and repetitive actions had they worn down the defenders, never by inspired soldiering. It was this that convinced Kawuhl that a surprise attack on a narrow front might succeed, enabling many to make their escape.
There remained a few hundred loyal Jelvoan Warriors who would follow their General, having seen the world continue long after legend said it was supposed to have ended. By amazing coincidence, Keshi and his fellow Glomers had all survived, their underground existence leaving them unaware of the uniqueness of the occasion and consequently untroubled by astronomical events. On hearing the plan, they immediately offered assistance to create their fiery barriers if the land permitted.
Ichabod and only one other sorcerer remained alive, yet they both pledged their skills in helping to get the people from the city. The final decision had to be, where did they intend to go once they got out? With Mandax already partly if not wholly destroyed and such reinforcements as might have been available in Antalek now with them or unknowingly lost at sea, the only direction that beckoned was north. After leaving Meriandor, those who were able would head north-west to skirt the far boundary of the Marish Swamp, and pass close to Corindell to see how that city had fared, finally making for Mount Kaldshard.
Keshi was insistent that those that reached their mountain home would be welcomed by his people, and that they could more easily defend themselves there. Ichabod agreed that Kaldshard made a sensible goal, since the magic of the mountain was legendary, and might aid them in their battle against Shegrimoth.
Although the blue light of their new sun made the gathering uneasy, they saw in it some small advantage, since shadows were long and dark, providing frequent places in which to hide from watchful eyes. All those able to travel, men, women and children alike, gathered inside the castle courtyard, the lack of defence no longer a surprise to their attackers, since it had ceased some time ago. They made a pitiful sight the few survivors of what had once been a proud city, yet they remained resolute.
The Royal stables had furnished mounts for everyone able to ride, horse drawn wagons to carry the young and old, and the commissary food and water for the journey. At the start of the breakout, Ichabod and his fellow magician would provide a distraction enabling Kawuhl and his Warriors to leave the city gate and cut a path through the lines of attackers. Timing would be everything, with the remaining people following close on the Warriors’ heels, giving the enemy no time to react to the charge.
The plan worked well; with bolts of magical fire striking at their midst, the attackers were unprepared for the sudden charge of mounted Warriors, falling back and suffering severe casualties in their already thin ranks. With a great swath cut through them, they allowed the rest of the people, led by Randufil and Toldran, to pass unhindered. Once beyond the city walls, a small group of men surrounding a cart reined in and helped the Glomers to alight. Working with feverish pace the little cave dwellers quickly started a series of flaming curtains that blocked the fleeing bodies from view, and placed at least one obstacle in the path of any pursuers.
Barely minutes after they abandoned the city, the forces of Shegrimoth finally breached the eastern wall and in no time were pouring in their thousands into the empty streets and squares. Wantonly destroying everything in their path, they killed the few survivors that had remained the mindless victims of the new sun. Within hours of them seizing the city, little remained of it but heaps of smouldering rubble; not even the castle that had stood for centuries could withstand the onslaught of awesome fireballs that smashed it to the ground.
Only when there was nothing left for the rampaging multitudes to defile or destroy did they begin to drift away from the ruins, returning to the camps outside the city to await the arrival of their true leader.
Deep beneath the ruined stonework of what once had been the majestic walls of Castle Randufil, lay the shattered remains of a small glass vial and beside it a smoky tendril writhing in the small space in which it lay trapped. Such were the dying moments of a hideous creature once able to alter its shape at will, to move from one living body to another. Yet without form and with no living creature within its grasp, it was powerless to survive, just one more victim of its creator’s forces.
Flushed with the success of their dash from the dying city, the motley gathering of survivors rode hard to distance themselves from the horrors that lay behind them. With the concepts of day and night no longer having meaning, they pushed on until finally Randufil felt they had travelled far enough for one day. They needed to find a site where they could camp for a few hours rest, and take a meal before going on. Forming a circle with their few wagons and with guards posted around its perimeter, the fugitives of Meriandor settled down; many too weary even to eat the food that the women prepared.
King Randufil, his sons Feldric and Caslan, King Toldran, and Kawuhl all sat grouped together separated from the main body of people as much by station as by physical distance, as they listened intently to the words of the old sorcerer, Ichabod.
“Sire, I fear that we can longer expect our young friend Master Adam to come to our aid. Something has happened to him and his companion Quilvar, preventing him from completing his task.”
Although he’d had no time to consider the matter, the king couldn’t find it in himself to disagree, “It would seem so my friend although we have no proof of his failure,” said Randufil.
“Proof as such we may not have, nevertheless as one skilled in the magical arts I am certain. I tell you that the events of recent days are surely evidence enough that he has failed and that again Shegrimoth walks free on the lands of Falgorin,” replied the old wizard.
Whatever the group might think, it was with some surprise that they heard the next speaker, “That isn’t so,” blurted out young Prince Caslan, “Adam is alive; I know he is and he will save mother and Esperia, you wait and see.”
Shaking his head sadly, the boy’s father turned to his son and said, “I wish I could believe the way that you do, son, but I fear that Ichabod is right.”
“He’s not,” retorted Caslan hotly, “just you wait, he’ll save us all.” And he turned away as his eyes began to brim with tears.
The march to Corindell reduced the refugees to a group of tired, ill-tempered individuals whose one goal was to keep going until they reached the safety of Mount Kaldshard. Petty squabbles flared and died, as the routine of putting one foot in front of the other frayed both tempers and patience; the monotony punctuated only by the stops for food and rest. The highlight of any period of activity came when they sighted a town or village.
Scouts rushed to see if they were still inhabited, all too often returning only to relate that the people had either fled or died. On occasion they found small groups of individuals who were happy to join those from Meriandor as they journeyed north and west, as much for the food and company as any other reason. With no change in the constant level of dim blue light, many had difficulty in sleeping; even the animals were unsettled by it. Several times fleeting images in the gloom caused men to loose arrows or throw spears, yet they retrieved nothing, presuming that either the targets had been missed or had not existed.
After many days, scouts sighted the edge of the Great Marish Swamp, and Randufil ordered that the group move further west to avoid any possibility of anyone wandering into it in the half-light. Excitement began to build now, as they all knew that beyond the Marish lay the city of Corindell, particularly for the king, whose friend, Antor was its provincial head.
When the city walls finally came into view, it was with a great sense of relief that they saw the gates closed and manned by guards. Assuming that this was an indication that law and order remained in place in the city, Randufil abandoned caution and rode forward with his people. The moment they were in range, volleys of arrows flew from the guard posts high up on the walls, sending the people below scurrying in all directions.
Fortunately, their aim was wild and all but a few escaped, even those only suffering minor injuries. Infuriated that his king had been shot at, Kawuhl rode forward and hailed the occupants of the nearest tower.
“Hold your fire,” he bellowed, “it is your sovereign lord, King Randufil who demands entry to Corindell.”
For a moment there was no reply, then in a hoarse voice an unseen figure called out.
“You cannot enter here, the city is plagued, leave us and be on your way.”
Kawuhl hesitated, shaken by what he had heard yet wanting firmer evidence of their claim.
“Is Antor still alive?” he inquired.
A fit of coughing preceded the reply, followed by the same hoarse voice.
“I am Antor, General Kawuhl, tell King Randufil that he cannot enter here, it is too dangerous, all but a few have died from the plague and those of us that remain have little time left.”
By this time King Randufil had walked his horse forward and had heard the exchange.
“Is that truly you my friend?” he called.
Another bout of coughing followed, then slowly a ragged figure appeared above the wall of the tower; its head and upper body swathed in strips of linen. For a moment it swayed gently, hands clutching at the wall for support, then once steadied, it lifted its arms and began peeling away the layers of cloth from its face to reveal the ravaged but still barely recognizable features of Antor, the king’s friend.
A gasp of horror escaped the king’s lips as he saw what the disease had done to Antor, sick at heart as he watched the bandaging being tortuously rewound until only the eyes were visible.
“I’m sorry my friend, is there nothing we can do?”
“No,” croaked Antor, “our Healers have all died without finding a cure, which is why we sealed the city. Leave us and be on your way, and remember Corindell as it once was.”
With that the pitiful creature that had once been one of his closest friends slumped back behind the wall, mercifully hidden from Randufil’s view. Barely able to contain his grief, the king ordered that they continue on their way. They would delay no more until they reached Kaldshard.
