1. THE FALL OF THE SEVEN REALMS

A flash stained the dark clouds on the horizon a sickly green. Idraman clenched his staff and set his stance. He waited. During the night he had entered the Song and conversed with Nyomae.  She and the last of the Order fled south, pursued by a vast army. They had been caught unprepared, unaware the old enemy could assemble such a force. But it was not the size of the baying hordes that troubled Nyomae — it was the shadows looming behind. Idraman knew of what she spoke. He dearly hoped she was wrong.

The muffled boom rolled in from the plain like thunder, forcing air through the narrow Caerwal Pass. Idraman stood tall against the sudden gale but balked at the foul stench blowing in from Gormadon. His companions had failed to evade the shadow. The army sent north to aid their retreat had no option but to turn and give battle. Fifty leagues north of Idraman, his Order would make what would likely be their last stand.

Another flash. The ground shook. Idraman entered the Song. He searched for Nyomae amid the cries of anguish overwhelming the Verses. He found her. His knees buckled. All was surely lost. It could not be. The true enemy had finally revealed itself. Idraman could no longer cling to the hope that had sustained him these past months. The Seven Realms faced a far deadlier force than they had foreseen. And to his dismay, he saw they were led by one of their own. She had once gone by the name of Sylvena and was the most powerful of their Order. But she had probed too deep into the old Verses and failed to heed the warnings. And the voices of the dark had turned her. Until now, she was thought lost in her quest for a relic she believed would save them. But Sylvena was deceived and had fallen into the trap set for her. She had been corrupted and become Uluriel, a servant of the Dark Verses. And to Idraman’s horror, she had summoned the Draedalak. The demons from Ormoroth's dark pits had pushed the mighty Draegelan to the edge of defeat. How could Idraman and his Order counter such evil?

He stared at the dark sky and cried out. The return of the Draedalak threatened the very existence of the Seven Realms. Spawned by the Evil One from the Verses of the Maidens’ torment, the Draedalak once resembled their half-sisters. But their voices wrought despair and destruction, and soon their fair guise fell away to reveal the demons beneath.

Idraman probed the roiling air suffering the presence of the dark beasts. Uluriel alone could not have called them. Few had the authority to summon the Draedalak from the darkness. It had to be a warlock, a captain from the armies of old. Ormoroth was believed defeated in the frozen wastes of Talaghir. But, if Idraman had hoped he had been banished and cast into the Great Void, he was mistaken. If a warlock commanded the demons, Ormoroth must still hold sway in the living lands. Idraman pitched forward, clutching his stomach. It could only mean Ormoroth lurked in the Halfway World — a place from which he could return.

Idraman had just moments to strike back. Only months earlier, his only concern was to contain the unrest along the northern borders. He believed it to be nothing more than the mischievous acts of lesser spirits stirring the Ruuk. Nevertheless, they could not risk the darkness and unease spreading to other realms. So, while Idraman had stayed in Elmarand, the remaining six of his Order had gone into Nordruuk to push back the rising shadow. However, they soon discovered they faced a threat more powerful than anticipated. Idraman had no choice but to rally the full strength of the Seven Realms to rescue them.

No fanfares accompanied Hadrul, the warrior Archon, as he led the greatest army of living memory through the Caerwal Pass. Dwarfed by the sheer rock faces bearing down on their flanks, the vast ranks bearing their proud banners had entered the northern realms in silence. With no thoughts of glory, the soldiers had marched passed their families and loved ones who openly wept without shame.

Yet Idraman, like Sylvena, had been tricked. Lured into a trap, he had sent sixty thousand of their finest soldiers to be trampled into the dusty plain. And not in a forlorn hope of victory, not now the Draedalak had risen. Their sacrifice would serve only to delay the enemy and give him time to seal the pass.

Idraman turned and gave the signal. If he were to fail, the reserves would head for the ports in the south and advise those willing to listen to abandon the realms. Many in the north had refused to leave their homes in the face of terror, believing the strength of the Seven Realms would protect them. But the realms had been outwitted, and to Idraman's regret, he could do nothing for them — they were already lost.

He glanced at the cliffs at his side. Idraman did not relish the task ahead. But not to act would condemn many more to death or a life of slavery. The lands to the north would be sacrificed to secure the south. Closing the pass would drain his power, and if unsuccessful, he would be too weak to halt the enemy advance. But he had no choice. Idraman widened his stance, planted his staff, and closed his eyes. Amid the cacophony of screeching demons, he found what he sought. A faint, but clear echo from the Song of Creation, one of the earlier Verses untainted by the horrors that beset the Maidens in later times. He allowed their voices to fill his being and drew upon their power.

The ground trembled. A wide strip of land spanning the pass danced as if boiling from fires raging below. Idraman tipped his staff and thrust it into the air. The dust erupted as the rock beneath burst forth, freed from centuries of constraint. Far across the plain to the north, the battle paused. The heat in his body died as the Draedalak searched for the source of the sudden surge of power. Idraman stiffened as their terrible gaze froze him to the bone. The forming rock wall shuddered. He threw back his head, reciting the lines to complete the barrier. The rock stood firm. The foundations held. But in the distance, the enemy mocked him — something was amiss.

Idraman opened his eyes and groaned. A gap at the center of his defense, wide enough for an army to march through fifty abreast, refused to close and seal the wall. This was the work of evil hands groping beneath the earth to deny him access to the bedrock. Again, they had got the better of him, anticipating his every move leaving the pass open to their hordes.

But Idraman was not yet defeated. He drove his staff into the ground and stretched out his arms. Bowing his head, he ventured deeper into the Song. Idraman delved down into the heart of the mountains, seeking the force that had raised them. He found the echo of their birth as the peaks thrust skyward. He embraced its power and clenched his fists. A shimmering blue curtain emerged from the opposing rock faces. The charged air of the pass crackled as Idraman fought to seal his barrier. But the spoiled ground resisted. He strived to bring his hands together against a force pushing them apart. Idraman cried out, imploring the mountains to grant him strength in his hour of need. And they obliged. The barrier closed. But it was yet too weak to withstand a determined assault. Idraman would need another day to consolidate his defense.

The shriek froze the blood in his veins. Uluriel had learned of his strategy. She had promised the spoils of the south to the Draedalak. A price had to be paid for their summons. If she could not deliver, Uluriel and the warlock would be that price. The battle had to be won.

One by one, Idraman’s Order weakened in the face of the renewed rage of the assault. They began to fall. First Dormarl, the youngest of the Order, fell silent. Idraman staggered as then another, Elsaya was lost. At their side, the soldiers died by the hundred, torn to shreds by the barbed, flaming whips of the Draedalak. Yet the dead were the fortunate ones. Idraman knew the fate awaiting the captured. They would be tortured to the point of madness, then drafted into the ranks of the masses emerging from their dark places of hiding. Yet Hadrul fought bravely on. The warrior Archon’s skills surpassed even those of Malendra who had fought with Dorlan. Perhaps while he lived, the enemy could be repelled.

The Amayans! Idraman’s spirits rose as a host rode to their aid. The first wave crashed into the dark ranks. But they too were forced back by the Draedalak. The Amayans wheeled their frightened mounts, forming a circle around the last three of the Order. Nyomae, her courage never wavering, second only to Idraman in the knowledge of the ancient lore of the Song. Then Mordram, both wise and resilient, wielding the Sword of the Realms. And the last, Finromir, the strongest and most skilled fighter of the Order, pushed beyond the limits of endurance as he stood resolute in the face of the maelstrom. They frantically scoured the Verses to open a passage and banish the demons. But their combined strength was almost spent, and their resistance began to crumble. If the enemy broke through now, Idraman had no means to stop them. His work was not complete. The hordes would be upon him all too soon and breach his unfinished defense as if made of straw. There was no other way. Long years of study had brought him to the brink of understanding the earliest Verses. Idraman's jaw clenched as he found what he sought. He hesitated. Before him lay a path only the most courageous and strongest dared to take. Had he the strength? Six centuries of painstaking study would be lost should he fail. To incite the secret word of the Maidens would be to risk his mind... and most likely his life.

Hadrul was lost! Weakened by the baying Draedalak, the mighty warrior Archon was trampled by their cloven hooves, then hacked to pieces by the unrelenting onslaught.

The Amayans’ light faded. Their circle broke. The demons fell upon the last of Idraman’s Order. He cried out at the loss of Mordram as he too was crushed into the plain. He was out of time. Few Amayans remained alongside Nyomae and Finromir as they stood against the might of the enemy. But Finromir faltered. The time had come. Idraman took a breath and uttered the most sacred and powerful lines known to his Order. He screamed as the voices of the Maidens entered his soul. Idraman endured the pain to speak the name of Nyomae. But not her mortal name, her real name, the one bestowed upon her by the Maidens.

Far across the plain, the Draedalak paused. Idraman had invoked the pure, unbridled power of the Maidens to grant Nyomae the strength to resist. Her power would be fleeting, but immense. Nyomae responded. Idraman’s strength waned as she drained the last of his reserves. No! He read her mind. In the despair of her madness, Nyomae chose a dangerous path. Idraman could not stop her. The eruption seared his eyeballs just as the shimmering edges of his protective shroud melded. He had sealed the Caerwal Pass with a Word of Forbidding, and along with it, the fate of those stranded in the north. The last of his strength seeped from his bones. Idraman fell.