by Brian Murray
Several years after his victory against the Rhaurn magickers, the Darklord travelled among the Kharnacks. Patiently, he searched the clans, seeking the right chieftain. After a couple of years, he befriended the chieftain of a large clan. After several months, the chieftain mysteriously died during a hunting trip. The Darklord took control of the clan, pledging its allegiance to the Black Banner. He used his power to bring good fortune and wealth to the clan. Word of the clan’s achievements soon spread and the Darklord proclaimed himself as the Uniter of the Kharnacks. His clansmen accepted the fact and for several months, the Darklord conquered other clans. Other smaller clans flocked to him believing he was, indeed, the Uniter. All of the clans were told to travel to the Grey Castle in two seasons’ time. He promised the Kharnacks great victories against the Phadrine and Rhaurns, and that the nation of Khanachi would soon exist as the combined lands. One of the last clans to join was the Silverswords clan. Their chieftain, Maldino, only joined because he felt threatened by the other untied clans. He knew there was no way he could survive a conflict against the massed clans. So reluctantly, he joined and marched his clan towards the Grey Castle. During the journey across the Great Mountains, the chieftain called a Gathering with several of the other clan leaders. Most voiced support with their Uniter. However, there were many chieftains, like Maldino, who in private voiced their concerns. But none could challenge the Uniter as none wanted to face the black-armoured warriors, the Dark Brethren.
After that, things moved quickly.
The Darklord travelled south to the Phadrine Empire. There, he met and poisoned the mind of the Chosen’s son, Tucci. He showed the prince new, brutal pleasures and constantly fed him the drug from the balamine plant. He convinced the prince that he should be the rightful Chosen and that his father had never loved him. Tucci was weak of mind, easily manipulated, and he lapped up what he was being told. It did not take the Darklord long to persuade Tucci that his father should die and he should take the throne. When he completed his mission, having the prince ready to dethrone his father, the Darklord travelled to the Grey Castle where his army waited. There, after many sacrifices, he summoned forward the Dark One’s loyal warriors—Malice, Chaos, and Fury. The Dark One could not travel to the realm of mortals without his Black Crystal and a severed hand. The Ritual of Resurrection needed to be completed. With the warriors’ help, the Darklord managed to recover all of the relics of the Dark One hidden in the realm of mortals. Taking the guise of his twin brother, he met the warrior once known as Death, tricking him to obtain the Black Crystal.
Most of his plans happened as they were written in the Dark One’s journals. Tucci failed to kill his father; the Children of the Light had gathered together ready to take on the Dark One. However, one detail was missed from the Dark One’s notes and that one point could prove his undoing. Nowhere in his notes did the Dark One mention his champion being the one holding the Black Crystal. This meant that the futures had changed, becoming clouded since the notes were written by Frazellon all those millennia before. The Darklord also missed this detail. Everything else went according to plan so why should he have been concerned? Why would he have investigated further? He had no reason.
With all of the relics, the Darklord needed one piece of luck. He waited in the Grey Castle for the warrior once known as Death, the only man to defeat the Dark One, to spill innocent blood. Again, the Darklord succeeded in tricking him and the true Rite of Resurrection was completed.
Now, once again, the Dark One walked the realm of the mortals and he had all of his power—the Blade of Yallas was once more united with his Black Crystal embedded in the hilt.
The Dark One with the Darklord, Malice, Chaos, and Fury left the Grey Castle and using necromancy travelled southeast of Evlon. Here, on the border of the Steppes, the Dark One created a duplicate of his Black Palace from sand. Using the power of the Blade of Yallas with its Black Crystal, he opened a portal and his army, the Dread, travelled through.
In the courtyard of the newly formed fortress, the Dark One gave a speech to his minions.
“Children,” he bellowed, his voice rumbling like thunder that trembled the floor and walls of the fortress.
“We are the Dread and after many thousands of years we again walk on the lands of the mortal. For thousands of years we have prepared ourselves and for thousands of leagues we have not tasted the goodness of fresh mortals. Since the days of the Great Betrayal and our defeat in what the mortals call the Dark Wars, we have waited and we have grown. For the first time since the day of the Great Betrayal, I again wield the complete Blade of Yallas together with the Black Crystal that is in its rightful place. For the first time since the day of the Great Betrayal, we the Dread walk again on this realm.” The Dark One paused, looking over the masses that made up the Dread. Clicking, hissing, and howls of approval greeted his words. The Dread’s eyes glowed brightly.
“We are stronger now than we were then, and our strength will be felt all across the lands of the mortals. You and I will feast on their souls for this time, we will not be stopped. I want revenge: revenge for Rhamagabora, for what they did to us. We will not stop until She has been brought before me and destroyed. I want revenge for our defeat. Rhamagabora will tremble as we march and the mortals will quake in their boots when we approach. I want the ghost of Rhamagabora destroyed. I will not feel satisfied until all living mortals in the city are utterly destroyed. Then we will set about the downfall of the Divine One. Again, she will be held in the deepest dungeons in my palace. But this time there will be no escape. Her foulness will not escape and corrupt any like that which happened in the past. She must be gagged, bound, and beaten like the whimpering wench She is. But first we must hurt Her. We must hurt Her by hurting those that She thinks She defends and in turn defend Her. We must first rid this place of Her protectors. The Children of the Light must be annihilated, wiped from the face of this world. Their souls will forever be held in the dungeons of my palace and tortured for eternity. To succeed we must eradicate these vermin, then hunt down the wicked wench.
“There will be time for you to feed and feed we will, but first we must remove the threats to us. We must not rest until they are our prisoners. Once they are in my home, we will have the power to open the portal permanently and use the mortals as they should be used—use the mortals like cattle bred for our feasting. But until then, we must destroy and scorch the land of Her touch. Never again will She or Her children rest easily here hiding from us. We will bring Her and them to account for Her wrongs and then we will rule unopposed. However, remember She is a devious witch and will use all means possible to thwart us. So, caution must be taken this time. Our last stay here was short-lived because we were not ready for Her slyness. But this time we are ready. We—the Dread—are unstoppable: We—the Dread—are the rightful rulers and keepers of this realm. We—the Dread—will take what is ours. We—the Dread—will be victorious!”
Roars of approval from his army filled the air and the Dark One stabbed his black broadsword up in the air.
“Dread—March!” ordered the Dark One.
The Dread marched towards Rhamagabora to enact revenge on their only defeat. But when the Dark One arrived at Rhamagabora, now known as Teldor, a Child of the Light duped him. The Child of the Light was King Zane, and he had been foretold of the attack and evacuated the city. Then the king’s cavalries punched their way through the Dread and escaped—but the Rhaurns suffered huge losses. King Zane was cut with the Blade of Yallas. As any Child of the Light cut with the Blade of Yallas, he would suffer from increasing bouts of madness until his soul was stripped from his body, thus becoming a servant of the Dark One. The only way to stop the change was to travel to the Realm of Yallaz’oom and recover his soul from the dungeons within the Black Palace.
Using his talents Gan-Goran, the magic-master, put Zane, along with his friends Dax, Thade, Tanas, and Rayth into a death-trance. Together, they travelled to the bowels of the Black Palace of Yallaz’oom to recover their souls. A
ll of the friends—all except for Tanas—survived the ordeal and awoke from their death-trances. Tanas’s body still lived—but only just—while his soul remained somewhere in the realm between Paradise and Hell.
The Dark One swallowed down his anger and marched his army from Teldor, through the Glass Mountains to Kal-Pharina where the Dread held the city under siege. Here the Chosen, the Emperor of the Phadrine, had also been warned of the attack and prepared to defend his city. He had new weapons constructed by his master armourer, Platos, and now he waited on the mound that surrounded the city, looking down at the Dread.
The Dark One approached the western gate to the city. He looked up at the mound from the far side of the moat. On the mound stood a man with two short swords crossed before his chest.
“I am the Dark One and before you is my army, the Dread. I will not waste your time or mine with a long speech, but be warned. If you do not open the gates to the city I will kill every man, woman, and babe. That is not a threat but a promise. I will give you one month to decide—if you do not open the gates in that time I will unleash my minions and it will be a bloody slaughter. Now . . . a show of my power.”
The Dark One uttered a word of power. From the Blade of Yallas a black bolt of lightning streaked towards the Chosen. The black bolt struck the Chosen, knocking him from his feet, and he landed with dust pluming around him.
“That is a taste of my power. You have a month, citizens of the white city, to give me your answer,” boomed the Dark One, gazing up at the mound.
CHAPTER 4
THE CHOSEN FELT excruciating pain where the black energy bolt struck his new short swords that in turn slapped against his chest, knocking him down. Winded, he took several deep breaths. Then, in a cloud of dust, he slowly climbed to his feet. Gradually, the dust cleared. The Chosen stepped forward, staring at the Dark One who waited below. The Chosen raised his swords in defiance and his army answered by roaring their approval. Not even magic bolts could kill their emperor, the Chosen. To his people he was a man-god and this was extra proof. For the third time, he had cheated death. Without a word he pointed one of his short swords at the Dark One, then turned and walked down the mound back into Kal-Pharina. On the mound, people cheered euphorically. Their fears of the beasts they faced dissolved—their emperor had won the first blow and that was enough for them.
***
When the man climbed to his feet, the Dark One looked up, astonished. He said nothing but watched the man point his sword directly at him. For a moment, the Dark One thought a bolt was going to jump from his blade and strike him. But the man just turned his back on the Dark One and strolled from the wall. Then the sound of clansmen cheering engulfed the Dark One. All along the mound surrounding the city of Kal-Pharina, the clansmen cheered. Humiliated, the Dark One turned his stallion and walked back to his camp, his mood thunderous. That was twice, he thought, twice I have been tricked. Would this be his time? Was it an omen? Had he rushed things? Only time would tell. Time . . . the Paths of Time . . . Surely, he knew the answer.
The Dark One left the mound surrounding the white city with Malice, Fury, and Chaos. He walked his horse straight to the Darklord’s black tent. The Dark One dismounted his black stallion and ducked into the tent. Darkness filled the fabric room, except for a small fire blazing in the middle. Slowly, the warrior removed his black helm and stepped forward into the firelight. His skin colour was dark as ebony and scars criss-crossed his face and bald gleaming cap. He had piercing red eyes that danced with malevolence and a grim line for a mouth that curled up into a smile. The Dark One reached for a goblet and drank deeply its content—fresh, warm human blood.
“I do not understand, why have you given them so much time? We could raze the city within the time you have given them. Will the Dread not become restless with all this waiting?” asked the Darklord, sitting on the other side of the fire.
“That I know, my friend,” said the Dark One, his voice booming in the confined space.
“Then why?”
“I have seen the futures, my friend. I know that this time, this will be the place of the one and only battle. The other Children of the Light will be travelling here to face me. I will wipe out the Divine One’s protectors in one go. I will not have to wait and hunt the others—they will come to me.”
“Are you sure, my master?”
“Naats, I have walked the Paths of Time and seen the future, and they are coming. I can sense it. Your kin has dropped his shield and they are coming to me.”
“Does that mean that our Wraith Hounds failed?” asked the Darklord shocked.
The Dark One’s eyes blazed bright red and he pulled the Blade of Yallas from its sheath, pointing it at the Darklord. The air around the blade began to hiss and fizz as the Dark One spoke. “Yes, they failed and that was your fault. You should have made the beasts stronger, but I forgive you that error. It has, in fact, worked in our favour.”
The Darklord bowed his head but did not reply to the criticism, nor did he look up at the Blade of Yallas still pointing at him.
“The Children of the Light will bring their pitiful armies here and I will destroy them all. Once we have destroyed the armies, there will be nothing to stop us. I will rule this realm and then we can feast and enjoy the pleasures these mortals will give us.” The Dark One chuckled with humour—a dry sound, full of malevolence. “Naats, I have seen the future and the future is dark, pure darkness. It is beautiful. We cannot be defeated. I will not let it happen again. I will rule this realm and be all-powerful once more. As for the Dread, we will send them out in hunting parties to keep them occupied, but they know that when the time comes the bloodletting will be excruciatingly good.”
“But master, will it not be better and simpler to destroy the white city first, then face our other enemies?”
“No—the future is set and I have seen it. We will meet all comers here in one battle and we will be victorious. I have spoken and that is the way it will be,” boomed the Dark One, his laughter rumbling like thunder.
“Yes, master,” said the Darklord, bowing obediently but unconvinced.
***
The Chosen rode back through his city and arrived at the white palace. A question constantly played on his mind—why is he giving us a month? He climbed the stairs to his palace and walked through the white corridors to his private chambers. There, the Emperor of the Phadrine disrobed from his armour and sat down, gazing out of his large window and rubbing his sore chest. The question played on his mind over and over again, but he could not find an answer. He called for a page and asked him to have Master Armourer Platos meet him here.
Half an hour later, Platos entered the Chosen’s private chambers and bowed deeply. The Chosen pointed to a seat and nodded to his guard to leave them.
Platos sighed and slumped down into the chair.
“I was ready to start our battle. We rushed to get everything organised, planned, and the beast gives us a month’s grace. What do you make of it?” asked the burly smithy, rising and pouring two goblets of watered wine.
The Chosen, Rowet, chuckled. “I called you here to ask you the same question, my friend. I do not have an answer.”
“Do you think he knows help might be coming?” enquired Platos, who placed one of the goblets on the desk for his emperor.
Rowet smiled his thanks. He was pleased that the smithy had become comfortable in his presence and they could talk man-to-man without the formalities of rank.
“If that is the case, then I would sunder Kal-Pharina first, then turn and face the coming enemy,” replied Rowet, frowning even more.
“Maybe he is over-confident.”
“That could be the case, but I am not too sure of his motives in granting our stay. Maybe it is intimidation. I just do not know.” The two men sat in silence for a while, mulling over the problem.
“Well, all we can do is wait and see what happens.”
Rowet just nodded, but remained deep in thought.
***
A lonely figure left the northern outpost of Mandeville and continued his journey north towards the Great Mountains. He had stayed at a small inn for the night, then at dawn scouted around the outpost. He estimated there were about two hundred fighting men at the outpost with probably another thirty or so currently scouting the hills and mountains. The man pushed back his deep fur-lined hood and the bitterly cold wind stung his face. He looked at the wintry mountains that loomed up before him and smiled. He was nearly home. The man travelled quickly across the Kingdom, knowing that time was of the essence. He had trekked through Single Tooth Gorge, but avoided the once-city of Evlon and the outpost called Ubert. There were many men moving around the area, so he hugged the eastern side of the Glass Mountains, heading north. He had to reach his meeting point and hoped that all was ready. He had sent his last report and now prayed they had acted upon it.
The man sat on his horse, gazing at the mountains for a moment longer. The sun pierced through broken clouds and a shaft of sunlight shone on the white snow high above. The mountains gleamed in the sunshine, light dancing in twinkling flashes off the snow. But more clouds blocked the sun and the mountains were plunged into its wintry greys; even the white-snowed peaks had their brilliance dulled. The man looked to the south and saw a low, white wispy mist rolling in. He had to move now because he wanted to scout the pass and be through the mountain before the weather and nightfall closed in. He pulled his hood in place and heeled his horse on. This was his third mount. He had pushed hard through the green rolling hills of the Kingdom to reach this point. He had been lucky, for his second horse had thrown a shoe just outside of a town and he had managed to trade the lame mount for a fresh one. His current horse, a hardy chestnut, was beginning to tire. After the night’s rest, he knew the horse would make it through the mountain pass. His only worry was if the bad weather closed in. It had not snowed heavily in this part of the Great Mountains and the man hoped it would hold off for the next couple of weeks.