The Legacy Of Denomark: The Plight Of Esgroth-marith

THE LEGACY OF DENOMARK THE PLIgHT OF ESGROTH-MARITH BOOK1 OF 4

HENDRIK HUMAN

PROLOGUE “Cggrrrkk!” Colnas heard the heavy blow of the ram crashing against the outer gate of the city and fear gripped his heart. It

would not hold much longer and he had an important task that seemed impossible to complete in time. “Fate has not looked kindly upon me, neither has time! Damn rebels!” he yelled furiously. He remembered how it started, with a new political system that allowed any man from any walk of life to decide by vote who should rule, as unfavourably as the royal families looked upon it, the peasants welcomed it with open arms. And a few months later a rarely known but very rich aristocrat, named Sareth, seeing his opportunity raised an army and got the peoples support by promising them the use of this new system. And the next thing you know Arithians are tearing each other apart. The king and his family still held the capital but by looking at how the favour of the siege was going that would soon change. Being loyal to his pledge he stayed with his king and fought. And now he has been chosen to perform the most important task anyone has had to do in this lifetime, or so the king had said: “Colnas, you have been a faithful servant and valiant warrior to our cause, and that is why I called you here to perform a very great deed for me.” “What is it my lord?” “You must go to the secondary part of the city and look for a house with a black door, in that house is a child, take him and using the sewers escape to Rhealdonê and leave him there with a willing and good family.” “I will do it I swear on my life. You must go now my king and I’ll meet you at the entrance.” The king sighed and his face turned sorrowful. “I know this is difficult for you to understand my boy, but you must try to, Esgroth-Mariths future depends on it. My wife and I will stay here, though we meet our ends... For Sareth must think he achieved total victory by killing the king of Arith-Moore so that he will not go searching for me and then by happenstance catch you and that child escaping over the border.” “But my lord....” Colnas started, tears coming to his eyes. “Go boy! Go now! We all must meet our ends and I have decided to meet mine this way! Sacrifice! That child is bigger than you, me

or Arith-Moore, you must succeed! One day you’ll understand Colnas.” “Y...y, yes my king.” He turned and started stumbling to the door. “Till we meet again Colnas! May it be in the fired dungeons of the Dark World or the beauty of the Celestial Heavens! Live in honour and fight in valour!” And that’s what brought him where he is now running wildly amidst the trampling crowds of horror struck people, the rhythmical bang of the siege ram sounding far in the distance pushing him forward like a crackling whip behind a horse. The love for his king and city and the will to do his kings bidding, tearing his heart in two. “I am just a soldier, not a hero, and now instead of fighting alongside my kinsmen for my king and country I’m off on a quest!” He kept talking to himself, partly to keep his mind busy and avoid thoughts of what was happening around him. Just as he saw the black door and started to feel more relieved he heard a strange sound like the sound of a thrown rock rumbling through the air, and his heart sank. There was a humongous roar and crash as the huge stone hit the thick wooden gate of the second wall and Colnas felt the paved road trembling beneath him as he started to run as fast as he could. As soon as he reached the door he heard war cries as the rebel army started pouring through the wall, quickly he looked and found the small child in a basket tightly wrapped in blankets behind the couch, he took the baby and again started to run. He came out the door and looking both ways he saw scenes of utter chaos, the siege had begun to form a desperate struggle for survival in the thin, winding streets and alleys, groups of men charging this way then that way. All the streets were blocked and very dangerous forcing him to take the thinnest alley and run for his life, the last words of his king spurring him on. After a few minutes he turned west into another even smaller alley running parallel to the third wall and completely hidden behind the big stone buildings, but if there was one thing it was not hidden from it was the muffled screams of dying men, the stench of rotten blood and most alarmingly the fire spreading slowly

through the city. He yelled when a burning canopy of wood came crushing down sending sparks and flames wildly flying through the cold night air. He turned inwards towards the streets again to go around the fire and ran straight into his boyhood friend Banos who immediately swung his blade backwards up against Colnas’ neck. “Colnas?” he asked in surprise. “Banos!” he vigorously embraced his friend.”Come! I may need your help. I’m on an errand for the king and I must make haste!” and without a word further he ran on, seconds later hearing the boots of his friend thudding loudly against the paved surface following him. “Colnas.” He sounded out of breath. “What is going on and where did you get that child?” “I don’t know! The king just ordered me to find him and take him to Rhealdonê! He’s even staying behind to give us a chance to get over the border unlooked for!” “Oh.” He could here the sadness in his friend’s voice.”I can’t believe this is how it ends. I feel all hope of Arith-Moore ever being whole again... in a whole age of peace it happens in my lifetime!” “I know, can you here the battle’s already fading away? Were losing faster than I expected” “I was on the wall; you should have seen their number! In the tens of thousands! The men are exhausted, we couldn’t have held out longer even if they didn’t break that huge gape in the wall.” Suddenly out of nowhere a rebel jumped out in front of them, Colnas felt his heart skip as he realized he can not use his blade without dropping the child, and in an instant Banos leaped between him and the rebel and skewered him through the stomach. “It’s getting dangerous.” Banos stated looking down at the man he just killed, a painful twinge in his face as he realised he had just killed a fellow countryman. “Where are you headed?” “The sewers.” Just as Banos turned to start towards the sewers Colnas said:”Thanks you Banos, for everything.” “Thank me later, come on! We have to move!” and as they started running the sounds of battle was renewed as the assault on the

third and last wall began. Burning boulders flew everywhere lighting up the night sky, arrows whistled and blades rung like bells, faster they ran as the buildings began to collapse behind them from the relentless bombardment. The burning buildings heated up the narrow streets like bread ovens. On they went till they reached the sewer gates, it was locked. Rebels started pouring in from every side torches, axes and swords in hand. Over the crumbled ruins they charged and Banos finally snapping out of his fear started searching for the right key on the chain he had by his side. The rebels charged forward like barbarians crying out ferociously, they were only a few yards away when Banos got the gate open, just as Colnas stepped in he shut it and locked the gate. “Banos! What are you doing?” Come with me!” He pleaded. “No!” he shouted as he struck down the first rebel to reach him. “Take the keys and run! I can buy you time which you need. We all reach our ends, the only question is what you’re going to do with your last moments, stall the inevitable, or give the cause a fighting chance, I don’t know who that child is but he is more important than us. Even the king said so. Look in his eyes and you’ll understand, Colnas, give him his chance to do his great deed, and go do yours! Goodbye my friend.” Colnas realizing the obvious turned and started to weep, and once more jogged away into the abyss, this time drove on by his companions singing blade. After roughly an hour of walking through the rotten, dirty and stench filled sewer, Colnas, looking down at the infant, felt the sorrow and pain of the past day be lifted from his shoulders as his eyes met the spherical sapphire pupils of the small boy and his soul suddenly uplifted, felt swept away by a raging inferno of hope. His body felt renewed: clean, pure and rested. “Banos is right; your eyes fill man with hope and vigour. Even as a child you have this power. One day men will muster behind your banner to fight for your cause, men will die and men will be victorious. Already as an infant man has given their lives in trade for yours and so it will continue till you must one day make the

same sacrifice to atone for the debt you owe those lives. My friend is gone and so is my king, at least the thought of your future will keep me hopeful and living to one day tell you what amazing coincidence and events led to you being alive till then. For you all in Esgroth-Marith will put down their differences and march together to better the world and themselves. And maybe you’ll learn one day why men fight and die, reason beyond glory and greatness.” As he spoke these final words he could see a glimpse of far of sunshine. And as he started to feel the welcome arms of warm rays pulling him outwards he knew what he was going to do. What he had to do for the memory of his friend Banos for his king, for Arith-Moore and for his vengeance. “You know what boy? I think it’s time to see how the new Arith-Moore deals with their own rebel army.” Smiling at himself Colnas stepped out and relished the warm summer’s day. ***

19 years later... The sea was dead still... Though its unusual peace did not reflect serenity, no, its dark waters forming one with the shadowed mass of the night sky softly exuded an unwillingness to reveal its deepest, darkest and most ancient secrets. The heated swirling mists rising up from the murky waters softly caressing the air like the coiling tentacles of some foggy giant sea creature would have been enough to sent shivers of fear and doubtfulness coursing amidst the heart and mind of even the hardiest seaman praying for land and a road away from misty tentacles that means to pull him into the shadowed waters of the Western Sea and its ancient horrors. But the crew aboard this ship slowly coasting over the silent waters were born of even greater evil and did not shrivel for dark waters or undisturbed evils. From lands far east they sailed, a land covered in an ever growing darkness, harsh, cold as those who come from it and has lived their lives devoted to the setting forth of its consuming hatred and fear till they are free to roam and befoul the world at whole. Their moss covered ship built of dark

wood, planks cracked and broken from the long and unyielding journey, shredded and torn sails rolled op against towering masts formed an even eerier and even more frightful atmosphere for the dock men, alerted by the ports lighthouse, awaiting to tie down the ship. As the boat slowed down along the side of the dock muddy wet ropes were tossed from aboard to be caught and knotted down by the grimy hands of men working in the dockyard under the faint light of lanterns, eager to finish there job and go home to their wives and beds in the mother city of Engelfor in the strange and ruthless land of Maldour. When the boat was finally stilled and harboured a small gate in the deck rail fell open and a slimy, soaked gang plank slid down, hitting the wooden yeti with a loud thunk emphasized by the deathly silence of early morning. First off the deck was two huge swarthy fûragks, side by side, wobbling in their step being estranged from a solid surface for three months and two weeks of sailing. Secondly four tall, lean upright figures, seemingly men, their shining black armour and maroon undercoats could be seen every now and then while they walked as their dark brown heavy fur coats swaying to and fro with the pace of their steps revealed it. Followed by them were twenty or so more fûragk, also wobbling like the first two. The men on the deck could clearly hear the rustling of mail against plates of armour and mixed with the faint duf duf of the fûragks feet on the drenched wood thoughts of sinister armies pillaging and killing ruthlessly, leaving no one alive to mourn the dead, laying complete waste to whole continents, leaving behind only eco’s of their coarse shrieks and the damage of their cruel devices were invoked. As the entourage left the gangplank they halted before the dock men, everything was silent, no rustles of rodents scurrying around looking for food, no bells alerting the dock men of incoming boats. The only sound being the eerie woohh wooh of the wind as it wound its way through the narrow winding streets with its stone buildings and thousand of small banners gently stroking the night

air in purple and dark red. As the last fûragk stepped aboard the dock carrying a blood red flag embroidered along the sides with black and dark purple symbols and in the middle brandishing a bright orange and yellow flame and in the middle of the flame a pair of curved horns above pitch black eyes hung in the flames staring blankly before itself. Immediately at the sight of the flag an icy air knocked the wind out of the dock mens lungs, an expression of utter horror and fear on their sun burned faces.... and they knew: The Banner Of Carnage, Garkib in ork, Doghan in Maldourian had reached their shores. The banner all Maldourians are taught from birth to fear and obey... the flag that will through brute force and carnage and fear again put Maldour upon the throne of all men being second only to the wroth of the Dark Lord. At that moment of realization they fell on their knees and as one cried: “Hail the hoard of death, We will obey till our ends Or the burning shadow consumes us.” The men stood unmoved staring before them as blankly as the black eyes in the banner under witch they served, the fûragk hoarsely chuckled until one of the men held up his hand... somewhere in the background a hoarse chuckle turned into a choking gurgle and a fûragk in the back fell to the ground his eyes ablaze with the fury of the torturing pain, blood streaming out of his mouth, ears end eyes. The man lowered his arm and again all was silent through all that has happened the leader still held his gaze unmoved upon the dock men, all three still in the same position, he noticed the man in the middle did not seem to realise the manner of respect he must great his guests with. Then came a soft moaning sound as the ravaged fûragk slowly recovered and stood up, still shivering from shock and relief. The man to the left of the one who had silenced the fûragk stepped forward, eyeing the dock men till they turned their faces

away as if it would rule them out as likely candidates for whatever the man had in mind. They figured him as the leader not just because of his length but also because of the authority through power and brutality that seemingly escaped from this listless and daunting body. “Stand up you useless humans!” a whispered shout came from somewhere within the helmet filling the atmosphere, making it hard to believe it came from that still silent body . ”One of you will lead us to the Dingond, the rest of you will secure the boat and then do what you will... but to invade our privacy on that boat is to embrace the most fearful and painful death as has ever seen in all of Maldour” The men huddled together and after a few seconds of fearful whispers three of them bowed quickly and scampered of to the boat tripping over themselves in their haste, much to the delight of the fûragk and bringing a hollow smirk to the face of the leader. “You then! Get a move on, or do I have to reach for my whip?” he said loudly as his hand slowly ran down his waste to a curled up dark leather whip at his side. “Yes sir.” The remaining dock man said lamely with a mock obedient manner. “Follow me and I promise you won’t get lost.” Unseen to the dock man the leader and the other men maliciously smiled to themselves, they knew this one would have to be made an example of.... For hours they marched up the winding paths of Engelfor on the cold hard cobblestones, the heavy tramp of the fûragks feet and the rustling of their mail leaving a trail of lit up windows as they woke up many a sleepy household. At last they came to the great wooden doors of the Dingond. The ancient doors spoke of might to the minds who behold them. With their great oak wood and their intricate bronze decorated linings and doorknobs mostly depicting battles or heroes of old made it clear that this was a warrior race, a brave race, a race with

discipline and cunning that would obey the command of their superiors unto any end. The dock man who led the sinister company took one last look at the city spread out beneath him and a flush of red hot anger overcame him. Why should such a strong, proud nation bow down to such atrocities, we should be there superiors we.... he did not finish his last sentence, he peered down and saw a blood red tip of an fûragk blade protruding from his stomach, he would scream if he had any energy to do so... slowly he started crumbling to the ground to be caught by two unyielding pairs of fûragk hands. “Take him to the centre of town and hang him, let him be the symbol of a new era for Maldour.” He heard one of the men say as he was dragged down the same path he led them. “Pitiful fool.” The leader hissed as he stepped forward, took the knob and knocked thrice heavily upon the doors, almost unaware of the horror he has ordered to commit. The doors swung open and the company walked in with deadly poise, they knew what they came to do and they shall... After months of hard sailing they had finally reached their destination where it all would begin. The hall they walked through at first seemed very plain, made of stones fitted together to make thick strong walls and floors, heavy wooden beams each fitted with a black iron lantern slowly burning, warming and lighting up the massive hall. But to look up would bring a glint of splendour to any human eye. The whole sealing looked like one great tile painted from side to side from back to forth with beautiful scenes of war and ancient kings and heroes, ages of might and splendour captured for all eternity to be admired and respected by al in Maldour. There was Engol the Strong and Eriof the Brave, Dirnor the Mad and countless others, their greatest deeds immortalized in the greatest of ways. But of course this group of artless horror ridden creatures did not care for fine works or endless beauty. It did not exist in their world and was useless to them. The nearest feeling of joy to them was the

smirk sense of satisfaction after a cruel death caused by endless torment. Suddenly the taps of their boots came to a stop as they reached the top of a short flight of steps at the far end of the hall. The leader tried the handle and found it locked, unfazed he took a step back, straightened his arm and sent a faint green shockwave smashing the centre of the two doors and the doorknobs to scattering pieces of burnt rubbish. Muffled shouts of surprise and fear ran through the Dingond and seconds later the clear sound of heavy boots running on hard stone could be heard. After a minute of waiting a servant wearing a plain white gown and a guard adorned only an a loincloth and carrying his sword, both with panicking expressions on their faces came rushing through a door on the right hand side of the room and immediately halted as they saw the four men and their furagks. Afraid, their wide eyes darted around the company looking for clues of who the trespassers are or where they come from. Simultaneously they beheld the banner and like the dock men fell to their knees and cried the sacred oath still shivering from adrenaline and fear. Again the leader stepped forward and ordered in his sickly hoarse voice: ”Servant go get rooms and food ready for me and my company of men we will be sleeping here, and you, guard, go fetch your king, now make haste before I flog you into oblivion and hang your corpses up to rot!” Immediately they sped of in different directions. And the leader after commanding the fûr to return to the boat took a seat in one of the big soft chairs embroidered in purple, red and gold. After a few minutes the king of Maldour arrived, flushed and pale with fright and uncertainty. He bowed and whispered the oath solemnly and then introduced himself: “I am Enfiros, High king of Maldour and master of the Dingond, how may I serve you lord?” He talked proudly holding his upright posture commandingly despite his paleness.

“I am Rugkas, overseer of the Dark Lords army, the Baron of the Scourging Crusade, and his most powerful subject. I have come to hold you to your oath, king, in exactly two years you will march from your homeland and invade Rhealdonê and Dulair-Mon, this will happen as the Dark Lord marshals his forces and builds his strength to assault Engelmars wall you are thus serving as a distraction to split Esgroth-Mariths power into two, east and west, you are responsible for planning the campaign but my men will lead your armies once your forces are past the wall.” The insistent hissing of Rugkas made all present want to shut their ears and run away, but being obedient the king held his ground mulling over what Rugkas just announced. “What does Maldour get in return?” of course he had no choice, but still if it would hurt the Esgroth-Marithian lands more it was worth asking he thought, remembering Maldours ever lasting hate for these lands. “All the land to from here to The Worldly River, if you pay a tribute of 20 000 Elds a year.” “Two years.” He mumbled vaguely, his mind elsewhere. Two years and Maldour will reclaim their rightful place and wipe out the peoples of Esgroth-Marith. As his mind returned a greedy and eager glint came to his eyes and he stepped menacingly to Rugkas, grabbed his hand and arm and said: “Tell your master he has his army.” Madness from greed and power reaching his voice. He turned to his general who came in with him. ‘Endor, send messages to each city and town of Maldour to rally every warrior we can muster, tell them the long awaited triumpth of Maldour begins!’ *** And now with the sacrifices made and the pieces moving into position the people of Esgroth-Marith go to bed unaware of the Great War that’s forces are massing in the distance. As the gods

abandon the mortal races to their own fate the balance is dwindling and The Power is in abundance, available for all the great and heroic with the will to control it, whom are all stepping forward to stake their claim and make their mark on the world. For this age is one of might and glory which will see the fall of nations and witness the forming of an empire. And most importantly the birth of a god amongst men... (rough idea)

Chapter 1: And so it begins... Denomark stood on the hill on the border of the woods overlooking Rahnen. It was a warm and enchanting sight to him: The lanterns hanging everywhere giving the place a welcome and inviting light; people dancing, singing and playing instruments like flutes and drums. Celebrating the recruit of their sons and their first battle... It was only two days ago when his captain received the summons to meet the garrison at the centre gate of Evelins Wall. Now he stood upon his favourite spot gazing at the festivities and reminiscing about the past and the future. But often he’s mind would dwindle back to the fair features and dark hair of his love, Leayna. They rarely talked as children but growing up he started to notice her rosemary plump cheeks, her gloriously fair body and enchanting smile, he could not help but give his heart to her. But every attempt he had tried to make her his she would go cold and impossible. And now on the eve of his adventure he could not help but wonder what life would be without witnessing that most beautiful smile every day. “Shame on you Denomark, you have not even taken the time to ask me for a dance before leaving!” she said mock flirtatiously.

“I would have if it weren’t but all impossible to avoid the hugs and kisses of all the old women.” “I can understand them, I myself will miss you all and worry about you till you return.” “My mother has been crying from the day she received the news...” “All of them are.” “Leayna, I have to tell you...something, you see since I saw you on the day of my sixteenth year...” “No! Denomark! I know what you’re about to say, and, and I can not hear it!” She interrupted him, very upset. “Why do you do this? I can see in your eyes you feel the same and still you deny me! But you will not deny Berton! What makes him better?” anger came raging through his voice and Leayna shrunk backwards the words burning her heart. “You know why I can’t commit to you! Your heart, your life belongs to glory and battle, you’d leave me at the first sign of trouble! And I like him, Denomark, like him, nothing more!” She could not contain her sadness nor her pain, and soft tears came rolling out her eyes, they stung him for being so angered but nonetheless he continued. ‘I’d be fighting to keep you from harm!’ ‘It’s too late Denomark, just too late...’ And with these words she turned and stumbled sorrowfully away. ***

Denomark pulled his blankets off lazily as he was awoken by the horn of his captain, Hammelhor, assembling him and his companions to his captain’s side to ride to battle and war. He stood up and stood at his second floor window opening west to the

wall and saw the long shadows of buildings and trees caused by the early sun and the road with which he shall leave his old life behind. He wondered what fate awaited him. He had fought, and killed but only in small skirmishes and against rabble. His natural skill quickly gained him renown throughout the whole of Rhealdoné. He longed for battle, to fight what he believed in and bask in the glory of his actions. Also his long and rippled body paired with his blond hair highlighted by dark streaks fit the perfect description of a Rhealdonian warrior. And now after all this time he would know what it really felt like. His days of peace and boredom had come to an end. After putting on his armour and retrieving his gear he slowly went downwards and saw the first floor deserted, he took some bread and some meat and quickly ate. Becoming more nervous with every sounding of the horn. Finished with his improvised meal he went to his fathers’ stables, his father bred horses and sold them for profit, a business he took up after his service in the army. Slowly he opened the stable door; it was a small quaint stall with only place for six horses and a thin upper ledge upon which hay was stored. The horses still slept. He walked to the third pair of stables and went in the one on the right and slowly awakened his fathers’ most prized horse, the one he had given to Denomark the day before. Fyrton, he had named the stallion in honour of the greatest warrior Rhealdoné has ever borne. Tall and strong the horse stood as black as the iron coal of a smithy, a long flowing mane running down his neck, slowly Denomark saddled him and stroking his muzzle spoke to him: ‘You shall carry me well Fyrton and so I will protect you with all the strength I own, for a mighty horse like you with as fierce a rider as me will make our enemies tremble with fear and flee, we shall not retreat but always make our presence known, you and I shall become one.’ Smiling at his horse he took the horse by its bit and led him out to the road. Outside all his companions were already assembled saying their last goodbyes with hugs and kisses from atop their steeds. Mothers were crying and the fathers were sharing their

last wisdoms. He saw Berton being hugged and kissed on the cheek by Leayna and felt some of the previous evenings anger return, suppressing his feelings he walked over to his relatives. Before he reached them he felt his dog rubbing against his side and looked down straight down into the face of his golden mastiff, Dêar, and squatted down in front of the dog rubbing his ears and saying his final goodbye’s. ‘How do you feel my son?’ his mother asked worriedly. ‘I’m fine mother.’ He gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Oh my child, I will miss you every second. My love is with you.’ ‘I know and so I will too.’ He embraced her tightly. ‘Father, thank you for Fyrton, he will serve me well, I promise you I will look after him.’ He grabbed his fathers hand and forearm and his father returned the favour. ‘I gave him to you for a reason, to bring me and your mother our son back.’ Tears came to his fathers eyes. ’This is what you have been born for Denomark, make us proud.’ He smiled hopefully to his son and embraced him while still holding his arm. He also greeted his sister and his other friends throughout the village. And then after he was sure he greeted everyone saddled his stallion. He turned his horse to his company and just as he was about to spur Fyrton on he heard a familiar voice beside him and a tug on his arm he looked down and saw Leayna in tears beside him. ‘I’m sorry Denomark for how I treated you, and your right I do feel the same, Berton knows and he agrees with me... Please Denomark stay for...’She didn’t get to finish, Denomark spat before her and spurred on Fyrton up the hill to the road. How dare she, of all times, now she chooses to admit how she feels. How dare she! He rode on to his company anger plain on his face. ‘Denomark...’ Berton started but Denomark just rode by him like he didn’t exist and rode off ahead alongside Hammelhor their captain without a

word or a look back. He and Berton were best friends since they could walk their friendship almost as vast as that of his and Berton fathers that they forged in serving together. He and Berton ate together, thought together and travelled together, they would give their lives to save the other and were inseparable. But no friendship could withstand the love for a woman and under the weight of their love for Leayna, Denomark and Bertons friendship withered. Berton being the more calm and peaceful of the two was thus a far better choice for a husband than the fiery and glory hungered Denomark and thus Leayna distanced herself from Denomark and take Berton which fuelled a deep jealousy from Denomark. ‘What’s the matter son? Surely not regretting that you embarked on war with us?’ Hammelhor interrupted Denomarks trail of thoughts. He had taken to calling his closest men son since his own died defending their family from a raid of mountain fûragks five years ago. Turning his head away towards the sky Denomark shook his head. ‘No sir, just thinking about the life I left behind.’ He said softly refraining from revealing the full truth to his captain to avoid raising tension within their company. ‘You miss it? Well you don’t have to worry too much bout that son, we’ll be back in two weeks at the most, if we may live.’ He tried his best to make his rumbling voice more calm and caring which didn’t get out so well and was almost amusing to Denomark. ‘So, sir, have you received any news explaining why Maldour has suddenly decided to invade? It has been a long while since...’ ‘No idea boy, I guess their off on one of their mad, revenge inspired conquests again. Whether it’s because of a war hungry king filling his peoples heads with nonsense or something more deep and dark I do not know, but if idle talk is to be believed activity is picking up in the east, combined with this and the increasing number of northern raids it all feels very, very wrong.’ Denomark could hear the fear and haunting within his captains

voice and did not ask further but politely smiled and saluted and fell back behind his captain. ‘Are we the only ones coming from the north?’ he heard the voice of Foren, obviously the voice belonged to him because of the permanently high and nervous tone. ‘No you fool, we’re meeting three more companies at Hearth Mountain and to on the crossing of the bridge of Harnos, do you never listen?’ And that was Gruwaith, his obvious temper came from his heritage of the mountain people, ruthless and often barbaric they were always thought of as enemies till it was witnessed how a hunting party of them defended a Rhealdonian village in a fûragk raid in winter and from then on any one of them could claim Rhealdonian citizenship. Gruwaith had long stringy black hair and rough facial features rounded off by a rough albeit short beard. He strongly resembled his ancestors, the only exceptions being his leaner body and also his choice in weapons, normally it would be expected of his kind to wield an axe or heavy blade like a claymore but to the contrary Gruwaiths weapon of choice is a longbow and two one-sided blades, curved with leaf like points they were mainly forged for slashing and hacking your opponent. Although good with the blade Gruwaith is unmatched with the bow, his skills were known throughout the Rhealdonian army shooting a hare from one hundred and fifty paces. “You always sound like a rat bit you on the ass Gruwaith, what’s with the temper?” this comment from Berton brought grins to most of the men but Gruwaiths face remained unchanged. “War is not a joke, Berton, I choose to take it seriously.” a few men nodded in agreement and Foren turned his face, a little ashamed. They were now entering the beautiful rolling grass fields of Evelin so named in the old days after the wife of Engelmar, the first and last ruler of Esgroth-Marith as a single power. He dedicated it to her soft and gentle nature just like the green, soft grass atop the rolling hills rolling like waves all the way to the horizon. It

stretched from the centre of Rhealdoné to The Great Wall and just slipped south beyond the northern border of Dulair-Mon following the Worldly River. They had rode along at a gentle pace for the time being, almost four hours since they left his home village of Rahnen and the bitter cold was starting to get to him as the freezing air brushed his legs. It was by far the longest winter anyone alive in Rhealdoné had ever experienced; most people thought it was some kind of witchcraft. Their scout, the small and nimble Feran identical to his twin, Forens, came just on time to the deliver the update on the road ahead, being the lightest man with the fastest horse he was made scout of the company when he joined. “Hail! Sir Hammelor the road is clear ahead, no sign of trouble the only activity is a small band of wagons resting beside the road looks like traders, and I think I smelled hot soup and spotted a fire.” He said the last bit with a cheerful tone and everyone’s spirits lifted at the thought. The people of Rhealdoné were generous people and did not think twice about sharing food or giving warmth, it was very solemn that a trade wagon did not share food with someone along its way. “Thank you Foren. Ok men, who wants to stop for a warm fire and some soup?” Obviously all of them agreed and a few moments later they were sitting snug around the fire dinking soup and listening to one of the women singing a beautiful Rhealdonian war chant, The sun on the tomb, as old as Rhealdonian warfare itself this song described the glorious sight of the men marching to war, and at the end the women mourning the dead at their sun flower covered tombs. Just as he was about to slumber Denomark was wakened by the firm grip of Hammelhors’ hand on his shoulder and heard him whisper: “I’ll let you sleep later son but for now I have something to discus with you.” At first Denomark panicked, could Berton have told Hammelhor about their issues? He knew they could be sent home away from battle too cool down for that and that would not be acceptable...

but then again Berton was reasonable and would not ruin this opportunity for Denomark, he knew how much he craved to fight for his country and for glory. “Son a worrying fact has come to my attention...” Denomarks pulse quickened and he started to sweat, Would this be the end of all my dreams, my hopes, my aspiration? “I am old Denomark, my reflexes are slowing, my strength is failing.” Denomark feeling uneasy tried to act as proud and strong as he could to mask his fear and nervousness. ”And soon, if I survive I shall relinquish my position as captain and retire, which brings me to you.” “Ask anything of me sire but make it quick for the sake of my health.” “Haha oh to be young and hasty, ahh. Son I’m going to say this as is my nature. Forward and direct: Will you take my position and lead my men if I die?” “Are you sure my lord? I am a good fighter I’ll admit but to lead men? I have not yet learned how to think of others like a leader must.” “You’re an outstanding fighter for heavens sake! Have you noticed Denomark that in the middle of a battle the men look at you and not me for leadership and guidance. You were born to lead, if I give this honour to one of the elder of you how long will it take before you are somewhere that you can make a difference? After this battle I will step down to you, it has already been arranged. As I fear this might be Rhealdonés’ last battle, it’s better for the old to step down to the young.” ‘I’m overwhelmed Hammelhor, you’ve been as a father to me away from home, I will make the best of my new found position I swear.” He embraced Hammelhor with vigour and the old yet strong man gave him an over enthusiastic embrace. ‘You still carry the strength of a titan if my back is evidence enough.” They chuckled together and returned to the campfire where Denomark took the time to mull events over in his sleep.

Three hours later they were awoken by the same horn that was blown at their parting. Lazily they saddled, Foren was sent out to scout and they continued in the same easy pace on the same road to The Gate of Anduin where they would make their stand. Past small farming clusters they rode, children playing outside dressed in thick fur coats to protect them from the freezing cold, all of them ran after the party as far as they could spurring them on with youthful outcries. Rhealdonés warriors meant everything to it’s people, children grow up awaiting the day they come of age to be schooled in the various forms of warfare and become the next generation of heroes to their people, Rhealdone was after all the strongest military power in all of Esgroth-Marith and despite their loose style of warfare the most disciplined. The flock of sheep was the only sign of inhabitancy beyond the small clusters of wooden huts which in between people were scurrying about doing mundane household chores; it is one of the wonders of the land to be still barely look touched after an age of human contact. Its beauty seemed as endless its hills. Quietly they rode on side by side. The hills rolled by the company, never changing for miles till the landscape became all the more rocky and stone outcroppings of rough granite started to crawl out of the green field. They rode on till they reached the largest of these outcroppings where they could see the orange light of a campfire shining on the sides of the cavernous rock and the smell of roasting boar filling the air. There were at least thirty horses grazing around on the outlying green fields. ‘One company already arrived here sir, Denon has received news that Rodan will be arriving in two or three hours.’ Foren explained. Denomark sat down in the middle of the huge cavern, alongside one of the three fires; each had their own boar run through by a spear, roasting over a fire. These huge granite outcroppings was called Hearth mountains because of the warmth it gave off when a fire was lit inside, a perfect resting place in the cold of winter, strange enough snow began to fall despite it being only the beginning of winter. He had already greeted all his friends and

was now sitting comfortably on a log holding his hands out to be embraced by the warmth of the fire. He saw Hammelhor and the other captain talking furiously in the one dark corner. Denomark whistled and shouted ‘Gruwaith’ and waved him over. On his arrival he spoke hurriedly to him: ’Gruwaith, do you think you’d be able to overhear them,’ he gestured towards the two commander in the corner ‘it may be important.’ ‘Yes, I am, stay quiet.’ He put his head to one side and strained to hear them. Denomarks exceptional skill and bravery as a warrior had made them good friends and he deeply respected Denomark above the others. ‘He says that the total of our numbers barely reach three thousand, while the Maldourian force is well over sixty thousand.’ He looked grim, or as close to grim as can be. And Denomark understood why. They have only been sent to stall, maybe hold off one or two waves, he felt red hot anger rise within him, but as he took the soldiers Oath of Allegiance he could only grin and bear. ‘Damnit Gruwaith, are u sure about this?’ he asked in disbelief. ‘Yes, I heard him clearly.’ He stared deep within the fire and smiled as he spoke: ‘At least we die a hero’s death. Is that not why you fight Denomark? To die for your people?’ ‘Not to die, Gruwaith, to keep fighting with all the strength you posess, we fight to live, but just as long as your life is standing in the way of the deaths of others. ‘We Guruwan believe that when one dies in battle your soul gives your living brethren strength, it does not matter then if you live or die for you serve good both ways.’ ‘Then if both our lives are at stake, what shall we do? Flee to fight another day? Stand and fight? I know your answer already Gruwaith, your very last breath will be issued in defiance of your enemies. But what of the others? What will they decide?’

‘It is said amongst our people that you cannot judge a man by how he lives, but by how they die, and the way they choose to die... I believe those words.’ ‘So do I, Gruwaith, so do I.’ He said as he too stared into the consuming and warm embers of the flame. As Roden and his company arrived they all ate boar and drank moult, and then all went to bed as early as possible for the next day would bring a hard ride toward the bridge of Harnos and then a straight toward the wall. The next following morning they stood up early and started to ride after a light meal of cold meat, cheese and bread. For ours they rode with a speed and endurance only steeds borne of Rhealdonian blood could provide. Till midday they and stopped for the first time as they reached the bridge of Harnos, the third company already awaiting them on the near shore. Sitting under the warm cover of thick coats and around the dying embers of the previous nights campfire. Hammelhor, Roden and Denon halted the troops ad rode ahead calling for the other captain to join them in private while the rest rode on to join their new comrades. Denomark could see the other captain go into a rage as he was told the news of their errand, so much so that it took Hammelhor, Denon and Roden to quell his anger. ‘Doren doesn’t take to good to this new development does he?’ ‘Who would?’ he heard Berton ask in retort. ‘I’m not standing for this! If there is anyway to escape I’ll use my new responsibility as captain to all of you out alive. We are serving to fight not to be slaughtered!’ ‘You speak of treason, Denomark do not forget that we all took an oath.’ ‘Thurdan too took oaths when he was named king, and one of them was to rule with integrity and just, I see neither in what is happening right now and thus our oath is also forfeit.’

‘I’ll follow you whatever you decide Denomark, just make sure you decide right then, for all of us, please.’ ‘Ok everyone saddle up, double pace, Foren and the other scouts head out!’ The roaring voice of Hammelhor commanded, and they obeyed. The fire was put out and as everyone saddled they formed ranks and rode out. For many of them it meant the last ride. *** ‘Have you received news from our border legions Denain? Are they coming?’ the old, seemingly ancient voice of king Thurdan filling his hall, the only sound to be heard this early, at the birth of a new day. ‘Yes father, your full army will be mustered beyond your walls in a matter of a week,’ he paused seemingly lost in his own thoughts and then looked up and squinted as the sun coming shining gloriously from a rectangular window in the side of the triangular slated roof, supported by huge wooden beams and connected with gold bands and bolts, ‘I wish their was another way to gain time, I know the men took an oath, but all of them will surely die.’ “Have faith son, I gave them orders to hold till the end of the week, three days of siege at the most. The great Wall stands fortyfive feet high and the stones strengths like is not seen in EsgrothMarith in an age, still if they die then it is willed for they took an oath.” The old man seemed tired and drained, he had reached the age of one hundred and three, his bloodline stemmed from the Higher which helped him this far could not sustain him any longer. His death was expected by the turn of the new winter. ‘Ai, I know farther, but still... doubt circles my mind. You mean to go forth with your plans for Mudean?’ ‘I never cared for Arithians, even less when that bastard Sareth took power, Rheladoné must be stripped from all influences of those pagan fools. I despise them, even more than dying of old age in my own bed!’

‘You have been a great leader, father, do not reprimand yourself for being wise, or strong enough to avoid death. My only concern is of the many Rhealdonians inside the keep living like normal citizens, the soldiers won’t take kindly to seeing any of them dead. Neither would I.’ ‘They must grin and bear it, that’s the Rhealdonian way; I will not tolerate one of our own keeps in those swine nations’ hands! He looked about his hall and reached out his arm and slowly stroked the air with his hand, from one side to the other. ‘This hall represents all that is Rhealdoné, simple, strong and warmness to all who abide within its realm.’ The fireplace in the middle of the hall, the rows of wooden benches on each side, sturdy and uncomplicated structure supported his claims. ‘None of these qualities are among those of Arith-Moore. I have given them the choice to rejoin, and they have disobeyed me! And thus I’d rather risk a few lives than have them divide my kingdom!’ ‘Yes father,’ he could did not even make an effort to hide the sorrow and disappointment in his voice, he expected better from his father, especially concerning his own people. He knew his father ruthless towards his enemies but not towards his own kin, I will do as you ask my king. How many men must I take?’ ‘Six thousand will be sufficient, four thousand infantry plus two thousand cavalry. ’ ‘Quarter? ‘ he asked hopefully, already knowing the answer. “None.” ‘I will ride out as soon as there are enough to leave the balance of men behind.’ He said this without looking at his father, how could a man he held so high in his heart have such foolish hate? ‘Do so, you may leave me now to mull over the thoughts in my mind. Good day son.’ Denain bode his father-king farewell and left the hall, head held down in shame. He did not approve of his fathers reasoning, but

he would not go against the will of the man whom he held in such respect and admiration. He was a Rhealdonian and he will grin and bear. *** Denomark stood upon the wall. The freezing wind stung his face. He tightly held his hands in fists at his side as he looked into the horizon. The Maldourian encampments stretched over two miles to either side. Rows and rows of purple and gold tents, neatly arrayed in single files for as far as the eye could see. ‘Not the most welcome greeting to this war, now is it?’ Berton had also awoken earlier to prepare for the battle and had spotted Denomark on the wall. Having no one else to talk to he took to the flight of steps built of the same white/grey stone as the rest of the wall and ascended towards Denomark to talk. ‘No.’ He turned his head halfway around avoiding the friend whom he had put aside out of jealousy once, feeling hopeless for now as the have reformed their friendship it would soon again be torn apart by probable death. ‘How long do you think we’ll hold?’ he asked in futility, not understanding his friends’ sudden introversion. ‘They’ll send out a testing force first. Five, six maybe seven thousand men to test our strength, will, and to scout our depth in numbers as well as our strategy. From what Foren and Gruwaith could see their full force must be over sixty thousand.’ He turned his head back towards the lines of tents. The golden sun just rose above the horizon and its warm rays seemingly struggled with the winter cold for supremacy, for Denomark it was a small promise of change, a change he himself might not witness but still there was change which is a sign of hope not completely lost. He turned his back to the wall ad gave his friend a boyish grin. ‘At least the cold is passing, if I had to live a month more like this I’d think of immigrating.’

Berton smiled absently at this dry humour, but he felt sympathy. After all if a man can’t smile at his inevitable death it would just be all the more bitter to embrace. They both stood side by side, leaning upon the wall, staring unto the land of Maldour which had been separated from their culture for so long, held of by the most magnificent defensive structure of Esgroth-Marith. And now this other world was threatening not only the very structure that had kept them prisoner for so long but also the existence of those who built it. They stood there in unison, pondering over this strange new race that would in less than the length of a day collide so violently with their own as to alter their history forever. They wondered of their culture, tradition, warfare and stance towards the races of Esgroth-Marith. They left at last a few hours later as the rising horn blew, signalling all to wake up and get their last calm meal before war. At noon, as the sun hit it’s peak deployment began. Four thousand men were placed upon the wall, and another five hundred of the more largely built men were put at the gate in ranks. More had arrived than expected to the relief of the field commander charged as commander of the north-western forces of Rhealdoné. Still they were far outnumbered, and to defend still confirmed death. All measures had been taken to halt their inevitable demise. The field had been lain with freth, an oily mixture of highly fammable substances, small amounts burning for hours, sticking to everything and burning with unimaginably hot and sweltering flames. The same substance had been cured into bandages and tied bound around bow points. Lanterns had been planted every two yards to light the arrows and fire the field of oil, buying at least another five hours of precious moments. Denomark stood with Hammelhor at the front of their company upon the wall when, emerging from the ranks of Maldourians, two huge beasts, as fifty five feet in length and fifteen in breadth, with huge curved horns curling back from their cavernous nostrils and coming out of thick leatherish grey skin. The were heavily armed with golden helmets and golden scales about their neck and feet.

Their build strongly represented those of a rhinoceros, the only exceptions their unearthly size, horns and stout tail dragged on the ground behind them. Behind them a richly adorned golden carriage, laid in with unknown purple gems, and with the front shaped as some sort of daemon helmet. Rode a tall man, armoured in the same gold armour and purple coloured cape and linen as the rhinoceros and carriage and wore a similar demonic helmet. The beasts rode on till just out of bow range and then turned, stopping with the carriage in line with the wall. The man faced the wall of defenders, and breathing deeply he lifted his hand to speak: ‘Pitiful defenders of your realm, thou standeth in futility towards the might of the mighty Maldour.’ A cheer rose from their ranks, but not one of joy or enthusiasm, but one brimming with pride and bloodlust, he paused waiting for the overwhelming roar to calm down. ‘We march forth with a number of more than eighty thousand; thou can not withstand the carnage released upon thee. The only way for thou to live past this battle is to put down thy arms and be as slaves among the new masters of Esgroth-Marith. Replieth if thou are worth any measure of honour!’ their ranks erupted with insults and lewd remarks. Shaking spears and blades blinded all with the millions of reflections from the noon sun. Through all this the Rhealdonian sense of worth and discipline stayed intact and they stood still, as one upon the wall and towers. No sound to be heard. ‘Can thou not thinkest of an answer to the kings generous offer? Thou art less a match than any among us imagined.’ Hammelhor turned and nodded at Gruwaith, who in reply quietly and calmly took out his longbow, tested his string and knocked his arrow. He pulled the string halfway and waited with the bow held half raised. Awaiting the final signal. The messenger laughed in reply. ‘I am the mightiest man on earth and thou seeks to slay me with the most cowardice of weapons? Face me by sword if thou art men!’ anger and disgust unhidden came bellowing from his tone of voice.

Hammelhor gave Gruwaith the final nod. He raised his bow. He pulled his string taught and took aim. The man stood still and Gruwaith fired. The arrow seemed to move through the thick called air at half speed and everyone held it in their gaze. There was an infuriated roar as the man bent down clutching his side. the arrow has hit it’s mark although just barely. ‘You’re puny attempts will not avail you, loathsome swine!’ there was none of the well spoken dialogue of before, but an uncanny hate and despise. ‘The destruction of this repulsive excuse for a kingdom disgusts me, you have no honour, no bravery. I will kill every one of you until there is only you’re wives and children left whom will be murdered to the last! Filthy swine!’ And with a spat he once more took up the golden chains an crackled his brown, leather whip which made the humongous, lumbering beasts along the ranks of men as the humiliated commander swore and cursed and routed his own men before him and as he started to disappear among the attacking force a single flurry of noise was unleashed from the Rhealdonian defenders. ‘You’re skill with the bow still amazes me, Gruwaith. That man must have been at least four hundred yards away!’ Denomark complimented his friend along with the others in the near vicinity. ‘It makes little difference, even if I killed him we would still lose.’ He replied in his indifferent barbarian way. ‘Every little helps!’ he heard Berton exclaim. He looked back over the field as attacking ranks were being formed amongst the Maldourians. Every little helps, every little helps. ‘Ok men this is goin’a be a hard one, they might look finely dressed but they are a well disciplined lot. Now I want no fooling around and no one man for himself, you will risk you’re own life to save your comrades.’ Hammelhor addressed his company as all captains did before a battle and his big, rigid voice demanded attention as he paced this way and that before the thirty men in his charge. ‘The key to any defence is to stay together as one

unyielding force. I’ve received orders to let the soldiers faced by a siege tower to take out your long spears and shields, spear the bastards before their feet touch the wall, those of you who will take this responsibility fall into two ranks of seven each. The rest of you divide into half. One half with bows and the others with sword and shield. You can be called upon anywhere in the defence if you are needed, so be alert.’ He looked back over the wall and waited. The men subsided into nervous talk and proceeded to categorise themselves. Half an hour passed till the first ranks stated to make their wa at an orderly pace towards the walls it took awhile for the offending army to get within the small range of the Rhealdonian short bows, the only defiance to them was the deadly shafts of Gruwaiths longbow whistling through the air at a staggering rate. By the time they were in range the huge siege towers had reached the front ranks and men started to line up behind the structures for cover. Bows sang throughout the wall loosing their accurate load upon the attackers as the ballista’s spread out evenly shot huge bolts decimating everything in its path, but the offensive force did not hesitate as both army and towers rumbled forward over the snow plain leaving enormous tracks in their wake, towards their mark. ‘Alright shields forward, spears down.’ The towers were within fifty paces. ‘This is your first true test as warriors, remember the code.’ Forty paces. The voice of Hammelhor calmed all with its resolute tone. ‘Kill not of hate but for the name of Rhealdonê.’ Thirty paces. Every sound except those nearest could be heard as the rumble of the siege towers overwhelmed every other noise. ‘Your life is only worth as much as the man next to you, you help him stay alive he do the same.’ Twenty paces. Everything was calming down, archers fired their last arrows in preparation for the onslaught that would be unleashed from the towers. ‘And if need be your life must be willingly given in the name of Rhealdonê!’ Ten paces. Huge beasts, formed like men but brown

of skin, patched with small scales and with horned heads could be seen pushing the towers. No sound was to be heard except for the rumbling of wheels upon the hard soil ‘Alright men, prepare yourselves!’ Hammelhor shouted as the towers fulfilled their journey. Time stood still in the last three seconds of peace in Esgroth-Marith when at last the huge doors of the siege towers fell forward, creating a bridge between the siege tower and the wall. Men armoured to the teeth in gold and wearing purple tunics poured out, most of them to be speared or shot down. The few that made it towards the wall started to fight barbarically with the defenders as a steady stream of identical figures scaled the ladders of the towers and jumped to the wall. ‘Drop your spears! You’re going to get killed!’ Denomark shouted as he jumped forth deflecting a violent slash at his head with his shield and turned around running the aggressor through. The night air was filled with the screams of pain and cursing yells as the two unsurpassed military powers of Esgroth-Marith engaged each other in a desperate clash for supremacy. Organization and discipline gave the Rhealdonians an overhand though they struggled to suppress the powerful onslaught of this new deadly foe. They were fiercely trained and did not die easy or without struggle, often a severely wounded Maldourian would stand up and fight until he is slain for sure. All the while Hammelhors booming voice was heard over the clatter of battle as the big captain flung about his axe, which on impact left a grievous bloody wound, a hit meant certain death. All the archers also had their sword out and Gruwaith used his superior agility to his advantage, ducking and deflecting his enemies blows till there was an opening for him to pounce upon. ‘Ahh!’ Hammelhor exclaimed as he wrenched apart the bodies of several opponents with one blow of his axe. ‘Back to your mothers you arrogant rats. There will be no mercy for your souls if you step upon the soil of my home!’ Their heroic captain seemed immortal standing over the corpses of those who had opposed him, gloriously he stood and roared as he fought the endless torrent of

Maldourians. But this Denomark had no time to notice, in a bid to buy time for the spear wielding men to unsheathe their swords and shields he had charged in between them and the siege tower, and now he was in the thick of the battle fighting on every side, his blade dancing in the night air and his shield sounding every time it was called upon to save its master. ‘I need help!’ he vainly shouted, knowing none would come, he had no idea how long the offensive has lasted and he didn’t know how much of the wave was left, he only knew he was becoming weary and the light Rhealdonian armour that had given him an advantage above the heavy adornment of the Maldourian infantry would not avail him much longer. I’m so tired, ahh can’t hold much longer, but the wave was seven thousand at most, killed at least a thousand five hundred to two thousand with bow fire, another thousand before they got a hold on the wall. Dammit it’s not enough! ‘Ahh! Enough! I will not go down here, not now!’ And he picked up his shoulders and a new power filled him, a power of destiny, once more he sprang amidst his foes and cut them down with his short sword given to him by his father. And whispering quietly to himself he kept on going. ‘Oh gods above, give me strength, I cannot fail, I know my destiny goes farther than an unnecessary death in a fixed battle!’ ‘Look! The wave is gone, oh thank the gods!’ and just as the assault began it was ended, disorientated Denomark fell to the ground on hands and knees catching his breath as he adapted to the sudden peace. ‘By the heavens, Hammelhor is this what every real battle is like?’ He could not identify the voice that spoke to their captain. ‘All the madness, blood, death?’ ‘Yes Dernas, but these men were driven by some hate, almost like revenge.’ Hammelhors eyes ran over the fallen as Denomark turned to lie on his back still gasping for air, his one knee slightly bent, looking up at the grey sky of clouds. ‘I cannot grasp what would drive men to such a degree.’ He spat over the wall as he

sighted Denomark. ‘Are you ok Denomark? Wounded? Brave thing you did son, stupid, but brave.’ ‘Yes, sir, I’m just worn out.’ He blinked and saw Berton standing over him his hand outstretched to help up his friend. ‘I must be either mad from this hit to the head or I truly witnessed a miracle. Denomark squinted and saw blood flowing down Bertons face. ‘What you talking about? And what happened to your head?’ As his senses recovered he became aware of the groans of the injured and dying, and the corpses of the dead he saw laying around him. Strain lined his boyhood companion’s features as he struggled with his own exhausted state. And talked all the while to Honin, another who had survived. ‘How many do you think they were Honin?’ ‘Ehh not more than seven...’ But he was interrupted by Gruwaiths firm voice. ‘Six, only six thousand.’ He spat in disgust. ‘Six!? You must be joking Gruwaith! If that was only six thousand then what can a hole eighty thousand do?’ Berton looked horrified. ‘Annihilate everything that stands in their way, our ancestors did not pick their enemies wisely.’ Denomark participated. ‘No that they did not.’ Hammelhor face slackened and he looked around at his men and then on those who had fallen, their body’s strewn along the wall in a pitiful manner emphasizing the fragility to of live. ‘This is truly a piteous attempt at buying time, sacrificing over four thousand good men for a day?’ He glared his captain ferociously in the eye and as in the battle he felt a thin string of some power channel through him and without knowing what he was doing he channelled it through his eyes and to his tongue and spoke with resolution and conviction. ‘You must talk with the others Hammelhor! You know we will not survive another wave! We’ll all die for naught but to lift the enemy’s spirits!’

Hammelhor looked into Denomarks eye and saw a glint of something. A something that speaks of power and reason, a something that will be obeyed and not cast aside and he could not help but look at the death, the horror around him and not feel changed. ‘Aye son, we will go and speak with him, but I do not think that it would do much good... The king made sure to pick his most loyal to be in his commanding positions, he will not be easy to convince.’ ‘If there is a chance I’ll take it, Hammelhor it’s not right, this sacrifice, slaughter of kinsmen.’ A murmur of agreement was heard from all around as more had joined to hear the conversation and rebellious shouts could be heard from the crowd. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Hushing sounds now replaced those of rebellion as Lord Armegahor stepped within the empty circle. Old and wrinkled he was but still his stern, almost ancient features forced respect upon those under him. ‘The kings orders was straight forward, I do not think that I have reason to repeat it.’ ‘Now, now Armegahor, we were just...’ Angered Denomark interrupted his captain. ‘You fool! You would let these men die at your command? You’re as unfit as a general as was the command to bring us here in the first place!’ Calmly the general turned towards Denomark and haughtily looked him up and down. ‘Respect has deteriorated within your company Hammelhor, I suggest you see to it before the next assault. That will be all of this.’ ‘Ahhh! You impudent rat.’ Denomark yelled at the commander. ‘What did you say? Do you not realise the respect my position deserves?’ ‘I give respect where it is due.’ He stared down his commander not letting down. The commander gave a smirk and looked sternly from behind his rodent like nose, his eyes darting about betraying his bodily

calmness; he knew the men were against him. ‘If you do not save us we save ourselves!’, ‘You are a good commander Armegahor, do not let this foolishness cost you that title.’ Such and various other remarks reverberated from within the gathered crowd and for the first time Lord Armegahor wavered in command. ‘Please Armegahor listen to the men, you know as well as any that only death lies here.’ Hammelhor pleaded. And for a moment their was utter silence, no one moved or made a sound the growing anticipation overwhelming all attempts at communication. ‘Fetch oil and throw it upon the siege towers, we will hold out as long we can and the escape behind the flames.’ Shouts of joy echoed and men hurriedly ran of to fetch the magnificent oil. Denomark started to walk away but as he came next to Armegahor he was grabbed at the biceps and pulled closer by the commander. ‘I may have been soft now boy, but rest assured this betrayal will not go unpunished. As soon as we reach Duranhail you will be trailed and released from your position.’ Pushing him away the Field Commander of the North West left. ‘Well that was easy.’ Berton mused. Denomark bowed his head and looked backward at his friend. ‘That depends on who you are.’ He had saved his companions at a great cost that he still struggled to justify in his mind. ‘Ok now that that’s over, I am going to get some meat in my stomach and some ale.’ And with that the captain was off and preparations began. Freth was thrown in bowls and all arrows dipped in the dark, thick ooze of oil to be blazed and fired at the retreating signal. New spears were handed out between the men and new ranks formed, to eliminate the mess of unprotected men with shields a rank of swordsmen were placed between the spears in front of the spearmen. As a final stalling attempt the ladders of the towers was loosened for quick removal after the field of freth has been sent into an inferno. The siege began as before, with Maldourians pouring out of the towers just as the sun set beneath the horizon, again men fell before foot touched the wall as the

deadly spear points held of the attackers. The siege had now dragged on for hours and was it visible the moon would have displayed in the centre of the sky. The Rhealdonian defenders disposed of every attacker, and every attacker was replaced by a new one, so that their numbers seemed unending. After long about six hours of siege their was not a wielded spear left and battle was now spread all over the wall in hand to hand combat. Just as the Maldourians started to get a hold on the wall and the defenders started to waver a long hoped for horn sounded throughout the air. The tower bridges were lit and the attackers held of by the incinerating blaze. Fire arrows flew through the night air and as they hit the oil-covered fields an inferno rose up and the siege towers were ablaze, muffled shouts could be heard as men scrambled to safety, but there was no such thing, with fire spreading down and up every man in the tower was burnt down. All went well for the defenders desperate plan, or so they thought until Hammelhor, blowing the last signal of retreat was silenced by a spear, thrown from within the blazing towers it caught him in the chest. And then all stood still in the eyes of the company of Hammelhor, as their icon, their leader fell to the ground with death in his face and eyes. A Stretcher was made and carried in silence to the wall, but of all the company, Denomark alone remained, he stared in hate upon the host outside the boundaries and mourned the loss of his captain. Then in one fell swoop his mourning was turned into astonishment as a hole appeared in the wall of flames and a dark figure seemingly devouring the light of the flames around him stepped forth and held up his hand and a fell wind-like voice filled Denomarks ears: ‘You need not merely fear men, but the League of Doom as well, for evil itself has called on your gate and is here to burn your homes, your lands and your families.’ And at that moment a wave of shock erupted from his hand and a section of the wall exploded, again and again this happened and muffled shouts could be heard through the roaring as bodies went

flying into the cold night air and Denomark ran, knowing that only death could be found on the walls. ‘What is that?’ he heard one of his companions ask, but he did not have time to answer as he jumped on his horse and started leading is men in a full fledged withdrawal. Like ants the men of Rhealdoné saddled and rode off, turmoil the only power as unbelief and fear took over. Long they rode till deep into the night when a halt was called. Horses were left to sleep and all soldiers found a place to lay down and rest, Denomark grouped his companions, and as of last night his men, to make an account of the dead and announce the news of his ascension in rank to captain. By a count all were there, except their captain and those that did not know his fate were soon enlightened. Sorrow was plainly evident among the company. Hammelhor had not just been a leader but a father away from home, he had trained with them and lost with them. His death seemed an irrevocable blow to not only them but to the whole of Rhealdoné. They where now near the Bridge of Harnos and they would cross it the next day. ‘Who shall now lead us when our captain lay dead?’ Asked a short man from the back, named Heinu. ‘Hammelhor never did proclaim an heir to his captaincy.’ Denomark tilted up his head, looking Heinu in the eyes. ‘His heir is standing in front of you, Heinu, friend.’ He gave a grim smile at the astonishment on his men’s faces. ‘You lie!’ Donian shouted, an angered look upon his face. ‘If this were so he would have announced it to us all! And why would he choose you? You are merely a man and here you would have us believe you were chosen as captain! I am NOT a fool. Though the way the rest of you show me otherwise of yourselves.’ At this Heinu stepped forth and slightly raising his arm, the gesture giving him authority to speak. He was now the oldest amongst them and his voice carried some weight. ‘Your anger and

your insults are unneeded here, Donian, I see no lie in his eyes...’ Denomark, has Hammelhor sent confirmation to king Thurdan?’ ‘Yes he has.’ He said these words only halfway aware of it as he stared challengingly at Donian. The older mans resolve weakening as those sapphire blue eyes penetrated his soul until he finally looked down at his feet. ‘I will not be led by you, pup.’ His words were hollow, he now knew he was alone. Thus he turned around and walked away to the main camp, turning his back on Denomark, a great dishonour in Rhealdonian culture and almost Denomark answered if not for the firm hands of Heinu and Berton. ‘Let it go, Denomark, he is like a tiger with a thorn in his foot, according to him he should have been next in line, you are young and thus he is disgraced.’ At this he let go, sensing calm in his boyhood friend. ‘Gruwaith, get some food.’ “Yes captain.” Gruwaith answered, respect in his voice ‘I will go and help him carry.’ Berton said. ‘I beg of you, Denomark, do not do a deed in haste, and let the taunt of Donian go for the sake of all that is good.’ And with this he was off at a trot behind Gruwaith, throwing his shield and weapons to the ground. ‘You’d better go and meet with the other captains Denomark , they would maybe like to know who of Hammelhor and our new captain.’ He gave Denomark a encouraging smile and walked of to a broken piece of a tree stem, sat down and lit a pipe, blowing circles of smoke high into the air as he hummed The Sun on the Tomb. Denomark softly repeated the hymn in his head as he thought of his former captain, and his new duties he still did not feel ready to take on. He looked at Dornin and Furdon and beckoned them to the body of Hammelhor, asking them to carry his leather stretcher behind him. As the norm the commanders tent where the captains would be summoned stood in the centre of the camp and already most of the captains were there, adorned in their white and brown leather armour. Everyone were talking

rapidly, recounting their kills, mourning their dead and most of all planning their fate should the king punish them for their withdrawal. Unexpectedly a horn blew in the commanders’ tent and a few officers stepped out. ‘Captains Rugard, Denon, Finor, Eririas, Domin and Aghor and have been announce deceased, the Commander Armegahor is unaccounted for and anyone with information on his condition is asked to step forward, in place of Armegahor, I, Delnan shall act as Commander of the North–Western Force of Rhealdoné. First of all, if any other captains are unaccounted for or diseased, I would ask their heir to step forth and announce his fate, the heirs of the deceased must meet us at the commanders tent to receive their Captains Brooch and their orders. That will be all.’ Denomark immediately felt another pierce of pain as he heard the mention of Denon and as he looked back over his shoulder into the face of Roden he saw the same pain in his face. Slowly he put up his hand and spoke aloud. ‘Hammelhor fell this night, defending the retreat of our company he was pierced by a spear in his chest. I watched him die in there is no doubt as we have brought his body with us for he deserves the burial of a hero.’ He nodded his head backwards toward the two men carrying the stretcher and a flurry of whispers broke out. Few were as respected as Hammelhor and most knew would soon have stepped down. Denomark beckoned with his hand for the two men to follow him as he started his walk to the centre of the meeting and alongside the chest all bowed down. ‘Hammelhor...’ Delnan breathed. ‘By the gods son, the light in your eyes betrays your true purpose for you are surely a bringer of foul news.’ Delnan looked shocked and despaired as he ran his hand along the side of the stretcher. ‘Would you have said the same if another had brought his body? I am Denomark, Hammelhor was as a father away from home and his loss grieves me as much as you. I am his appointed heir, though it is yet only known to the king Thurdan.’

Sorrowfully Delnan looked up at Denomark and shook his hand as he said: ‘I am sorry my friend, I did not seek to insult, Hammelhor was a dear friend of the family and I did not expect to see him dead. Ahh, Denomark, I swear I have heard this name, are you not the young sword master that Hammelhor so admired?’ ‘It is I master Delnan. I will now leave his body with you, as you must know better what to do than me.’ Denomark said as he and Delnan shook hands. ‘I will remember your name, Denomark, and know that you now hold a new ally in your heart. The orders are not much nor difficult. Merely make your way to the fields south of Duranhail at the muster of the army.’ He gave Denomark a look of admiration and with a final clutch of his hand he sent him back to his men. Although Denomark was grieved at the loss of his captain he could not help but feel relieved at the loss of Armegahor for now at least his honour is preserved. When Denomark and his companions arrived at the small camp they had set aside for themselves it had already been already set up. Various elephant hides were upheld by long wooden spears to form a rough canopy next to which a fire crackled. Leaning against an old oak tree, Ernon was playing his fluit. The song was familiar to Denomark, in Rahnen it was always played at the beginning of spring while men and women with hair full of flowers, danced and laughed, ate and drank all night long in the happiest possible mood. At his fate a fire crackled in blazing anticipation of its prey to roast, circled by stones to stop the fire from spreading further along the dry grass of late winter and the spreading warmth of the fire felt almost as good for the body as if the had had a descent meal to eat. As for Déan, Hindol, Hamor and Foren they were making ready their place to rest while Feran and Denain, who shares the name of the prince, were feuding about some matter to themselves. The others were busy with their own matters. Dolanon, as usual, was busy writing on a piece of parchment, Denomark could see from his posture and the uneasiness of his hand as it scribbled something secret. Kneeling down beside him

Denomark could see his face flushed and his eyes surrounded by dark blackish rings. “What’s wrong, Dolanon?” Denomark asked with an intensity in his voice. “You do not seem well.” At first it appeared as though Dolanon did not here him, or maybe did not want to hear him, as if his fear if exposed would somehow do him harm. ‘Dolanon?’ This time there was more sympathy in his voice, but the intensity to have Dolanon give an answer was still there. As if the final sympathetic cry of his name aroused him he looked up into Denomarks eyes, a sort of fear was within them along with a wettish gleam that expressed a wanting to confess and escape the confines of himself. Then suddenly, he recoiled and crept within himself and the hand that had stood still for a while had begun to write again. ‘No, what? I, I, I’m fine.’ Once more Denomark looked with great sadness at this withdrawn figure, he and Dolanon had never had much attraction towards one another but he could not help but feel empathy for this tragedy in flesh. ‘You talk to me when you feel like it, okay?’ Then standing up again he muttered to himself: ‘I guess battle can claim a man in other ways than death.’ Berton and Gruwaith had just arrived and the meat was being cut us final preparations were made in the fire for dinner. Hammelhor had died and all went on as normal. He could not help but wonder what difference his passing would make if this is how life goes on.

Chapter2: The plight of the people The giant wooden gates swung up with a great creak as its ancient hinges laboured to open the thirty-six foot high and fifteen foot long doors that moved slowly outwards. Long wooden planks ran up the gate with only a single band of copper of about a foot in width decorated solely by a line of single round spikes running straight through the front of the gate and also around its edges. As the doors neared there stop you could see that they were a yard thick and consisted of two rows of wood on the outsides, two iron rows within these and then another thick row of wood in the middle, it was a formidable gate, unyielding and seemingly unbreakable. The streets within the gates were busy with all kinds of activities, here children ran about playing there games, there merchants were selling there goods, and filling the streets were not just the usual inhabitants of the city of Duranhail but also

those evacuated from the west to protect them from the onslaught of the Maldourian invasion. Before becoming one with the mulling crowd Denomark looked back to the thousands of tents set up in the Plain of Duranhail, a great grass field stretching from the Worldly River in the east to the River of Harnos and filling two thirds of the Rhealdonian Southnorth length. Then he looked to the east, far off plumes of smoke could be seen reaching up to the heavens, these were the signs of the first landing of Maldourians upon the land of Rhealdoné, four days after the siege. He had never thought he would here or see the drums of war and now he was to leading in one. Then his eyes met those of Dolanon whose black hair looked even darker and his eyes and face followed suit Denomark winced from pity. Surprisingly he could feel the beat of these drums in his heart. Slowly he rode into the city of Duranhail pondering this new feeling. As they began to become one with the crowd their spirits were raised one had no time to think of battle in this complete feeling of civilization, selling merchants replaced the screams of the dying, cheerful music those of the war drums. As they lost their sense of time they drifted slowly on towards the Kings Hall in the centre of Duranhail. As they reached the gate of the inner wall they dismounted, introduced themselves and marched on unto the steps of the hall which led them straight to the door. On each side a man stepped forth, took a handle and swung the doors open. Denomark thought at first it was a cosy hall, large but not empty two rows of benches ran along the sides of the wall which was lightened by small rectangular wholes in the roof and the fire which has burnt on since the resurrection of the hall. Captains, Commanders and Generals stood and watched with interest at the interruption all adorned in the armour of their amp. ‘Ahh you must be Denomark, how long have I not waited to greet you in my hall! Champion of the Rhealdonian arena and honoured hero. A lass I do miss Hammelhor, he spoke a lot of you, and I must say I could not have chosen a more able leader.’

Denomark slightly winced at the shot he got from Berton in the ribs bringing him back from the shock at receiving such hail from his king. Suddenly he bowed with his right arm leaning on his right thigh. ‘Hail king Thurdan, I am honoured.’ ‘Stand, stand my lad! Where are my manners? He turned from side to side, smiling at the still confused onlookers. Denomark stood up as straight and regal as possible. ‘Denomark has been summoned to my hall to be relieved of his duties as a soldier and be introduced to his new post as captain.’ And with a flick of his fingers he ushered Denomark forward, reluctantly he obeyed, still daunted by his surprisingly warm reception. Within a pace of Thurdan Denomark again knelt on one knee and bent his head down, his helmet cradled in his right arm. He felt a hand gently upon his head ‘I, King Thurdan, King of Rhealdoné and High Lord of the Rhealdonian army, now bestow upon you the rank of captain, the vows you have taken remain. But the oath should now drive your actions stronger than ever.’ The king lifted Denomarks head with his hands. ‘Have you any qualms to this?’ Once again Denomark wavered, was he old enough to have the wisdom for such responsibility? And just as he wanted o protest he could once again feel the drums of war beat with the same steady, daunting rhythm of his heart and the urge to do what he was born to do, lead men overtook him. ‘No, I accept.’ Was his simple reply. ‘Good! Now bring forth the branding iron so this new allegiance can be grounded in the flesh as a constant reminder of the new duty.’ The king made another gesture with his hand and Delnan, now Commander Delnan of the North-Western Forces stepped forward, a black branding iron with a glowing head in his hand, roughly the king pulled up Denomarks sleeve and chain of his left arm. He stood frozen for a moment in shock but then regained his composure, and as the iron seared his flesh he barely flinched, his discipline allowing him to numb all feeling.

As the wound cooled he looked down and saw a horse, red and raw, staring out of his skin, his head slightly tilted to one side and his hair blowing in the wind. ‘This horse, a symbol of our power shall guide you from now on, now go Denomark and find honour and glory in your name and Rhealnoné’s. You can make your way to the armoury to receive your captains’ armour and your captains’ amulet. And with this The Legacy of Denomark, leader of men began. And as they left the hall and Berton, his right hand man looked to his right into the face of his friend, his brother and his captain and the rising suns light formed a golden halo around his head and the beams of triangular light spiralled outwards reaching into all the corners of the world of men and from some deep of place in his heart he knew this man was great, this man was hope. *** It was a cold night and heavy clouds of rain where forming from horizon to horizon in each direction. Though the clouds promised rain and storms but the night was in no way ominous to Denomark, to the contrary he thought it was cool and calm. He had just come back from the armoury when he donned his captain’s armour, out of respect he had gone to Hammelhor in his soldiers’ armour, in which he had served Hammelhor. He stood now outside his party’s tent, enjoying the little time alone in the cool weather, far behind him Duranhails great walls loomed even darker against the already dark night air, and the hill upon which the Kings Hall was built was clearly visible as the lantern lights of buildings followed the great hills incline and shaped it clearly in the dark. His captains’ armour seemed highlighted in the dark; the torso was mainly white leather, drawn over metal plates as to allow mobility in the torso. It was decorated by brown and red and pinkish paint, he wore a bright, dark green garment underneath. Bordered by bright yellow fabric, inscribed with runes, he held his brown and gold helmet under his arm, he wanted to feel the gentle air sweep against his face.

Confidently he put on his helmet and stepped through the tents door flaps where he was met with a voluptuous whistle. And an exclamation from Doldar: ‘Ooh Denomark, you look so pretty! Who would be the lucky boy to take you to next years Winter Dance?’ this brought a horde of laughter from everyone and a flush to Denomarks cheeks, which made him thankful he was wearing his helmet. ‘Doldar, thanks to Denomark looks like your mother will yet again not be able to find herself a partner to the dance.’ Said Berton, ale and a day of indulgence of every kind had now turned the tent into a circus and Denomark, seeing his chance to slip away unnoticed disappeared into the night again. He felt some what disheartened; he had not yet gained the respect he needed from his men. He might have seemed lonely walking among the streets of Duranhail alone and seemingly lost, but to Denomark he felt a strange sense of fulfilment walking alone in the refreshingly cool night, wandering around without any sense of responsibility or haste. He lingered on until he reached a large inn which yelled with laughter, cheering, music and the occasional thumps of a fist fight, the perfect place to recruit soldiers. The in was square shaped and two stories high and built out of strong oak, roughened by many fights and many years, with a triangular roof made of wood, painted red. A simple wooden plank hung swinging above the door with an engraved spear pointing inwards and engraved words revealing the name: The Warrior’s Brood. Pausing a moment to reflect on this awkward name he then stepped inside, the cool air was replaced with humidity, silence with cheerful music and aloneness with overwhelming presence. The inn was furnished with round tables and simple chairs, a fireplace burned to his left below a stone chimney and was surrounded by couches, to his right maids ran to and fro, occasionally sped up by the odd pinch and on the far side an innkeeper stood, cleaning a goblet while sternly watching all happenings in his business. He had a bald head and wrinkled forehead, circled by a fuzzy band of

brown/gray hair, he was attired in a simple brown vest accompanied with a white apron. The maids wore light blue dresses and white aprons with a white cap on their heads. He peered round and saw in a corner three soldiers, still in their armour but without their helmets, sitting alone and drinking slowly, looking grim and foreboding, slowly Denomark walked over to them. His own men might laugh but these did not know him, and they had better play safe regarding his higher rank. With confidence he sat down casually, threw a coin on the table, called over a barmaid and asked over his shoulder for a beer while looking the men over steadily as they looked barely away from their drinks, still distraught by whatever put them in this disposition. After a while he calmly asked: ‘Are you alone? Where is the rest of your company?’ At this the brown haired man to his left stopped drinking but looked down into his glass as if the mirror of drink had some matter of importance to discuss, the further downed his glass and the nearest, whom looked strangely familiar, put down his glass, looked down and said: ‘Their dead, all of them...’ at this the others looked uncomfortable and Denomark also felt a strange, depressing tinge. ‘What happened!?’ he asked half incredulously, half trying to maintain his superiority. ‘Those, wizards or spellcrafters or whomever came through the fire, one of their spells hit the wall right where we stood, a Maldourian took me down, which had saved me, but the rest...’ He had for moments briefly looked Denomark in the eye as if he craved some solace from a higher rank, but Denomark, now unsure looked uncomfortably down like all the others. ‘I need men, two, but if all three of you want to join, I can deal with it.’ Tension immediately reduced as the subject was changed, and Denomark felt amazingly relieved. ‘My name is Denomark, I was under Hammelhor, but he was slain, at the wall, I do not pretend to be the best captain, but I can fight, and train and we

hunt often. You do not have to be alone.’ With this all three looked up and his eyes flashed hope and strength into their hearts. ‘I will need your names if you are interested.’ He waited a while, calmly watching them one by one. ‘Dorinas, Dori if u prefer, captain.’ This came from the dark haired man in the corner, who had looked most troubled, heartened by his friends awakening, the nearest also spoke, his name was Ydin and he was half Arithian. Now they all looked questioningly looked at the brown haired man, the only one who had not yet spoken, his face seemed drawn with anger now and his knuckles where white as his grip on his beer forced the blood away. ‘Dolnin?’ Ydin asked as he took hold of the mans pint. Slowly he looked up. ‘Will you lead us so that we may have our revenge? They took them all, every single one and I want them to pay.’ He now had a clear snarl on his face as he looked sideways at Denomark. ‘We were with Denon, we met you at the Hearth, you must above all understand our anger, our frustration and our hate.’ With the last hate a cruel trick of timing allowed the light from the fireplace reflect red light across his face as he poked his thumb into his chest and glared down at everyone at the table so as to challenge them out to rule their feelings any less aggressive. He looked like an animal, no a beast, his eyes were wild and his teeth clenched, and hate poured out of him till at last he noticed his violent behaviour and calmed down unwillingly and sat back in his seat and downed the rest of his beer. Slowly and sadly Ydin looked away from his friend and focused his attention once more on Denomark. ‘We will go with you, I am an average fighter but I will work hard, Dori is a good enough spearman and Dolnin is good with the sword. If he will join us?’ He looked sympathetically at his friend across the table. Solemnly Dolnin looked up with regret and sorrow, a whimpered yes left his lips and he looked down once again. Denomarks gaze slowly left Dolnin, he was afraid of this man, not because he felt threatened but because of the recklessness of him.

‘Our tent is near the gate, on the left side of the road. For now Hammelhors banner, a golden eagle in a green field is up, if I am not there ask for Berton or Gruwaith, either will help you. I hope you all have a good nights rest, we may be called on the siege of Mudean.’ He did not give his opinion on the matter of man killing fellow man, but the regret in his voice was heard loud enough. With this he bade them good night and paid for their drinks. As he walked home he could not but help remembering his old captain and feelings of grief of the loss overtook his heart, with none to watch, to judge, he poured them out in a narrow street in the unyielding rain. He did not alone weep for his captain but for the loss of peace, the loss of sanity, the loss of love and the loss of hope. *** It was a normal night in a normal village in the north east of Rhealdoné. The wind blew icily through the village. A greying man carried wood from the small forest bordering the north west of the small village. This man felt uncomfortable, the wind was cold, too cold, like... he grasped at a memory, drowned in years of life but he could not reach it and so he warily walked on, bent under the weight of his labour. The simple wooden buildings of his snug hometown lied before him with his home the closest, where his wife of thirty years would await him with a steaming cup of coffee. Their was something about the simple strong structure with its triangular roof and square form that made him feel himself at home and would always comfort him. He longed for his bed and his thick wool socks. Strangely a soft ominous sound reached his ears with an intimidating rhythm, greeting him to duel again with his old enemy. He quickened his pace. He did not know why, but as the rhythm became louder and the distant noise of a drum of war could be distinguished he became driven to haste. Instinctively he looked up the relief to the north east and his heart beat like a drum. Booming with the pain of

fright. Figures, built like men, formed on the hill, armoured. For minutes they stood still and the old man could do nothing, frozen by fear. But as they moved he came to life and a cry came from his lips... so fearful, so desperate that all awake could feel their hearts stop. Slowly the figures almost disappeared against the dark grass only to be replaced by more. Years of military duty had taught him the art of counting moving figures and he judged them to be a hundred strong. Quickly, dropping his load he ran as fast as he could to the village, irritated by his decreasing speed as he saw the scared and dislodged villagers leave their homes in silent awe. He pointed to the oncoming fear and people panicked and screamed. Horses neighed and the sound of stable doors and hooves could be heard in a matter of moments. He called out to his wife but she did not come so he ran on... so close, so far and the furagk where closing in. Memories of ferocious foes and cries of hate flooded back to him, of blood soaked fields and desperate fighting. And he knew. Adrenaline fuelled him and his pace picked up as he cried louder and louder for his wife and his horse. With horror he saw the furagks torches closing in and hope left him. The first roofs caught fire and three words left his mouth: “It’s too late.” He saw the door of his home opening slowly and his horror was renewed. His wife stepped out, saw the killing, the burning and the violence and wept and screamed as she watched her seasoned husband closing in slowly, too slow. A blow stifled her. A gut wrenching crack as the blade of an axe split her skull tore at the old mans heart and in anger he threw the small axe, killing the furagk and he charged forward. *** Screaming with sorrow shudders ran through her body as she sobbed wildly. All around her a handful of villagers rode past her,

south towards Duranhail. Where was their army, their protection? Where was her Denomark? Decimated she turned around and rode off, the raiding fûragks still burning, killing, screaming. *** The rain poured down as the heavens cried for the fate of man. An old man lay dead in a puddle of blood and rain. Gashes running through his whole body, violent reminders of a violent end. A single thin trail of blood run down his cheek as his dead face mourned the death of his wife, his hand still in hers. In his final moments of life there was no peace, no sanity, no hope. But their was love. *** Hell. That was the word that described the following day for Denomark. A series of brutal fûragk attacks on the northern regions of Rhealdoné had left thousands decimated by wounds, homelessness, loss or death. Throughout the day hundreds of refugees had been streaming in and the joyful, almost ignorant atmosphere had evaporated as the mournful reality set in. Everywhere people where mourning the losses that had come so violently and unexpectedly. Left homeless the busy streets where now filled to the brim and going to and fro was made almost unbearable as the wet soil had been trampled into streets of quicksand like mud. Children and women and men dirty, and hopeless. It was miserable. Two of the worst feelings flying through Duranhail the first was that of unease. If these attacks from the north are more than a tragic coincidence Rhealdoné could enter a desperate situation. Attacked from north and west they would be forced southwards to Dulair-Mon where protection was almost non existent as ArithMoore would not accept them. The second was uncertainty, Denomark desperately hoped that his villages people where safe an unharmed, but he thought this hope childish and unlogical. His heart ached for all.

This and the growing knowledge of what would truly be done at the city of Mudean despaired him. Killing Maldourians was one thing, killing neutral peoples and maybe even your own was another. A feeling of rebelliousness grew amongst the people to an all time high. The neglect of defence for the northern regions, lack of a plan to deal with the Maldourians and the attacking of unaggressive cities angered all. The new recruits for Denomarks company where inaugurated that day and Denomark had at least the one pleasure of witnessing them being excepted by the rest and at training was even pleased to see they did not lack skill, although their standards did not reach the high standards of Hammelhors old company. Later that day he walked down the main road running through Duranhail looking for something. He did not quite know what. His heart sank every time he beheld the tragedy of what had happened and he wanted to reach out and help, but never stayed long because the uncertainty of his own peoples fate, he’s only hope lying in the fact that his father and some of the others had seen war and would know what to do. Everywhere people where sitting in the mud begging for coin or food and choosing which to help was impossible as each looked as miserable as the previous. A boy with red hair smeared with mud sat at the left side of the street on a rock, his hands covering his face. The few parts of visible skin seemed pale and dirty and his clothes were torn and ragged and filthy. Denomark knelt by the boy, drawn by some indescribable feeling of pity and good doing. He placed his hand on the boys shoulder and was surprised by how cold and bony the boy felt, the flesh shivered under his palm. The boy looked up, hopelessly and desperate his eyes tore at the fabric of Denomarks being. He had a fair face, smeared with mud like his hair his lips where dry and he held the closed tightly. A greeting seemed inappropriately cheerful for this awful sight. “What’s your name?” he asked this question with as much sympathy as he could muster, looking the boy in to his bright blue eyes, much like his own.

“Nedlain.” The boy answered, and shuddered as the name echoing in his mind brung back painfully happy moments. “You’ve got a good name. Means hope, Nedlain.” He said this while giving the boy a slight comforting smile. “My fa... they told me.” The boys eyes became moist and red, straining not to cry. “I came from the village of Gree.” “Did any others survive?” he did not want to ask this question, but the boy would need someone to look after him. “How old are you?” “Only me. Fifteen.” By now a small trail of clean skin ran from his eye to his chin where a tear had washed away the grime. Denomark took his hand from the boys shoulder and reached into his pocket, digging for his small bag of coin, wincing at the absence of weight, these few days had cost him more than he had hoped. “Hold out your hand.” The boy looked frightened and sceptical as his muscled tensed but Denomark stared deep into his soul and his sapphire blue eyes calmed and soothed him and he slowly extended his arm. A coin dropped from Denomarks arm and dropped heavily into the boys palm. Denomarks parents had saved him money and one gold was likely more than any farm boy has ever held and the boy studied it intently. After awhile he looked back into Denomarks eyes and the question in his eyes was clear: Why? This Denomark answered easily and with a faint smile trailing his lips. “Because, I have hope.” He took the boys hand in his and closed it over the coin. “There’s always hope Nedlain.” Just as the boy was ready with something to say a voice called to Denomark, it was Furdon. He slowly stood up as he turned and with a glance back at the small boy, still fingering his coin, he moved towards Furdon through the throng of people.

“Denomark, they have called a meeting outside the city gates for all the captains. ‘Tis said half of the assembled troops are marching on Mudean early tomorrow morning, all captains must attend so as they can prepare if they are chosen in the force.” He breathed heavily as if he had done much running so Denomark assumed he did not have much time. Just as he set of toward the gates a fleeting memory came back to him. A golden head of curling hair and a fair face, the fairest he had ever seen. Leayna! Leaving his dazed friend behind he dashed into the crowd, roughly the same direction in which he saw her. But she was moving as well and every now and then he would lose her amidst the bobbing heads of the crowd, but he would not give in. Love drenched his heart again and would not yield. Suddenly she turned and bad luck came in the form of a hay cart interrupting his line of sight, desperately, struggling with the moving figures he called her name but he did not glimpse that fair human again. Lost, for a moment in disbelief, his joints slacked and he barely kept himself upright. Slowly a hand gripped his shoulder and pulled him backwards and he came alive, cursing fate he turned and ran towards the gates. Leaving behind the dread of the war torn city.

Chapter 3: The great separation A burning city in the darkest night he had ever seen... Clouds were thick in the air and the only light was that of fire, a demonic orange, red and yellow glare from hell itself seeping from torches ad burning houses. The soil was barren and harsh, the grass burned into thin coals. The screams of the dying filled the air as people were dragged by hair and limb out of a burning city only to be slain outside the wall by men, dark and foreboding in appearance and yet wearing the same armour as him, fighting under the same banner. Denomark stood on a high mound. His arm felt stiff from strain and he looked down, a small boy with a fair face and red hair stared trembling back at him with a quivering lip and moist eyes. Instinctively his blade lifted in his arm and the wind, heated by the inferno felt as if it started to twirl around him, shutting him off from the world around him, free from bonds and oaths pity grew in his heart. Slowly he let down his blade and his grip on the boys hair slackened slowly till the small, frightened boy was free and Denomark spoke: “Stop! You slaves off old hatreds and false good!” the fires seemed somehow to calm down, growing less aggressive and evil. The killing stopped and the skies opened. A beam of white and gold light fell upon him and the boy and the murdering figures stopped, all looking in astonishment upon the two figures alone on the hill. “No more shall our moral ground be formed by oppression, old hatreds and the old. All as we stand here today are brothers! With a common enemy: evil.” The light grew outwards and the fires receded. The ground seemed to grow softer and fertile and some colour returned to the grass.

“No longer will we obey out dated laws and naive orders! No longer shall our souls be our own demise. We will rise, standing in the light and being the new hope for a new world... A world of hope and love and good and glory beyond reckoning! For we are the peoples of Esgroth-Marith and we are hope.” Blinding flashes of light erupted from the skies hiding all in a thick white light. With each passing flash more of the dead awoke and the dark figures grew in good. His blade lifted high as Denomark stood on the hill his sword raised diagonally to the heavens above, his other hand on the small boys back. The flashes stopped and suddenly Denomark stood amid clouds, moving at faster than any wind had blown any cloud. He looked down and far below him the whole of Esgroth-Marith stood, beautiful in every way. In the centre the high peaks of the Horintheá stood with green valleys and peaks capped with snow, to his left the forest of the northern elfish lands and the Dragonfang Mountains, and around the Horintheá were spread the mortal lands of the peoples of Esgroth-Marith. With green fields and great cities. But at the farthest end lay something else... His heart sank at the sight of it. It was a place of darkness and despair, beyond the great walls of Engelmar, acting as a barrier for the eastern lands of EsgrothMarith a great shadow lay to the north: the long dormant volcano Morodín had started to slowly emit its poisonous gasses obscuring the sun. Already the once golden Fields of Engelmar had started to wither under the unforgiving darkness. Suddenly he felt himself being pulled and before he knew it he burst out of dark wisps, landing feet first on a dark rocky terrace. Before him stood a great but dark throne, it looked frightening and vicious. Tthe head of a dragon, carved out of solid, black rock loomed over the throne, its fangs were sharp and he grinned viciously, glaring over the dead plains before it and a hot fire flamed out of its eyes. The rest of the throne was carved in dark shapes out of a dirty gold and at the ends of the arm rests their

stood two bowls of fire, burning steadily. To his right mines were built into mountains and everywhere figures were moving: humans, slaves, furagks, guards. Above him dragons swirled through the air and blew fire from their mouths, identical to the stone head on the throne. But there was something even more frightening... A Dark Lord sat upon the Dark Throne in his dark armour, leaning on his bent arm with his chin, he looked relaxed and unheeded as he coolly stared from the abyss between the plates of his helm. He could not see his eyes nor his face, but Denomark could feel his eyes upon him and his skin prickled as the stare itself seemed to claw and rip at his flesh, slowly withering him away. And when the deadening silence became too much to bare Denomark spoke, still feeling the light firing up his soul, giving him strength. “Who are you? And who is master of this realm of darkness?” “Who am I? Who are you? We are the same. The products of men succumbing to their oppressed true nature: Evil.” He chuckled softly. It was strange his voice did not come alone from his body but seemed to seep from cracks in the stone mountains, from the air, from all around. He stood slowly and swept his hand across the ravaged land. “And this realm is mine, is yours.” “You lie. I am not your slave, nor the slave of my circumstances. I go with hope and hope can’t die.” He stood defiant still, but his resolve started to waver. “Hahaha.” The Dark Lord laughed softly and disappeared in the same dark wisps Denomark had appeared in only to appear in those same dark wisps in Denomarks face. “I pity you, mortal, hope is not power, hope is a dream. A dream I will crush as I will crush you and your people, you can not win. Darkness will prevail as it has always. And men will fall, elves will fall and the world and the light will be dissolved in the very corrosion of evil that will be YOUR fall. And you will discover that the very thing you destroy is the very thing you will become.”

“Your people and your cities will burn, and from the ashes shall arise a new order, an order of power and the only truth in this world: evil.” Denomark again felt the pulling motion, this time from behind as he trembled in the face of his oppressor. And when he regained his sight he was standing amidst the raging clouds once more. His hands felt hot and sticky and when he looked down they were covered in blood. He pulled out his blade and blood dripped slowly from the sharp point. Panicking he looked down and semi covered by the clouds a small boy laid. The boy with the fair face and the red hair looked pale and cold, worse than the day before in the street; Nedlain. Slowly he bent and picked up the boy, discovering a slashed throat and a still warm body. His limbs went numb and the boy fell through the clouds, erupting in a beautiful red and gold flame. And Denomark looked up at the sun and wailed and mourned screaming. Nedlain is dead. *** Denomark woke up gasping for air; it felt as if he had not breathed for a long time. His body went through short tremors as he sat up cold and covered in sweat still half under his fur blanket. For a few minutes his mind felt dazed and his focus was out but it did not take long to return. With a sudden flash back he instinctively looked down at his hands... They were clean, but pale. The strange dream of the previous night slowly came back to him, he had realistic dreams before but this was like nothing he could ever think possible. Every detail of true life was present: the wind on the face, the heat, the cold. The warm, sticky feeling as the blood dripped from between his fingers. This he pushed from his mind and chose to focus on other things. He looked out of the tent and a icy breeze stumbled through freezing the already cold sweat on his skin and he felt a sudden urge to clothe himself. He wondered if Leayna was out there. In the city of cities, his homelands symbol of power.

Slowly he stood up, he put on a simple brown tunic and trousers and his boots and walked out the tent. Immediately but patiently he changed direction to where the horses were left to graze. Fyrton, holding his head high in the pleasing wind looked proud and strong among the other horses and was their leader. He walked over again to his beloved warhorse and ran his fingertips along the strong neck muscles in turn sending shivers through his neck. “We haven’t spoken in a while my friend.” The horse turned his head, sharp instincts alerted him of the distress in his masters’ voice and he looked Denomark in the eyes. Those dark eyes, almost as dark as the charcoal of his skin drilled through Denomarks soul like any humans could. Feeling uncomfortable he asked: “Feel like a ride?” At this the warhorse neighed and nodded his head, turning so that his back was next to Denomark and he mounted, free and without a saddle. For hours they rode slowly along the river Rovin bordering the east side of the Cormalé, the huge expanse of fields outside the gates of Duranhail. It was serene and calm along the rocky shore, with the shallow rivers water spilling trickles of life over the white pebbles and a thin line of trees bordering the river at a certain point let just trickles of light flow through the moist green leaves, peacefully announcing the return of the rested sun, bringing warmth and life once more to Rhealdoné. It was at this spot that Denomark halted and started to run through his thoughts, without haste, calm and refreshed by his beautiful surroundings. He thought about Leayna and his family, his simple, warm home village of Rahnen, his appointment to captain, the outburst of Donian. Even faint memories of Hammelhor surfaced, memories that still stung but which wounds were healing. Life goes on he thought. But some other memories returned as well... Burning cities and killing comrades... A heroic speech and a great light... Standing amongst the clouds, on top of the world...

A dark land, broken and malformed... Slaves, whips and a dark throne upon which was seated a Dark Lord... Dragons and fire.. a stare which could kill a mortal man. These memories were not recollections of a dream, but something far more sinister and powerful. He suddenly realised that the trees, symbols of live and virtue were not hailing the sun but choking the light, the slow flowing water sounded like the tearing of flesh. And in a moment that sent shivers down his spine, even in a beam of sunlight, he remembered the tearing of his flesh by unseen eyes. He looked down at his hands and the skin was red and raw. *** Bells rung and horns boomed triumphantly throughout the city. People stood at the side of the main road leading towards the gate and beyond the walls the parallel lines of hailing men and woman and children and even the old ran on over the Cormalé. Golden petals fell from the sky, strewn out of windows by admiring onlookers. Like small drops of sunlight they fell amongst the procession of captains, field-commanders, admirals, generals and even of the prince, High Marshall himself, leading all his most prised men out to conquest. In the wondrous atmosphere for a moment all feelings of rebellion and anger were sundered so that only admiration remained. War was what the country of Rhealdoné and its people was built on, and war was coming. Not just war but the glory of men making the ultimate sacrifice for their people, men rising above mortal bonds to challenge fate itself and the glorious parade of Rhealdoné’s best. Men waved from side to side in salutation of the spectacle and said what may be their last good byes. Every now and then a soldier would lean down and give a hug to a relative or a lover, this sent a small cramp through Denomark every time he saw it, for him their was no one to hold in that last moment. But still it made him proud to see the abundance of good in small things. Just when his loneliness reached a pinnacle he heard his name called by a familiar voice and his heart leapt with love once more, looking

around he spotted the even more familiar curls, fastened at the back by a single string of white. And then the fairest face, even lined with sorrow, he had ever seen. Now his heart beat like a drum, heavy and enthused. He tried to get close enough but every time the procession would not halt. She followed as best she could, bobbing here and there amongst the people yelling his name desperately. At long last he reached the side of the crowd and bent down quickly to here her speak, his horse moving just faster then a standstill, with graceful strength she pulled him close and whispered in the most despaired voice imaginable: “Go to Rahnen, Denomark, you have to see for yourself.” She grabbed his hand and put something consisting of a thin chain and hanging ornament in his hand. Just as he attempted to question her frightening behaviour, Fyron once again picked up his pace as he sensed the tension behind him. Denomark held her hand as long as possible, and then, to his utmost despair let it slip slowly from his hand... His eyes kept hers; her chin was quivering from the strain of refusing those moist drops of sorrow run through her brown eyes. Alone and depleted of happiness she stood there, held prisoner by his longing gaze. As she dwindled out of sight his heart fell as if it was falling through thin air, he looked down at his hand and from it dangled the most precious thing he could imagine, a gold and red sun hanging from a gold chain, a gift he had given her the first night he was alone with her. He could still remember the cool night air brushing past the stable doors as the both lay on a pile of hay, saying nothing but looking at the stars through an unrepaired hole in the roof. Carefully he put the delicate, precious jewel around his neck and feeling better to now have a part of her with him, he rode on, not looking back but to the future. And all other thoughts slipped away, noises, sights, al became faded and then disappeared. ***

The few days travel was easy going and informal, too much so for Denomarks taste... He knew since more returned from the wall than had been expected that they had left sooner than planned but still, Rhealdoné is being invaded, and haste is needed in matters like this. Everyday they would ride three afters after sun up and stop at sundown; eating, drinking and training for the battle ahead. They would camp near small villages and give them the order to move north, to Duranhail in flight of the invading forces. They lived in relatively big tents, divided in companies. He had taken it upon himself to train his new members as best he could as well as his old companions when they had time and energy. They were getting good and soon they were hailed as the best company in the whole army. Denomark would often sit on his horse and think about the puzzle of Leaynas last words, if she was alive their would be hope for the others, but what awaited him then in his old home that she so desperately wanted him so see? Day by day his curiosity and worry grew to an almost unbearable state and he longed to do something to relieve himself. Ydin, calm and peaceful, would often agree with Denomark on the uselessness of this endeavour and he hoped greatly that some agreement could be reached as he swore he would kill no one. He also grew a close friend of Denomark and was well liked by all except the elder soldiers who contempt his half-bred origins, but overall his unselfishness and good nature was excepted thankfully. He reminded Denomark somewhat of Berton, they both were kind and giving, Ydin more than Berton but Berton made up for this with his sense of humour. The other new addition, Dorin, proved to have a sharp mind and would often draw up quick answers to questions. The other, Dolnin, frightened Denomark all the more and he was weary of him... Dolnin was obsessed with revenge and it seemed as though any who would stand in his way could be seared by his burning hate as well. Such a man woul be reckless in a battle and could do more harm than good to his kin. It took five days for their forces to reach Mudean. The fields leading up to the great fort were yellow and pale from the long

winter. It was a great sight, high strong walls flanked a massive gate, made out of some stone with the colour and texture of sandstone but with more strength, the walls seemed to lie back towards the city, thirty yards into the air and huge wooden spikes rose diagonally from the ground at its base. Four turrets lined the wall, two at each side were the walls would angle back towards the mountains behind and two in the middle of the stretch of wall and these were built almost four times the height of the wall. The gate was the same height as the walls but the gate post stood five yards higher and from this two old flags of the Arithians swam in the wind that blew towards the keep. The houses inside were built simple and strong and had roofs made of the same pattern as the walls so that each house could in turn be used as a post. Water was supplied by a canal built to direct water down from the mountains straight into the fort, in a certain point to the right of the city it made a circle of water that defended a tower and walls were leaders would view a battle and order troops. Behind the narrow streets and fortified house was another wall, unlike anything any man had ever seen in Rhealdoné rising fifty feet in the air, half way up a narrow strip ran along the wall were archers could stand and on top it held a courtyard on which stood a mighty hall to the right and to the left a solid mound of dark stone upon which stood a statue of an armoured man, cast in dark iron, holding his sword horizontally across the great fort, he stood thirty feet high. Inside none could be seen moving, soldiers lined the wall, not much, an estimated three hundred soldiers held the fort, too small to defend it against its previous owners who had come to claim back what was theirs. It was ironic that this day was one of the most beautiful since the start of the winter: a slight breeze sent the long dry grass into a slow dance, and lines of rippled clouds ran across the heavens cutting the bright sun into strips of pure light falling to the ground below. Denomark and his men enjoyed the view, sure that some agreement would be reached and that no innocent blood would

have to be spilt. As soon as camp was set men were dispatched to keep watch against the north and the east and others were sent to cu wood and start construction on a siege ram and ladders and towers. The Rhealdonian army was flawless in its efficiency and this made all proud once again. Every man knew what had to be done and would see it through no matter what. Resolute and proud they stood united against all their foes. And all slept quietly under the open stars. The next day came with a sense of urgency, the siege engines which were worked on throughout the night was almost finished and plans were being drawn up. The weather had also changed with this new urgency and heavy clouds of rain could be seen being blown nearer from the west, dark and ominous they brought no comfort but pushed the haste into a state of hyperventilation. Just when this feeling reached its height a low groan could be heard booming out onto the fields as the gate of Mudean slid open, the sun was now at its highest point and the wind at its fastest, from within the gate five figures emerged. Fully armoured and riding in the pattern of a triangle curving backwards. The two furthest figures each carried a flag and as over the gate the one was the old flag of Arith-Moore, a white bison head outlined by black behind which a scroll and a sword crossed on a field of silver outlined by gold and white stripes woven through each other in braids. The other was that of a golden eagle in mid flight soaring through purple air also outlined by gold. All unsheathed their swords in the besieging army and Denian came from his tent and rode his horse out to meet the company, his banner of red and green and that of Rehaldoné following close behind. They met at the centre of the fields and the leading Arithian pulled from the bag at his horses side a scroll which he resumed to read: “I come out to you in the name of the true Arithians, led by the king Colnas, riding in the hope of peace between our peoples. We know of the recent invasion of your lands by the Maldourian horde as well as the recent furagk attacks on your northern borders. In the best interest of our people and your own we beseech you to

turn back and leave our city in peace and in return our king has seen fit to ride to battle with you as worthy allies.” He let the scroll roll closed once more and sat upright and regal awaiting Denians reply. To all this offer was more than had been hoped for and all was confident it would be accepted and that the wasting of more lives could be avoided. “’Tis with my deepest regrets that I must turn down your offer, Arithian. I have been given the order to reach no compromise short of the extermination of all those who has forsaken their motherland of Rhealdoné and those who have opposed her.” For a moment their was a hushed silence throughout the fields and the encampment, even the wind was silenced. The Arithians head turned sideways in confusion and the horses of both sides began to neigh and fiddle in the atmosphere of disbelief. “You cannot be serious Rhealdonian.” He spoke desperately but Denian just turned his horse and rode back to his tent, his head down ad the Arithians after a stunned pause turned their horses back to Mudean and rode of... nothing could be heard but the reoccurring neigh of a horse as even the building of the siege engines had stopped in shock. For a moment the Rhealdonian military did not seem as resolute or bonded as before. “This is unforgivable Berton.” Denomark stood alone in their tent with Berton, he was outraged and shocked at the turning down of the Arithians more than fair proposal. “How could they!? There are more than just Arithians in that city! There are some of our own people!” To him this act bordered on murder. “Well what can we do? Denian is good at heart but obedience to his father will get the upper hand over him and another desertion of the army by you will mean the end of us all. Our hands are tied to our backs, Denomark.” Berton looked hopeless and taken aback by the feelings of rage whistling with the wind throughout the encampment. Denomark pointed out the door of his tent to Mudean. “This is nothing short of murder, I refuse to take part in it no matter what.

I hope you will do the same. This is not what Rhealdoné nor any other land should be built on.” He let his head drop as deep and disturbing thoughts ran through his head. What if it could be ended? Why does he cling to a nation that does not exist? But then he snapped back to reality as he thought of his father and what he would think of this treachery. “Get the others, Berton, we need to have a meeting on what has to be done.” With this Berton left the tent and Denomark stood there alone and afraid, afraid of the horrors to be committed the following day and afraid of the new ideas of rebellion surging through his mind. Thunder and lightning greeted all the following day on the eve of battle, from early on the silver armour of the Arithians could be seen reflecting the scarce sun. Even in the pouring rain they stood watching over the encamped Rhealdonian army who were just beyond the reach of bows or missiles. By sunset all that needed to be done had been finished and the whole of the army started to muster into rows and columns of men and the siege towers and rams were ready to be pulled out to war. The mood was solemn throughout the besiegers, much has happened since the start of the war that did not reflect well upon the minds of those that served and this was merely another of those faults. Denomark finally rode out with his men, they were part of the force that would storm the gate on horse and overwhelm the defenders inside, riding for Rhealdoné, riding for honour, riding for victory, these words meant much less in the face of a slaughter. “We cannot let this happen, Denomark, you know this!” Ydin had grown desperate in the last hours of clean conscience. “We must do something.” Denomark did not reply, his silence said it all. Honin rode up and put his large, strong hand on Denomarks shoulder. “Whatever you decide to do Denomark, we will be behind you always, me and my brothers will follow you upon any path.” Still he rode quietly on, flashes of the dream that had plagued him became more frequent and more urgent by the day

and some unknown force had started to pulsate within him urging him on to do what he knew was right. Now as the sun had set and the land grew thick with darkness all the forces of Rhealdoné stood before the walls of Mudean, upon which hundreds of lanterns burnt alone in the dark, every now and then a cry arose up as an order was given but none could be seen as the dark hid them when the lightning ceased its violent assault upon the earth. Denomark looked around him, none of the men sat upon their horses with dignity and honour. Shoulders were down and backs bent as the men silently and alone mourned what was to be done, giving no outwards expression of their grief. All just grinned and beared. It was in this moment when a great bolt of thunder slammed into the earth and sent a bright blue light throughout the scene that something within Denomark burst. In this moment he forsook all bonds, all oaths and pursued himself. He gripped the reign of his great horse and felt him shudder with anticipation between his legs. “We need to stop this.” Bertons voice pleaded within Denomarks ear. Slowly he urged his horse forward and rode proudly between the ranks of men, attracting curious glances and hushed whispers. Slowly he emerged from the ranks and turned his horse, ridibg straight to the centre of the force, Denain, High Marshall of the forces of Rhealdoné looked queerly at Denomark. “What is the meaning of this?” he commanded aggressively. Denomark ignored this and focused on the faces of the men before him, and at the banners, most who are here were the deserters of the siege of Andurin. “Rhealdonians!” he shouted with every ounce of breath he could muster. “Rhealdonians: men of valour and honour! I see none of this here today. We pride ourselves on our sense of justice and respect or the life of our fellow humans! Yet here we stand, given orders to kill innocent people, most of whom come of our own blood! Our enemies close in on us from north and west yet we are sent to aggravate the only race we have no quarrel with.” He had

the attention of everyone now, not even the monstrous thunder could silence his voice. “Who are you to question the order of those who are above you?” Denain was mad with anger and he reached for his sword. “Stay your sword Denain. I am one that does not spill the blood of the innocent, that puts right before wrong and I am the one that will save us from ourselves!” the tone of his voice was quiet and deadly and it silenced Denain. “Look around! Most who are here were those that deserted the Siege of Andurin, doubtlessly we who think for ourselves are now the disposable waste for our king.” Murmurs ran through the ranks, this was true. “All I ask of you know is to do what your heart demands of you! To be just and true to yourselves!” Suddenly another flash of that dream appeared to him and he spoke the same words he did then: “No more shall our moral ground be formed by oppression, old hatreds and the old. All as we stand here today are brothers! With a common enemy: evil.” The pace of the thunder quickened and the light grew more frequent men were now upright and proud and their moral lifted. “No longer will we obey out dated laws and naive orders! No longer shall our souls be our own demise. We will rise, standing in the light and being the new hope for a new world... A world of hope and love and good and glory beyond reckoning! For we are the peoples of Rhealdoné and we are hope.” With this Denain Pulled out his blade and lifted it into the air. “Do not listen to this coward who runs from battle! Our loyalty bounds us to do what we are commanded to!” but none heeded him, slowly, reluctantly the men turned and went back to their camps, no longer blindly obeying the orders of their superiors. Denomark looked sideways at Denain who was brimming at him with hate. They were never friends but they had respected each other in a fond manner and seeing that turn to hate Denomark

could not help but feel a sharp stab of guilt at what he had done, though he new it must’ve happened. Suddenly a firm hand gripped his arm and Denomark felt himself pulled away. “We have to go, it’s no longer safe here my captain.” This was the voice of Gruwaith and it awakened Denomark who reigned his horse and rode off in front of his men, north they went to an uncertain future. No cries of victory could be heard from the fort of Mudean and no sound came from the solemn forces of Rhealdoné. The silenced was only broken at last by a cry of revenge that rang throughout the fields “On the life of my king I swear that you will yet taste the wrath of my blade, Denomark!” No heed was given to this threat and a moment later a faint cry came from the walls, echoed by the encircling mountains: “Denomark! Denomark! Denomark!” Long into the night they rode, far from the danger that might pursue them not for thirst nor hunger did they stop and each kept his eyes and his mind on the beating of their horses hooves, rhythmically dazing them, so that no thought had to be spared for what had happened. Till the sun came up they rode were a small thicket promising shade and comfort greeted them. The horses were left to graze in the green fields running far into the horizon. The clouds overhead were dark gray and the air was cold and busy, it felt alone, terribly alone. Here in the centre of the thicket without order or question a fire was lit. The men of the now refugee company sat apart plucked here under a tree or sitting there beneath a blanket for warmth. None tried to communicate, sitting with their faces in their hands, choosing to reside alone in their state of woe. Denomark stood alone in the centre of two trees forming an arch of still unfruitful branches the ground slowly dipped down beneath the thicket into the green fields and far off a small river ran through the fields, splitting it into two. He leaned against the tree to his left, his head down against his arm.

“It had to be done Denomark, enough blood has been spilt and would be spilt before we have seen the end of this war, without humans killing off each other.” Berton put his arm on Denomarks shoulder but said nothing further. For a while they stood there in silence. A stag ran across the field, it had full grown and beautiful antlers, it ran free and proudly across the fields. The suddenly it fell, a straight dark line running up from its side, a moment later a running man appeared and ran to the fallen deer. He was built big and strong, he bent down and tied the feet of the deer together and then promptly picked up the heavy animal and started back towards the thicket. Another figure appeared who seemed lean and tall and darker than the other man. As they came to the foot of the dip Denomark could distinguish them as Honin and Gruwaith. Honin was the brother of Hamor and Holdin who all three had long chestnut hair and the build of blacksmiths. Honin had a rough beard and was the oldest of the three brothers. “Don’t you see Berton?” he looked back at his friends, his eyes moist and red. “I have let all of you down, nothing will ever be the same. We are now traitors an we have lost all in this place.” At this Gruwaith spoke in his own manner of genuineness. “I have come with you by my own doing, Captain.” “So have I, Captain.” Honin said this holding the dead deer over his shoulder, not one mark of strain on his face and his voice was filled with genuineness and comfort. “And I shall still follow you by my own terms.” “So shall I.” Agreed Gruwaith. “And me.” Berton looked deep into the eyes of Denomark. “We shall not leave you, for you have done more for us then Rhealdoné ever has. We swore to serve you and so we shall do to the end.” By now Denomark felt less guilty and ashamed, but the fear of what his father would think still clung to him and this brought with it another fear: What if they are all dead? But in denial he pushed the thought of this away. Before brushing aside the branches between him and the camp hushed whispers could be heard from

within, but as he entered they silenced and the only acknowledgement of his presence were guilty glances whose eyes quickly shied away from his own. Slowly he sat down at the edge of the clearing where Ydin and Dori sat and Berton soon joined him as Honin put down the deer for Gruwaith to skin and prepare. Denomark could not help but wonder if in his separation from Rhealdoné he had not also separated himself from the trust of his men. One thing he knew is that from now on everything would change; ideas of trust and loyalty could be felt warping and melting into something new and frightening yet exciting. As he looked out the clouds above the horizon to the east shifted and opened and the streams of sunlight gently slid through and as if it was a symbol of some greater magnitude Denomark felt something rare stir within him excitement grew and locked in a battle of will against grief and uncertainty and he knew that what ever may come from now on he was on an adventure, of which kind he could not conceive. *** Three more days they rode north and slowly the mood decreased into a form barely tolerable. No one knew where they stood with one another and as Denomark grew all the more wary of who believed in him and who did not suspicions also ran rampant. He knew he could trust Berton, Ydin ad his kin, Gruwaith, Honin and his brothers, Foren, Feran and Ernon. The rest were vague and did not voice there opinions. He knew that Furdon and some of closest was not distinctively against him but they did not go well with the idea of leaving Rhealdoné. On one day as they once again camped along the road of Fearl heading north and after Denomak had once again strolled off thinking things through in his mind he came back to find the company in hysteria. Honin stood jamming Furdon against a tree, both hands around his collar. Dolnin held Rovan against the ground on his back and held his blade at the throat of Roven, laying next to the fire. Hamor and Hindol, both as strong and large as their brother tried desperately to keep the two sides of blaring men apart supported somewhat by Ydin and Dorin.

For a moment he stood shocked and in awe, things had gotten out of hand, badly. But he knew his ignorance was to blame. He should have done something earlier about the mood throughout the company. “Stop, stop this now!” He looked around the camp as he briskly walked to the centre of the brawl, pushing the men apart as he went. “You act like children!” He said this as he pointed at all the faces. “What happened here? How did this begin?” he felt demoralized and hopeless. Honin put Furdon down and cleaned his hands on his shirt as if he wanted to wash the guilt away that he felt, big and strong though he was he was not aggressive, but things had deteriorated. “Forgive me captain, Furdon had stood up and started barking about all of us selling you out to king Thurdan for our own acceptance. It was then that Gruwaith called him and Rovan cowards for coming up with an honourless plan of the kind. Rovin then pulled his blade on Gruwaith but Dolnin caught him. Dolnin looked strangely pleased now and pressed his blade against the skin of Rovans neck. “Dolnin, leave him be.” Denomark said looking slightly disgusted at the setting of the scene. At last Dolnin released Rovan who cowered back and hesitantly stood up, breathing heavily. “Continue.” He said once again looking Honin in te eye. “Well, sir, It was at this point that Furdon started throwing insults at me and Gruwaith, especially insulting his Gurawan decent so I pushed him up against the tree here and the fight broke out.” Denomark looked around once more, this time focusing on the faces with swollen eyes and patched with red and purple bruises. “This has to stop. Furdon what is your quandary?” he looked Furdon sternly in the eye, challenging him, opposing him, he did not like racism towards his friend, as to him all men were equal. Hesitantly Furdon stood straight and then after a brief period of nervous glances he started. “I do not think that you or we had

done right. This is mutiny and betrayal towards Rhealdoné! I will keep my honour Denomark even though you trample over the honour your father had won your family. We made oaths and if that means nothing to you then I spit at your cowardice feet that loses all courage in the face of battle! Admit it Denomark that is the only reason why we are here. You filthy traitorous coward!” Furdon paused between each word making sure each insult built on the shame of its forerunner. He scowled viciously at Denomark still hot from the heated brawl. Denomark stormed forward and with his forehand agains Furdons chest he smashed him into the same tree and put his face right in front of Furdons so as they could feel the hot breath of the other person. “You go to far with your insults, Furdon, remember that your mouth is not nearly as sharp or quick as my blade.” He looked around at the men in stunned silence. “The reason why we are here is because I put my conscience before my senile king. I have not ordered any one of you to join me. If you rather then leave! I can do without more mistrust.” To surprise he carefully let Furdon go and gave him a nod. “Go now, Furdon, once we were friends, I hope you remember that before you let your tong slip.” Furdon quietly got his things together while those who had supported him looked uncertainly at one another. “The Rhealdoné I knew was built on trust, respect, mercy and loyalty not only to your superiors but from them to you as well.” He looked solemnly around as even Furdon turned from his horses saddle to listen. “I see none more of those principles. Furdon, your Rhealdoné is dead.” Furdon looked along the road before him as he sat mounted on his horse. His mind questioning himself. “Upon the ashes of this fallen Rhealdoné I shall strive to uphold this principles once more.” The clouds rolled in and the wind grew faster, distant whispers of thunder echoed across the long fields of Rhealdoné. “Men will gather at a new banner to fight once again the only true enemy to good: evil. Who of you are ready to lay down your

loyalties and grant me your swords?” a great cry of Yah went through the company three times and Denomark unsheathed his blade and thrust it into the air and thunder hailing the new power roared throughout the fields once more reflecting of his blade and setting the tree beside them on fire, rain pelted down and more cries arose. Then they died down and Denomark walked through the circle towards Furdon. “Tell your king our fate is now our own, tell your king his false pride shall burn his kingdom if he cannot see the truth.” With this Furdon rode off not speaking or moving and his figure shrinked against the horizon till no trace of him was left to the eye. “What will we do now, Denomark? Where shall we go?” the question came from Ydin, the only one who had not lost himself to thoughts of new power. “North to Rahnen, to our home.”

Chapter4: A new ally and a new sorrow.

After the departure of Furdon and the final mental split from Rhealdoné the morale in the company increased tremendously. Fear and suspicion had been replaced by adventure and excitement. Slowly but surely everyone had settled into their separate rolls, most of all Denomark. His stature among the men grew and his authority became all the more certain and stable as respect for him grew, all in all they were at a high not experienced since before the start of the war. They now started heading north west, straight to Rahnen. Gruwaith became known as the hunter, always on the lookout for food to eat and would lead countless of these hunting parties to gather extra food. He also became more social and now stood as Denomarks left hand man, second only to Berton. He proved formidable in all forms of combat and is the only one capable of defeating Denomark every now and then. His mood was the only who seemed to improve. Their tribe also loathed the Arithians for treating them as scum and since it was a order to fight them he felt no shame in knowing that he would have to kill a fellow human. Ernon became the entertainer, playing his flute and singing songs around the fire. Feran and Foren, the twins, would often scout the surrounding area on horse; especially to the west were Duranhail and king Thurdan lie. Hamor prepared the fire, Honin prepared the meat and all went well. It was a quiet morning on the fourth day since the departure of Furdon. A small detail of colour could be seen coming back to the trees of Rhealdoné as the buds of spring started crawling from their mother stems. The sky had begun to grow bright blue as the heavy rain clouds had started to recede. The company had now reached the border post guarding the overrun northern realm of Rhealdoné to the north of the capital, Duranhail. This region of wide open plains is named Duraneth and lies exactly to the east of Duranhail.

The company was now tired from the long days of travel and the hypnotic cluck of hooves against the hard road had put Denomark in a sleep like trance, although he felt more assured and comforted by the new peace in his company he still felt the small pressures of leadership and also the looming threat of an angry king. Although the men had already excepted their freedom of Rhealdoné old habits die hard. He was abruptly and somewhat unwontedly awoken by the voice of Ydin telling him of the post now just within sight, slowly Denomark sat upright and put on his helm, still holding onto military decorum. He looked nervously around at his men and received a help full nod from more than a few. As he neared the small gate of the barricaded post he saw a man dressed in captains armour slowly standing up from a simple set of wooden chairs and a table upon which maps lay and who started slowly walking towards the nearing company, an aura of arrogance surrounding him. As the man spoke Denomark put his one hand on his hilt automatically as if some instinct had triggered an alarm within him. The man had clean, dark brown hair which hung freely behind his shoulders and the beginnings of a beard on his chin and jaw “Who are you?” He said this coldly and his tone made it clear that no formalities were needed. “We have no time for intruders, you have no business here, the king sent an order for all forces to be mustered at the Cormalé.” His voice was cold and irritated with these last words Denomark did not like this man, but he knew their need of caution and so spoke politely and formally: “I am Horlim captain of this company after the death of our brave captain before me.” He looked around the post and the fields to the northwest and then spoke once more. “My business is to seek the fate of the people of my village, Rahnen, and since I am still in my own homeland I do neither intrude nor waste your time.” For the moment the man stood still and examined Denomark, then with a wretched smile he turned round and nodded at a man holding an eagle with a written message on his arm which he then

let fly, immediately the bird flew westwards on a direct path to Duranhail. “Path is closed as you can see; the king himself gave the orders that no man enter this region.” Smugly the man looked at Denomark and their eyes locked in a fierce battle of will. The mans arrogance made him blind. “Leave.” The mans resolve had now started to dwindle. Denomark kept holding his gaze, not letting the man escape. Now the man put his hand on his sword. “Leave, you filth.” He spat at the ground hesitantly and left Denomarks gaze, Denomark looked around and saw that the posts guards had stood up and stood with their swords hilts in their hands. The scrape of swords against hilts could be heard as the company drew their swords. Denomark looked back and they slowly sheathed their blades once more. Suddenly he saw Dolanon who had pulled back from the fight and sat unmoved upon his horse, their eyes met but Dolanons’ avoided his. Without a word Denomark turned his horse east and road off, his men following close behind. A flash came back to him of a man sending an hawk with a message just as he announced himself and a shiver crawled up his spine, this could do no good. Just as the sun started to set on the far off horizon and turned the blessed earth a bright gold the company set their eyes on the somewhat small and peaceful village of Hearthdown. From here and their small columns of smoke rose from chimneys and kitchens of simple dark-wooden houses. Housewives were taking down laundry and sweeping their porches, the men were chopping wood or teaching their small boys to fight while the girls sat and giggled. The village was planted at the base of a small recession into the earth and the grass fields about it were golden and the brown patches of land were wheat would be grown stood in sharp contrast. As the case of most Rhealdonian villages the inn stood in the middle of the village and was abnormally big. The drunk singing and occasional raucous shout was all that disturbed the utter peace, here it was easy to forget all troubles. Their horses hooves clacked as they crossed a small arching bridge that stood

over a shallow stream that rounded the villages western flank. They were greeted warmly by the people of the village as they rode past and in their enthralled state they returned the favour. As they entered the inn conveniently called The steaming soup Denomark immediately called over the Innkeeper who was a short fat man with a crooked nose and completely bald head. His one eye was slightly more closed than the other, making his face appear skew. He stood behind a lightly coloured wooden bar behind which goblets hung in rows. “Accommodation for... let me see.” He looked around the group of men. “thirty then?” He looked at Denomark until he spoke somewhat taken aback by his skill in counting. “Exactly.” He said this as casually as possible and just as he started to give their order of food the man interrupted him. “And I take it you’d want food then? Lets see.” The man put his hand under his chin and examined the party. “Soup will be in order, chicken, yes.” He then stood and counted something in his head while the company looked questioningly at each other. “That’s fifty silver.” Without reply Berton walked forward and gave him a gold coin and confidently said: “We’ll be staying for Breakfast.” And then walked off now leaving the innkeeper taken aback and took his men to seats in the corner. Happily they ate and laughed and talked together, their worries for now taken away. Berton and Doldar, who was already drunk, was the centre of attention, joking and acting the fool. Denomark could not help but notice an old man sitting in the corner leaning against the wall on his chair, smoking an intricately carved brown pipe, blowing strange runes into the already thick air, his eyes were hidden but he had a black beard with touches of grey and hair of the same nature hanging from under his light grey hood. He wore a long grey robe under which you could just notice a hint of a brown leather boot. And behind him, leaning against the wall, a wooden quarterstaff stood.

It seemed as though branches of wood were twisted around each other to the very point were it was held together by a bronze cone, at the top the branches formed a teardrop shape as they fanned outwards and came back in, a splendid white jewel was embedded in the centre of the staff. He was accompanied by a large man, broad but in now way fat, and tall. He wore a brown hide coat that completely hid what lie beneath, he had a rough and strong face that looked handsome in a mysterious way and the maids would often stop and stare and giggle and every now and then one would walk up to him to flirt but would receive no sign of interest. He strongly resembled features of Gruwaith and the Maldourians with a hint of something more. The only evidence of what lay beneath his coat was a great gold and blue hilt encrusted with a blue jewel at the summit. They both looked travelled and weary and though the big mans face was calm and cold the old man seemed troubled as the fire lit up his face and clear wrinkles of thought could be seen. Curiously Denomark watched the scene and would steal glances towards the old man and his guard throughout the night. When the festivities had worn down the company started to retire one by one. Until only Denomark and Berton was left, an awkward silence had put up a wall between them and they could not speak, angered they were still at each other over the jealousy of Leayna and when, much to the relief of Denomark, Berton himself retired he still sat and pondered about their friendship and what it now meant. He noticed that the old man had not stirred except for the occasional puff of smoke leaving his pipe, still curiously watching the man Denomark finally stood up and headed to the stairs where the first warm bed in weeks awaited him, he was so looking forward to comfort and sleep that he could not help but groan at what he heard next. “Come and sit with me, Denomark.”It was only after a while that he realised with shock the man whom he has never seen before knew his name. Cautiously he walked over to the table where the two strange men sat.

“Not to be rude, stranger, but how is it you have come by my name when we have surely never met? He looked queerly at the old man, still smoking his pipe and not lifting his head. “Ah, the fact that we have not yet met is but a small obstacle. I know more than most think I do. Good thing you did down south at Mudean, young man, but have a seat we have lots more to discuss.” Slowly the old man took the pipe from his mouth and put it down on the table beside him. ‘I am afraid I must turn down your offer, I have had many weeks of little rest and am not keen to make it last one night longer. Besides I do not know you nor your name, old man and I wish to hear no tales tonight.” The old man lifted his head so that his face could be seen, it was a kind face though roughed and worn from age and travel. “OhOhOh.” He chuckled softly to himself. “Do not ne so hasty, I can assure you this is one tale you will not regret to miss a bit of sleep over. Now sit down!” his command was playful and he gestured to a chair between his and the big man who looked amused at the conversation, but this barely belied the strain of worry al too visible on his face. The old man nodded to him and the big man stood up and walked around the Inn seeming as though he looked for someone at the windows and doors close enough to hear and as he did Denomark hesitantly took a seat. “Alright then, what is this all about?” He looked the old man in the eye as he asked this wanting to make sure he heard the truth. “Well then now that we’ve come to our senses I shall introduce myself! I am Gambill and I’m a wizard from the great Almuran Sanctum in Cair-Leandrim. I have come here from a great journey, which if our paths cross again and you have grown I shall tell you of. But for now I only bring a most epic but simple tale of the creation of Esgroth-Marith, one which will learn you a lot of truths of the peoples you have contact with and a powerful mental tool you will need for what is to come.” He put his fingers between

each other, laying his hands on his belly while smiling at the shock, awe and wonder on Denomarks face. “Uham, a...a wizard!?” Denomark felt stupid at this sorry reply. “Yes, a wizard and I have come to give a hand here, things are in a desperate and dreadful state, Denomark and it is crucial that Rhealdoné survives this attack, for the sake of all Esgroth-Marith.” The big man now joined them again at the table and sat quietly drinking ale. A moment of silence poured over them until the wizard finally spoke in partial pity of the lost Denomark. “Well, it’s late so we better get started. You look like a smart one so I think you will enjoy this piece of history.”The wizard calmly cleared his throat and wriggled himself into a more comfortable position and then began. “Where shall we start? Uhmmmm.” The wizard put his one hand to his chin and frowned with concentration until his face lit up and he looked up once more and started to speak. “Let us start with the coming of your people into the lands of Marith, now called Esgroth-Marith. Once, long ago the ancestors of the people of Arith-Moore, Dulair-Mon, Cair-Leandrim and Rhealdoné were of the same tribe. This tribe was enslaved by the Ulrikan to the north, over the inland see called the Nomiran which divided Holinion, now Esgroth-Marith, and Ulrikan. The Ulrikan are cruel and jealous of their possessions and are not a pleasant peoples. So it was that your ancestors who were called the Marithians seeked desperately to escape their new owners. One year with the coming of spring, a holy time for the Marithians, the rose up in revolt and managed to escape through the eastern border and into Garanamos, a beautiful region of forests and fields and mountains joining Esgroth-Marith to the northern continent. The were pursued ruthlessly by their previous masters who burned and pillaged as they went, but luck was on their side and just as the reached the range Dragonfang mountain that stood between Esgroth-Marith and Garanamos they had gathered enough help to

drive back their enemies in one fierce battle upon the small desert field of Gorun. That day was made a festival and all celebrated. Some of those who thought alongside your ancestors were the Forn, a powerful and strong race of half men and half bull who worships the god of the earth, Gorhu. Then there were the witches of Amrang and the strong and proud men of Qaulain who are experts at sea and still rule the Nomiran.” The wizard took a break and took a deep drink of his beer. “You with me so far?” the wizard seemed enchanted just by recollecting this tale. “Yes, I think so. You mean we were all together once?” Denomark sat mesmorized, all these names and peoples which he had no knowledge of were the reason he sat here today. “Off course. But you must understand for the sake of time I have left out a lot of detail.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now we come to Esgroth-Marith. Well your ancestors prospered after there crushing victory and became many and the land became full so most, under the leadership of Ruran, the third king of Marith, whose line started with Duran who has been named king after the Gorun battle, went west, through a pass in the unyielding range of the Dragonfang till they were in Esgroth-Marith, a vast and treacherous land then. Trolls and other monstrous creatures were frequent, like those you saw the Maldourians ride, and furagk were the dominant force. The only power that stood between the furagk dominion were the Horinthians and their lesser relatives the elves, who both were strong and great but lacked the numbers to destroy the horde of furagk. It was thus with great relief that the Marithians and elves and Horinthians set up an alliance and managed to subdue the furagk, if not destroy them completely.” The wizard took a long suck from his pipe and blew a perfect ring into the air that drifted above their heads, the sound of a playing in the back ground serenaded the tale. “I’ve never heard of these Horinthians, Gambill, who are they?’ “They are the masters of the Horinthé, who were created as a favourite race to the gods.” Once again the wizard cleared his

throat. “Sadly they have been abandoned in time by the Marithians... But enough of that.” “Now, more years of relative peace passed with no major wars or battles except for raids between the furagk and Marithians, after who the land was now named after. A thousand years passed until the next ripple ran through the pool of time. A great peoples, even mightier than the Horinthians, though not so graced, set foot upon Marith. They came with heavy armour and large weapons, the skill in craftsmanship which was not seen yet upon this earth. They were strong and tall and had rough faces with black hair and pale skin and they had sailed from the other side of the great sea, from the land of Esgroth came the mighty Esgrothians.” The wizard looked over to the big man, who looked calm now and tired. “And Eolgrin here is a direct descendent of them.” Denomark looked with awe at the man before him, as if he were a living relic of a time long gone. “At first their raged a mighty war between the men of Esgroth and the Marithians and elves but when they could no longer withstand this new power they called on the Horinthians who stepped in, but they to were defeated. So a new rule was established over Esgroth-Marith. At first all went well, the Esgrothians had made the city of Horinthios their capital on this new world after the fall of the Horinthians and they called this new world Esgroth_Marith.” The wizard threw more tobacco into his pipe and lit it once more sucking and blowing the smoke once more. “It was not so that the Marithians wanted the rule of the Esgrothians but they excepted it for it was not a bad rule. Again peace rained and again it was shattered, this time by a more sinister force, the first real Dark Lord of Esgroth-Marith had risen and had raised a mighty army made up of all dark creatures. This Dark Lord called Garogorth marched his army and overrun the vast farming communities surrounding his stronghold, Nirgog, that also was the last dwelling place of the furagk. Engelmar, a brilliant general and the new king of Esgroth-Marith marched to war with seventy thousand Esgrothians and thirty thousand volunteers made up of elves and

men a like. Battle lines were drawn and the furagks, numbering an estimated five hundred thousand began their endless assault, but the Esgrothians has not come to defend. They charged the furagk army with such force that Engelmar reached the Dark Lord whom he challenged to a battle of swords. They fought for hours but even with the strength he gave himself the Dark Lord was no match for the skill of Engelmar and he was defeated. As the killing blow struck the Dark Lord the very might he had shattered the world, the earth cracked and split and so Engelmars wall was formed, built on the stone wall made by the crack. The largest mountain in the west of the Dragonfang Mountains, Morodín exploded with fire and formed a volcano by the very force of it.” The wizard now sat and seem to reflect on what he had just said. “You see Denomark. There is always a balance, if you destroy evil another will rise up, often killing you. Engelmar returned victorious to Horinthios, but his glory did not last long. Before he disappeared he became aggressive and odd and his humour was quick. After his sudden disappearance the rulers of the Marithians saw their chance and overthrew the shook Esgrothians. Most were banished to the harsh land of Maldour, some escaped to the north to Hallowood were the elves lived... and yet others found refuge in Cair-Leandrim were the people were more understanding of different races.” “For years the men of Maldour struggled to get on their feet, and to add insult to injury they were forced to build the same wall that would keep them imprisoned. They hated and despised the Marithians.” The wizard put down his pipe and opened his arms. “And that is all I have for now, Denomark, I hope that you would take this message to heart, sometimes we dig our own graves and have no one else to blame but ourselves and yet sometimes we merely fight that which is evil and wrong. Much is left to chance in this world and you must take them. And finally remember that any man can change the world if he does but trust in himself.” The wizard smiled supportively at Denomark, and just as he was about to reply there was a bang as the door of the Inn smashed against

the wall, a man, looking drunk and furious burst in. Denomark turned in his seat to see what was happening; he looked back at the unsurprised wizard and Eolgrin who also watched the man with silent anticipation. “You! Come here you maggot!” The man had a big rowdy voice used to drinking and a big build with long brown hair. His arm swerved as he pointed and it took everyone awhile to notice he was pointing at the man playing the music. The music stopped and the man stood up. He whore chain with engraved leather bands and a green cape, his hair was pitch black with a braid of hair running down the right of his face and the beginnings of a black beard, he was of average weight and skin certainly did not belong to any army of Esgroth-Marith. A sword was strapped to his back and his instrument now hung by his side as he coolly walked over to the man. “Have you slept with my wife?” the drunk put his face in that of the smaller mans. “Yes.” He looked completely unhindered and stared at the man. “She was lovely.” The drunk breathed heavily and Denomark pittied the bard the smell of his breath. “Then I will regain my honour by crushing your face beneath my boots little man.” With lightning speed the bards hand came up and his wrist smashed into the mans nose, breaking it. he then walked away and as he did the man simply clicked his nose back in place and kicked the bards instrument so that it broke. The bard picked up the chair next to him and smashed it over the bigger mans head sending him to the ground, the man came up only to find the bards blade at his throat. “You’ll pay for that, either with money or I’d have to bed your wife again.” Denomark sensing both men might do something stupid walked up and pushed the bards blade down.

“I’d put that away if I were you.” He said plainly. “And you’d better go check up on your woman sir, before I alert the king to your absence at the muster.” He then put his hand on his hilt to show he was serious. The big man walked off and the bard swore as he studied his broken. “I paid good money for this.” He looked up hopelessly. Denomark looked back over his shoulder to where the wizard had sat and saw him vanished without a trace, irritated he looked again at the bard. “You’ve got some arrogance, this is a small town, you must’ve known her husband would find out. Who are you? And what do you do?” “I am Brianan and I am many things: adventurer, bard and pleasurer of bored young wives. Now whom might you be?” the bard looked self assured and amusedly at Denomark. “I am Denomark, he felt he could now speak as equal to an outlaw and so he told him more. “I was a captain till I deserted the army at Mudean. I am now on a quest to find out the fate of my village to the west of here, the village of Rahnen. “Ahh was about time someone stood up to that old fool. Well if it’s a adventure your on you can count me in, there’s something special about you.” The bard shook hands with Denomark who laughed at the bard. “Thank you, well we leave at dawn tomorrow. Meet us down here for breakfast and I’ll introduce you.” “Will do. So do you have a banner?” “Yes, but it is the banner of our previous captain, I have not yet had time to change it.” the Inn was almost empty now except for the Innkeeper eyeing them. “That won’t do! You should get a new one tomorrow the we go.” Denomark stood for a moment and thought, another day could do

no harm so he agreed and retired, glad to have met a new companion. With delight Denomark fell onto his bed in the dead quiet of night. He felt relieved and revived after the hot bath and ready to travel further in the morning. Except for the border it had been a good day. Long into the night he pondered the tale of the shaping of Esgroth-Marith until he fell into a deep sleep. *** All around a darkness and silence lay so thick it was suffocating, nothing there to stir or move or even whisper to break the silence. A sinister spirit as dark as its surroundings seemed to wisp through the void making it colder and frightening. Suddenly it started to whisper in a evil and ancient language, corrosive in its effect upon the soul. The beast growled and toiled within its own nature and almost the void was filled by its shadow. Suddenly a flash of a golden light split the darkness it came with a thunderous roar and the crack of destruction. Shadows built as men appeared from far off in the distance, black against the bright light. Banners, swords, spears and shields could be seen swerving as the men who carried them charged forward, crying a war challenge to the darkness, their boots, thousands strong pummelled the realm into a shivering mass. As the men neared the darkness a man could be seen leading the charge, he was a mighty vision in black and gold and his sword was pointed before him. Soon he came near enough and Denomark recognised the bright blue eyes and black and blonde hair. It was him charging, leading men into the battle against darkness before a banner of black with a golden sun. *** The following day rose with more enthusiasm than normal for the company, through the morning a route was devised through the northern regions and southern regions of Hallowood from were they would turn south to Rahnen, the journey would not take more than a week and the road was new and exciting. The bard now too

a part of the company had also brought much excitement, he had great tales of adventures to tell and his charisma made him a natural entertainer. In the middle of the day men arrived on horse back they numbered near enough to match a count of fifty and one captain led them. It has been a long time since so many soldiers were seen in one time at this small village and so it caused many rumours to appear of war and battle. At first Denomark thought them the emissary of the king to arrest them but with overwhelming joy it came to pass that they had also deserted the army stationed at Mudean and had come to join the now legendary captain who freed them. With all going his way Denomark now felt uplifted and stronger and all doubt to the survival of his family evaporated as confidence took over At sunset he walked down the only street running through the village to the weavers to whom he had given the designs of his banner and had paid graciously to finish before nightfall. The banner was triangular and pitch black and bordered by a thin strand of gold. In the middle of the banner a golden sun, lined by maroon shone out, highlighted by the surrounding dark. As he showed the new banner to his company, now seventy eight strong it was met by invoked joy and a cry and applause. Denomark removed the previous banner of Hammelhor and a moment of silence followed as a last tribute was paid to their great captain, carefully the banner was folded and put in a leather bag hanging from Denomarks horse. Old feelings of pain and loss came back to them and the rest of the night was spent in awkward sorrow. The next morning came with a golden arousal. The bright sun lit up the fields around them and even the treetops of the forest seemed golden. Slowly the company awoke one by one until all were full and gathered by the side of the road around Denomark. Slowly he mounted and turned to his men. “Who shall carry our banner?” the new banner stood upright in the soft soil of northern Rhealdoné. A moment of silent reined as each looked at the next, then Honin with his bulk stepped forth and

took up the banner. He mounted it unto his saddle and then mounted his horse. Again Denomark looked at his men and pride swelled up within him as he stared into the faces of his men... he felt as if he had found his fate in leading men. Knowing that some looked up to him and followed him, believed in him greatly invoked his enthusiasm. “Men, mount!” Suddenly the crowd leaped into motion and in flowing movements the horses were burdened. “We ride north, to the elven lands of Harrowood.” With an ayah he spurred his horse, Fyron forward and soon with similar cries the rest of the company followed. *** Steadily, slowly the small patrol of elves with pale white hair and fair skin, nimble and cunning in the deeps of the forest made their way westwards through the thick undergrowth of Harrowood. Although their posture did not unveil them they were wary and cautious, throughout the day the forest air had been dark and thick, almost completely devoid of light and their seemed to be a air of sinister and evilness, which for elven territory felt completely out of character. The trees seemed mean and angered and their leaves smothered the light. It was by now well known that nature itself had turned restless... and as peoples of nature the Iolinean, elves of the Harrowood also grew restless. Patrols were set up as news of furagks travelling south spread and a great hunt was set up to kill the evil beasts. This patrol was sent from the great forest keep of Finrolad to the river of Nomsal dividing the Guruwan from the Iolinean. Belion walked at the rear of the patrol, every now and then looking back and opening his ears to the wind searching and listening for traces of the enemy as far as his senses could reach. For eight days the have now travelled by a pre prescribed trail through the forest, which now seemed almost unrecognisable and vulgar to him. Not a word was spoken as they travelled, although no furagk would get within hearing distance without being noticed by the

elves there was no compromising when it came to remaining incognito. Here and their birds could be heard squealing and squawking and toads crackling. But no other sound... Belion felt a chill run down his spine, the wind had grown even colder and louder as its strength suddenly increased, with a horrific realization of a terrible truth a dark and powerful voice could be heard whispering in the wind. “Cog eskovian nichtol gorgovni feragknu il, qua dorhol gokr.” The elves stood as they were, frozen by their own fear. Brave they were but this voice spoke with a power cold and strong. After awhile a broken voice spoke from somewhere in front. “What does it mean my lord? What curse did this fell voice speak upon us?” The leader of the patrol, Eleanon, none other than the lord of the Coliast, woods south of the Finrolad who had spent many years living in the forest keep and studying its scrolls of even the most ancient of languages, turned to his men and spoke. “The voice spoke these words, I repeat it now as best I can: “You shall die by the hands of those that shall burn this world and bathe in the blood of all who defend it.” Before thought could be given to these words a thunderous boom echoed through the forest and the screams and guttural yells of furagks rang out from less than a hundred yards and the puff of feet against jungle soil started growing and nearing. A cry of run got the elves moving at a run once more to the west. Belion watched his fellow elves duck this way then that among the bushes and branches of the forest, jumping and sidestepping, they never missed a step or slackened their pace, years of living within the forest had made their feet cunning and sharp. He heard arrows whistling past his head and panicked until he realized the furagks were to far away and that the arrows came from his own patrol, pulling his bow from his back and arrow from his quiver he listened and as he did he pulled his bow taught and fired as soon as his senses pin pointed a furagk. Each time an arrow met his victim a guttural grunt of death was heard and through these cries Belion could calculate that the furafks were falling slowly behind

the fast moving elves until even the patter of their feet could barely be heard by the ears of elves. Still they ran on, not taking the chance to be caught as their word must yet reach the king. The air grew colder and the moisture thickened until small drops of water formed over the bodies of the elves. A small trickling track could be heard coming from the west. Suddenly the patrol halted as they burst through the last line of trees to the banks of a river, the river Nomsal whose waters now ran swift and strong after the days of cyclonic rain. “Lord Eleanon, I put their number at three hundred or more, how could they thwart our ears for so long? Surely some sorcery took place?” The elf’s voice was strained by exhaustion and he was bending with his hands on his knees. The sudden quiet and calm stood in sharp contrast with the chase. “I do not know what events had just taken place, Noléo, but if we want to live we must cross this river into the lands of the Guruwan. We are dealing with more here than mere furagks.” He pointed to another elf, stronger and taller than most. “Linorf, form a bridge for us to cross by hooking your rope around that tree.” He pointed to the largest tree with a ragged bark on the far side. “And be swift, I no not how much time we have.” Linorf took the rope with a three hooked tip attached and swung it about his head, he stepped forward twice as he flung it side wards at the tree around which it curled and hooked. Without wasting time Eleanon carefully stepped on the rope, testing its strength and balancing himself until he felt safe to cross. “My lord, will the Guruwan not be angered at our intrusion? It has been so long...” Eleanon looked back and replied courageously. “They shall see reason, Noléo... The time has come to once again assemble allies or fall, with the blessings of the earth a miracle might happen.” Eleanon then mounted the rope and started across, slowly increasing his pace as his confidence grew. One by one the elves followed him across until almost half the patrol was safely over, by now the feet and drums of the furagks could be heard once more. Belion now stood straight once more and removed his bow, even

now, out of sight the furagks were not safe, the elves sent arrows, aimed by hearing into the dark, finding their targets more often than not. As the furagks came within a hundred yards the last elves started to cross. Belion stood and listened for a patter of feet, when he isolated one he aimed the bow at chest height and fired... Somewhere in the dark a furagk grunted and fell and Belion smirked with achievement. A voice cried his name and as he turned he saw it was now his turn to cross, nervously, arrows whistling past him once more he started on the rope bridge, his arms stretched wide. As he came halfway the furagks had emerged from the trees and his elven comrades tried desperately to keep their archers at bay. A stab of pain froze his body and his leg buckled, an arrow, dark and blood covered pointed out of his lower stomach and he fell. He landed with his stomach on the rope and then fell of sideways... a myriad of green and blue swept him into a frenzy until all turned black. A soft mist hung over the swirling waters of the Nomsal, far from the furagks and the elves upriver, peace reigned, the river now divide into six branches each with their own deviations. A body, dressed in earthy colours drifted slowly down the left branch, higher than the rest the river soon thinned here until it was little more than a stream stumbling over pebbles. The elven body, still as a corpse, even more pale beached on the small rounded pebbles, its face open and calm. *** The company rested at the border of the woods, the moist night air colder than they were used to. The twilight had a strange bluish twinge to it. A small fire crackled, roughly in the centre of the company and some sat huddled around it, gathering warmth under their thick woollen capes. The horses grazed to the left of them, delighted by the fat and nutritious grass in this fruitfull region. The banner danced slowly in the slight breeze between the fire and the horses. Denomark stood on his own nearer to the woods, awaiting news from the small scouting party searching for a road through the thick forest. They were now far north to Rahnen as no road west could be found.

“My lord, we’ve found something! You had better come see for yourself!” Denomark looked around, just across the river a dark figure, barely separable from the dark forest. “I’m coming, Foren. And call me by my name.” Although he lounged in his position of leader he remained Denomark and he remained honest towards himself, but most importantly he remained humble. His friends were still his friends no matter how high ranked he was. He now turned fully and started strolling briskly towards the place were Foren had disappeared into the woods. He loved the feel of the cold air against his face as he walked. He walked across the shallow stream, his boots high enough to keep his feet dry even in the deepest pool. As soon as he entered the forest he felt welcomed in some way but soon a strange twinge of danger ran through him as if the forest was a spider inviting and luring its prey only to catch and devour it. his hair rose and his flesh pocked. Unwillingly he continued upstream with the river running north. When he came around a small bend and was inline of sight he saw a group of men squawking around n a circle. Brianan, sitting at the far side and as a result spotting Denomark first stood up and walked to Denomark. “We found him lying here, stopped by the rocks. He is an Iolinean elf.” He cocked his head back and between the men Denomark could see a body. “He was more dead than alive when we found him. He had an arrow wound with the tip still sticking out in his waist and frozen almost solid.” The bard looked concerned and Denomark feeling no need to speak shrugged by and walked over to the elf, Hador stood up to give Denomark room to kneel by the elf lying on the ground. A great sorrow overwhelmed Denomark seeing a creature so fair, so flawless dying. The elf just lay there in complete silence. “Wheres Gruwaith?” Denomark asked, realizing he was not there. “As soon as we found him Gruwaith went in search of forest herbs to try and save the elf. Denomark did not look up to see who

spoke but as he looked around all the men seemed in awe of the elf. He felt the elf’s hand and pulled back his own in fright of the cold. “He’s so cold.” Denomark pulled of his cloak and put it over the elf. Just then Gruwaith burst from the forest, his feet was surprisingly nimble on the busy forest turf. Another man stood to be replaced hastily by Gruwaith, the concern on his face was more emotion than Denomark could remember ever him showing. His brow was frowned as he knelt over the elf an pulled up its tunic and Denomarks cloak and applied the mush he had heaped on a thick leaf. “Step back, he needs air.” Everyone acknowledged the command from Gruwaith and as they stood back hushed whispers of concern rose among them. Denomark still stood watching, his eyes wet with hope. When Gruwaith finished he looked back and asked. “We need to take him to the fire.” Two men took the elf’s feet as gruwaith took him by his shoulders and they carried him briskly but carefullt towards the fire and as they neared they shouted for the men sitting nearby to give way. The elf was placed by the fire and everyone whispered in anticipation while Ydin and Berton and those who were with the elf explained the happenings. As the night wore on Gruwaith sat awake by the elf joined till late by Denomark and Berton, who both soon sought the comfort of sleep and left Gruwaith. In the middle of the night a twig in the fire snapped from the weakening affects of burning. A small cluster of embers fell over, a tumbling mass of red and orange. Gruwaith took a branch from the pile of fire wood and knelt down once more next to the elf, as he pushed the embers back into the fire one of them rolled against the limp elf’s hand. With a sudden shudder the elf’s eyes opened wide and shocked and he lifted his head to look at what burnt him as he pulled his arm away. Gruwaith looked up at the elf in strange confusion and then ran to the elf’s side as he yelled:

“The elf is alive! Praise the ancestors!” He helped the stunned elf to his feet and after the elf regained his balance and men started awakening from their sleep he lifted his tunic and gasped as he saw the angry pink scar were once a grievous wound lay. Denomark slowly rose from his bed and walked over to the elf, wonder once more taking over at seeing this majestic creature alive. The elf himself now looked at Gruwaith and Denomark and then around at the encampment. “By the gods. Who has healed my wounds? It’s sensitive to the touch but all poison is gone and I’m alive.” Denomark reached out his arm to the elf who did not take it but rather looked like a trapped rabbit. “I am Denomark. I lead these men. Gruwaith, the man behind you was the one who found your body, moored on the shallow water upstream from here and who healed your wounds. We all are glad to see you alive elf, and your presence is most welcome... by what name do you go?” The elf looked back at Gruwaith and seemed confused and dazed. “How?...” he started but then silenced, watched down and started once more. “Never have I fought it possible that I would be at the debt of one who walks with the Guruwan. I owe you my thanks, Denomark, and to your men for saving my life. I am Belion, son of Gilean.” “I do not run with the Guruwan, elf, nor do I share your quarrels...” Gruwaith looked sternly at the elf. The elf said nothing but walked to Gruwaith and shook him by the arm before turning back to Denomark. “I guess that you shall be curious as to what fate had befallen me? Although I should like to tell my tale I must go in search of my patrol immediately. I hope you will understand. ” We were attacked by Furagks, I must know their fate.” The elf’s voice felt longing and Denomark pitied him as he connected his situation with theirs.

“If u but wait till morning, Belion, we will ride with you and help your patrol fight these furagks...” Denomark wanted to help but he also knew that the elf might be his only way back home. “I shall accept your request graciously, Denomark, though I do not know what favour I could return to you?” “My home village was too attacked by furagks, we’ve been looking for a path through the woods to the west.” “I know of such a path, and if we manage to save my patrol I swear I shall lead you upon it.” the elf shook Denomarks hand. But for now I’m tired and sore and need rest.” Denomarks heart jumped for joy at the sudden realization of a problem solved. And so the group of men awake dispersed to their beds. The next morning the company arose with bountiful anticipation. The weather was as beautiful as the day before, and now they had a guide to speed them through the forest to the west. A little path, just wide enough for three men began hidden behind a gigantic oak tree, it ran in an endlessly straight line through the forest, the overhanging branches creating an arch. Here Denomark felt no danger or trouble but his doubt was renewed as Gruwaith spoke to him. “This is Guruwan territory, they do not look kindly upon intruders of any kind, whatever may come, Denomark, you should be ready to run.” The tone of Gruwaiths voice and his words haunted Denomark throughout the day and he could not help but feel restless. By nightfall they were once again out of the woods, south to the woods spreading north. They set up camp there as they waited for Gruwaith and Belion to find traces of the patrol. As the sunset grew gold and purple Denomark walked around the camp. The bard and Ernon were playing music together, a slow and enchanting piece that set a fitting atmosphere. The three brothers Hamor, Hindol and Honin were preparing food. On a small grey stone standing among the grass Dolanon sat and nervously scribbled on parchment, a habit he had picked up since they left Duranhail. Berton and Ydin sat together by the fire and talked and

as Denomark passed them he and Berton exchanged hurried glances. Foren and Feran and a few others lscouted around the camp while others fetched water or drank what they had and talked and kept merry. It was as Denomark reached the western side of the camp that he saw a sight that chilled him. Dolnin sat alone, surrounded by a sea of swaying leaves, he too sat on a round head of a boulder, every second a scraping sound could be heard as he sharpened his diagonal blade with a stone. His gaze was so intent that even from behind its menace could be felt. Fully armoured he was and looked like a predator summing up its prey as he faced west, as he faced Maldour. Soon two figures burst from the woods running at full pace towards the camp. One of them waved his arms and started to yel. “We found them! Some hundred yards to the north, coming south west! Get your armour and yourswords! We must help them!” It took Denomark more than a few seconds to break his gaze off from Dolnin and recognise the shouting as that of Belion. Dolnin rose slowly and let his blade hang in his hand as he walked closer, still menacing and dark. In moments the camp was in uproar. Everyone got ready for battle. Denomark looked around and saw again Dolanon, sitting by himself, shaking with fear, struggling to arm himself. Denomark walked up to him and took him by the shoulder. “Dolanon, I shall need at least one person to look after the horses and the camp.” He filled his voice with as much sympathy and understanding he could muster at that moment. Dolanon looked up in shock at Denomark. “Lord, I could never... let you go while I stay.” He seemed disgusted with his own words. “Dolanon, some things are better left to others.” He squeezed Dolanons shoulder supportively. “Honour is not worth your life Dolanon.” He tilted his head slightly. “Neither your sanity.” The last words were a mere whisper. With a last look hestood up and left a grateful but stunned Dolanon behind.

Slowly and carefully they made their way through the woods, keeping low and quiet. They were led by Belion and Gruwaith who used their sense of direction to their best potential to lead the party towards the furagks or the elves. After about an hour of searching faint sounds of marching could be heard and it was not long before clear sounds of furagk talk could be heard. Denomark once again felt that strange sensation of fear crawl up his spine. They reached a place were the ground dipped sharply like a bank and they could just spy at the army of furagks chasing something. They had decided to wait till the furagks went past and then follow them but after awhile a drastic event forced them to change their minds. From the far side arrows started whistling from within the treetops and every now and then a cry of death could be heard. The furagks, frightened and bewildered scattered into all directions. Denomark called a whisper of hold the line as the steep bank protected them, then after a few moments of chaos the furagks pulled together and started in the direction of the arrows. With his hands Denomark held his hand into the air waiting for the perfect time to hit them from the side but before he did, Dolanon jumped from the bank in the midst of the furagks and started slashing left and right, forced now to attack Denomark gave the signal and his host met the furagks, no longer having the element of surprise. A fierce battle erupted, Belion and Gruwaith landed a hand from behind, supporting the fighting men. Denomark and his best: Dorin, Berton, Honin, Haldor, Hamor and Ydin pushed forward. Half the furagks had gone in chase of the mysterious arrows while the other stayed and fought. A drum beat suddenly arose from further in the forest. A tree suddenly came crashing down and the beat of drums suddenly emerged as a troll, its heavy feet punishing the earth. It cried a fierce and deep cry and leapt into battle, flailing an axe wildly in his hands, killing those furagks before him. Feran who had noticed the troll last of all stood frozen in place as he looked around in fright. The trolls muscles tightened as his arm rose above his head and his axe caught a glimpse of moonlight. His arm came down and a crack of bone hailed the fulfilment of his deadly purpose. The axe hit Feran

bluntly from the side. Ferans limp body flew through the air and came to a bloody stop against the bark of a giant oak. Denomark roared with sorrow and anger as Ferans body slipped to the ground. He pulled a spear from his back and sent it flying straight into the neck of the troll whom gurgled and grunted and crashed to the ground. Foren yelled and ran over to his brother, ruthlessly cutting the furagks down in front of him, anger and sorrow fuelling his skill. Denomark and Berton fought to his side, protecting him as he knelt by his dead brothers’ now empty vessel. As the battle died down he called for Honin, whom took up the crying Foren in his arms and carried him off to the camp while his brother Hindol carried off Ferans corpse as the final furagks were hunted down and killed. Denomark looked around. There Dolanon stood over a furagk, viciously slashing his throat and watching him die. No one spoke, heads towards the ground. Denomark became radical with anger and charged Dolanon, hitting his sword from his hand, dropping his own and grasped him at his chest, pushing him against a tree. “I gave no order to attack! We could have seen that troll!” Denomark stared viciously into Dolanons eyes, his face a bare inch from Dolanon, who said nothing. Again Denomark shook him angered further by his arrogant silence. “You have Ferans blood on your own hands!” Still Dolanon said nothing, but still looked into his eyes, unemotionally. Denomark threw him away, putting his hand to his face as he swore. “You do not belong here, human.” Denomark looked up and around, surrounding them were dark figures, barely seen in the mist and darkness. Between to big oaks, under an arch of branches two figures stood tall and regal, the one to the left nearer than the other. “What are you doing here? Only danger now awaits in this region.” Before Denomark could explain Belion brushed past him. “Lord, it is me, Belion, these men found me barely alive in the river; they healed my wounds and gave me food. I owe them my life. They have graciously agreed to help

when I spoke of the furagks attack.” The man whom Denomark assumed the leader spoke next standing unmoved. “I must give you my greatest thanks, Marithian. We have lost all hope for our beloved Belion and now he has returned.” He waved his arm and the elves relaxed, leaning against trees or sitting on the ground. “I must beseech you though to leave this forest at once, the Guruwan barely tolerate our presence and if they are to here of us leading the furagks within their realm they would not take kindly to us, their actions maybe even less to Marithians.” “This is our woods, elf. What brings you with enemies in our territory?” The voice was rough and grinding and sent a chill into everyone assembled in the ditch. It came from behind the elves and they turned around warily as they moved back and nearer to Denomarks company. Then their figures appeared faintly in the mist and Denomark snuck for breath, the were tall broad shouldered, muscled beyond brute force. The strutted forward around the company, the elves had their long spears with a sword like tip at the ready, pointed toward the Guruwan. “We meant you and your people no harm, Elghor, leave us to return to our lands as we did not mean to come here. The humans do not know what they have done, let them leave to their families down south.” The words of Eleanon sounded nervous and unsure though he held his authority. “Hold your tong, Eleanon, I wish to speak to this human.” He pronounced the elf princes name as a curse and walked nearer to Denomark, walking tall and arrogantly out of the protection of his men. “Ruomour has it that king Thurdan is losing his war. The Maldourians are crushing your forces, going ever more to the south. Why would this so called king let his men stray this far north? It seems as though he needs all help he can get.” He stared into the eyes of Denomark who did not flinch or give way but fought back with all his strength. “I no longer fight under that banner. Me and my men wish only to return to our birthplace to seek out the fate of our people. We

came here to help the elves and I hoped at best you would understand the situation.” At this Elghor pulled back. “Furagks are streaming in from the north. Maldourians, scouting our western front have plagued our people as well. We do not need trouble in the south. But be warned, youngling, I am not kind and I shall not tolerate you speaking to me as an equal in MY woods.” “Do not forget who gave you these woods, Elghor.” Eleanon now sounded angered and mistreated and his words made it clear. “Do not think we are stupid or ignorant. These humans only came to help, their bravery and companionship is more in worth than our conflict over earth.” “I shall let you go, human, your actions have been honourable, one element that we Guruwan respect.” He sounded as if he was a father speaking to children in an arrogant manner. “As for you Eleanon, I shall have to speak with you, alone.” Belion walked over to Eleanon and whispered in his ear. “Then let us talk. Let the humans be.” With this Belion pulled Denomark back by his arm, eventually forcing him to let his gaze wander from Elghor. “Come my friend, we must go. I shall go with you for now.” Denomark followed him from the woods. As in a trance by fear, horror and wonder the company walked back, no words were spoken and no one noticed anything in the woods. At the camp Honin and Hindol sat around the now great fire and was soon joined by their brother, Hamor. Behind them a sleeping Foren with wet, red eyes lay in his bed while some distance back a figure of a body bound in leather lay upon the grass. Silence greeted them as they all sat down or went to bed. Not even the rowdy Doldar drank or fooled. The loss of Feran, youngest among them, their scout and their joy for now silenced them. Denomark remembered him as the embodiment of free youth, most innocent and joyful and energetic among them his presence has always invoked favoured memories of home. Now with the loss of the guidance of

Hammelhor and the loss of their youth Denomark felt all the sudden older and more responsible, but more than anything he felt... Lost. The only thing he had to hold him together, his memories of home and the thought of being together once more with his loved ones.

Chapter5: What breaks men. The next few days of travel seemed to pass by unnoticed. Mostly because the whole company now reflected on the death of Hammelhor, the betrayals of Furdon and Donian and a very uncertain future. Since the start of the war so much blood has been shed, so much of value lost and yet it was barely the beginning of what is to come still. Belion had come with the company as a guide and to reply his debt. He and Gruwaith had formed an unlikely bond of elf and Guruwan and their friendship grew each day. Denomark always saddened at the sight of friendship since it reminded him of the declining one between him and Berton. Desperately they wanted to reach out to each other and rebuild a broken bridge, but affection is a scarce sign of weakness and one too awkward to portray. Dolanon now always maintained a following distance from the company being to arrogant and stubborn to apologise he just avoided all unnecessary contact They were now directly north of Rahnen, in an open U-shaped clearing of the Hallowood. By sunset they reached the slim leg of woods bordering the north of Rahnen. The sky was gold and crimson and the clouds divided the sunshine into streams of light that fell to the green earth, the woods were dark and misty, the thick woods allowed in no sunshine and the moisture withheld inside had risen up into the forest air making it mysterious. As they came around the woods, just before coming within sight of Rahnen a rustling in the woods stopped Denomark and his company. Out of the gloom a ragged figure of a man could be seen approaching from within the bowls of mist and trees. “Do not go further, Denomark, for there are things that men should not bare witness of.” The voice was laden with age and trouble and had a dry tone as if starved and thirsty.

Denomark stared at the figure, trying to make out more of his being. ‘Who are you old one? And where is it that you have come by my name?” He had vowed to himself in secret that none shall ever again take him by surprise and thus his caution was audible. “We are not to be stopped, long and hard has our journey been to reach our home.” The figure emerged from the woods; it was an old man with wrinkled skin and a wild grey beard and hanging grey hair. His eyes were red and sore and his lips chapped. He was covered in grime and soot and his teeth were yellow and damaged. By his hand an arrow, seemingly fixed over and over by string and covered in blood hung from his hand. His clothes were torn and ragged and of pale colours. “Your home? Our home is destroyed, Denomark, turn now and be thankful the gods did not have you punished by witnessing its destruction.” Then the mans eyes went large and vague and his dark pupils stared into a world long gone. “I... I, I was in the forest, searching for strong wood... then they came with fire and cruel blades, they shrieked and yelled and their war cries echoed throughout the valley. Our homes burst in flames, our nearest were hacked to death. I stood here in the woods watching. They destroy everything they see. The horror still burns my heart... What hope has men against such cruelty? Against such recklessness? Such... Evil?” The old man fell to his knees, his arrow falling to the ground. He wailed and cried. “What hope, Denomark!?” What hope?” Denomark sprang from his horse and gave the man water from his satchel. “Fletcher? Fletcher Ulda?” Denomark looked empathetically into the eyes of the old Fletcher as he lightly shook his shoulder. “What happened here!?” ‘Long have I waited in shame for my death to come, long have I waited for some hope, for a golden burial. Denomark, spare yourself my sorrow, go back from whence you came, turn back, Denomark...” The mans body went limp, and Denomark, now with tears in his eyes caught the scrawny corpse who had barely any flesh to cover his bones. He laid back the light empty vessel of life

on the soft grass under the shadow of the tree, a large, healthy oak, and perfect for the making of arrows. “Rest well, Fletcher, and may you once more know peace.” Denomark’s heart felt as if beaten buy a stick. He spun around as he stood and looked at the ground. Then with a sudden realization he remembered Rahnen, not heeding the mans words he sped around the corner of woodland, all Rahnens former inhabitants following him. At first sight of Rahnen, Denomark stopped and his voice caught in his lungs, the rest came up next to him, to his right. Together they stood, in silence, in awe, in terror of what awaited them. Denomark ran back and desperately saddled his horse, spurring him at top speed down the slope, followed swiftly by the rest, by foot or by horse they reached Rahnen and time slowed as Denomarks feet hit the ground and he started to the south west, to his home in Rahnen. No roof was left and no wall was unburned, the untended streets were filled with mud and ash. He stroked the burnt wood of what was once a support beam for a roof and then walked on once again, his senses filled with the destruction. Finally he reached what seemed like the ruins of a hauntingly familiar place. As he came around the corner and looked down two figures appeared to him; their bodies were mutilated by time and humid weather and the mud and the corpse itself could not be distinguished. A rotten smell of decay overwhelmed him and he put his hand to his mouth and gagged until the shocking truth revealed itself to him. The remains of two humans laying in the mud, still hand in hand was that of his mother and father. Silently he fell to the ground, not hearing the screams and wails of his men, his knees sank somewhat into soft soil as his fingers dug into the same earth to support him. The sight was shockingly grim in its beauty; love transcends even a horrid death. His stomach felt as if a gushing river of water was flowing through it and imaginary needles of pain, caused by the absence of blood tore at his hands and fingers as he became all the more pale. He felt the veins on his brow pulse rabidly against his skin.

Then the world of sorrow that held him burst into flames while his heart froze over, in this deadly mix of unshakeable hate, fuelling desires he had never known, a way of life he now longed to live. Then he felt a hand which had been violently shaking his shoulder for most of his despair. From the inferno in his mind his voice clearly rose. “Gruwaith, I want these furagks.” Still bent over his dead parents, in front of their burnt home his voice quivered with pure malice. The collage of his men’s own misery now came to him he could see no other desire; feel no desire, from now he could only know revenge. Revenge against those who so despise life, revenge against a state whose arrogance and ignorance had caused him, so far, that which mattered most to him. *** The sun rose in a violent blur of red and gold. Below them the furagk encampment stood, unaware of the horror that awaited them. Their tents were of dark, rotten skin, which kind, Denomark did not want to guess, here and there small fires burnt still in the camp. It has now been four days since Rahnen and revenge still pulsed within the men so aggressively that those who followed them were silent and afraid. Gruwaith stood pointing down to where the furagks still slept. “There they are Denomark.” At the sight of their enemy Denomarks heart burnt once more with icy flames, his soul was once again flung into the deepest, darkest pits of immorality and his whole being yearned for blood. “Let them be the ones who now witness the terror of pitiless wrath, let them flee only to be hacked by those they have wronged.” He deliberately roared these words with all his strength, and one by one the furagks came from their tents, wielding their cruel weapons forged from hateful fires. “Fill your hearts with hate so that even these foul beasts shall quiver, slash them and burn them! Ahhhhhhhhh” Denomark cried his hate out at the furagks and charged down the slop towards the camp, his

men followed him ruthlessly, yelling, screaming, cursing the creatures back to hell. Mercilessly they descended upon those camped below them. These men whose souls were now of the very flames that forged the evil ones blades outmatched the furagks in every way. No dead body was left not mutilated. No tent unburned. Often one of the men would push a furagk into a burning tent and his eyes would light with the satisfaction of revenge. They slashed and hacked until the ground itself was soaked in the dark, thick blood of evil. One furagk squealed and ran, Denomark turned and watched, he flung his shield at the back of the furagk. The shield flew straight and true and a sickening crack was heard as the shield, made of bronze and iron struck his back and snapped his spine. The furagk fell limply to the ground as a long grunt escaped his now useless body. As the final tents lit up Denomark was again surrounded by fire, in his soul as well as his being. As he bent by the furagk the light of the flames under the thick, black clouds of smoke cast shadows over his eyes and his face darkened. The furagk started to chuckle grotesquely. “Cog eskovian nichtol gorgovni feragknu il, qua dorhol gokr.” His speech was ended by more sinister laughter, Denomark raised his blade and slashed it into the skull of the furagk when he could no longer stand his pleasure, ripping out his blade, violently. “As long as I live I shall suffer no evil to live in peace or solace.” He stood up, his now fulfilled but lacking revenge fuelling arrogance. “We are done here!” Looking down once more at the pathetic sight of the dead furagk, sprawled on the muddy earth, his heart fell into a pain of loss and emptiness once more. Brushing away his weakness he picked up his shield and walked to his horse, ignoring the shocked men he and his companions had left behind in their charge of bloody revenge. In his mind Denomark licked his lips and found that the sweet taste of revenge came with a bitter aftertaste.\ ***

It was a sight of tragic beauty, the sight towards the west as Denomark and his men reached the top of the hill under which the now desolated Rahnen was nestled. The broken structures of charred wood buildings stood alone and dark inside the ring of golden flowers, laid on the graves of the dead villages previous inhabitants, family and friends where buried as the had lived, together in perfect harmony. At the sight of this Denomark felt tears of inside pain sting his eyes and for a moment he thought to let go of the malevolence and loss he held inside until that stone minion of will pulled him back and drove away again his weakness, for now he must be strong, for now he must not feel. As night came he went by himself for a quiet walk towards the woods, longing to free his minds beyond the bounds of human presence. He saw a figure walking to his left and after a squint he recognised him as Berton, his heart longed now more than ever for the true counsel friendship, but this he knew he could not rebuild without unleashing a torrent of feelings. He turned and walked into the small stretch of woods, curious to know the fate of the old Fletcher in his time of solitude. Not daring to think of what the old man felt. After a short time he came to a large tree, King among the other an the wood. To the left of the tree two poles of wood kept up a small, dirty and torn blanket, clearly of his wife’s make, following her style of weave to perfection. Small bones and pips from fruit lay scattered throughout the small camp. A few broken arrows, covered with blood lay among the grass, probably used to catch and butcher the small animals without a bow. He stood for a moment and ran his eyes over the sad scene, he was glad now that the old man had at least seen some form of his old life before he died. A rustle in the thick underbrush turned him around his hand automatically falling to the handle of his blade. “Who goes there? I pray thee to show thyself or invoke me.” Again a small rustle was heard and as he shook his head around he glimpsed a form of a man in the dark and then other, suddenly five figures surrounded him, armoured familiarly. Standing still he breathed heavily as the air itself enclosed around him. He slowly

sheaved his sword and stood up. The man behind him crept slowly forward, cuffs hanging by his arms. Denomark stood still and listened planning his next move. As the mans foot fell to the soft ground at two paces Denomark jumped backwards and in the act of turning he caught the man off guard and brought his elbow crashing against the mans shin, cutting his skin on the edge of his helmet and then he ran, jumping over roots and dodging branches till he staggeringly burst from the woods. “Berton RUN!” these words were the only that could escape his mouth before the sound of hooves were heard and then a crack as the horse stopped and his club came down heavily upon Denomarks head and darkness seeped in from all corners of his mind, drowning him in a deathly sleep... Berton stood frozen for a moment, staring at the men charging from the woods and his now captured captain, only when they turned their attentions to him did he start to run and shout at the others camped next to the burnt village. As he ran a lump of stinging grief formed in his chest, he longed to turn and free Denomark, but his reason held him steadfastly on his way. The other company had already started to flee on their horses followed by some of the original men. Ydin stood by his own horse while holding Bertons for him by the reigns. Thunder and lightning once again tore at the earth as even the last hopefuls turned and fled from capture. Berton could not help but stop and look back at the village and in his sorrow and helplessness he swore to himself silently that he would not forget, nor let go of his revenge until all was set right and owed debts were paid. And so they fled into the storm of the night, swearing silently that they shall one day free their honoured captain from his cowardly captors. They were only pursued till it was known they will not come back for the Rhealdonians had got what they came for: Denomark the rebel of the king.

Chapter 6: Rise to power. His mind swirled in the endless dark until some life was breathed into his battered being and he opened his eyes, glimpsing light until that last reminder of hope disappeared again in darkness. Light faintly trickled through the quivering slits of his eyes. His head throbbed as if each pulse was a hoof trampling on his mind. The bandage around his head, matted with dry blood felt stiflingly suffocating. And in the humidity and in his dazed state he longed to free his bonded arms and take of his discomforting clothes. After a while he could hear a man near him speak but his mind refused to recognise words, warm water was dripped on his face and as he rubbed it out of his eyes and came to his senses he felt overwhelmingly weak and unstable and vomited through the reeds that formed the bars of his cage, those same bars that now dug into his back and rear. He noticed he was surrounded by thousands of tents with banners fluttering in the blinding light of day, now and then men stood watching his troop pass by and he was greeted by the occasional curse or spit or stare that damned him as clearly as the speaking of the word. They came to a stop and the mighty walls of Duranhail stood once more before him. The huge gates creaked open after a brief exchange of words between the man in front and the gate watchman an as they entered he remembered his last visit as but a dream with faint images and evaporated detail... The once proud

capitol of Rhealdoné seemed depressing and stale, houses were in disrepair, beards were rough and skin unclean. The people shuffled along as worth no more than the rats that seemed to have thrived. Coughs and grunts of illness stained the air and no one raised their heads. His anger towards Rhealdoné soon dissolved in the pity of the sight before him. It was not long till they came to a stop again just before the steps that led to The Kings Hall, the sun that now again shown through the sky in all its glory made his head ache and even the small jolt of the stop made his head cry in pain. He heard footsteps and then a rustle as one of the guards undid the rope shutting his cage, rough hands pulled him out and held him up, his feet touched the ground but scarcely held him up, all this he left to his guards. The carried him roughly over the steps, he tried desperately to find a foothold, to end his shameful condition. Once again, to his great relief, they stopped before the entrance to the hall. The same man who spoke at the gate spoke once again to one of the kings guards, the Duranril, men who had proved themselves of great valour and skill in battle. It was only now that he noticed the familiarity in the mans voice, but any attempt at thought cramped his mind and so had to be abandoned. “I have the traitor, Denomark. Open the gate Gurin.” Once again his feet was dragged over the floor as they hauled him in. He saw the king standing before his throne, his face was wrought with worry and strain and he looked older than weeks before. At his right stood the prince, tall and regal as always, and at his left a grinning... Armegahor! Denomarks mind throbbed with a torturous pain as he sought to comprehend what he had seen. Armegahor, former Commander of Rhealdone’s North-Eastern forces and now it seems, his doom. The man who seemed the leader of the men who captured Denomark walked forward and after bowing to the king stood next to Armegahor, Denomark squinted and recognised the face as that of Furdon, the very man who had abandoned

them on the way to Hearthdown, Denomark was at least happy to see the regret burning his eyes. “Denomark, I, Thurdan, King of Rhealdoné, have looked upon your deeds, traitorous and deceitful I have branded them. You have gone against towards your king and thereby your king shall punish you!” The king spoke with loathing at the height of his power. Denomark ignored the king and looked to Furdon, whose eyes were down to the ground. “Furdon, you?” It was barely a whisper but it was audible clearly throughout the hall. “Look upon your master!” Denomark could now hear the quiet desperation in the kings voice. He pointed his finger at Denomark and as he roared these words. “If you feel guilt, why have you done it?” “Look at me!” “You have not only deceived me, Furdon, Roven and all the rest had trust in you as well.” The kings eyes quivered now with disbelief. “Look at me!” But the bite had now been taken from his words and they sounded hollow and worthless. “You have betrayed your oaths...” Furdon looked away at the floor as he said these words, trying to convince himself more than anyone else. “I do not ask your forgiveness.” The king looked desperately from Furdon to Denomark. “Look at me!” “You already have my forgiveness Furdon, now you must deserve your own.” “Guards! Remove this traitor to the prison!” Slowly the man next to Denomark turned and then hit him in the stomach. The world around him turned dark once more. “Your own forgiv...”

Only flashes of dark streets, pale grey corridors lined by torches along winding stairs remained of his journey towards Duranhail prison, surrounded by the dark of unconsciousness. For the first few days beatings and small forms of torture marred his four days in prison, all to discover the hiding place of his companions, but even after a while with no answers, no sign of Denomarks resolve withering even the most bored and sadistic guards got tired of their games, before they plunged his head in the ice cold water of the river for the last time Denomark remembered the demoralising sight of his withered and dirty face. The face of a broken man, his face plunged into the icy liquid and shattered his reflection and as his head came out he so only broken shards of light and his face dwindling meekly in the water. He sat now in his sell, alone and tired, against the corner, his head lain back against the hard rock wall, thinking far off thoughts of freedom that felt like dreams, sweet dreams thrown in the darkest pits of hopelessness... He heard heavy footsteps come from the hall, normally he would not even look up, not bothering to waste that much energy. But these footsteps were different... they fell harder than normal and had a different, more defined, purposeful rhythm and in burning curiosity, anticipating what might be the first change for days of routine he let his headturn towards the grey iron bars that stood unmovable between him and his freedom. Denomark saw a large man, familiar in build stop by his gate, his face hidden under dark shadows, and the only thing distinguishable about this man was his blond hair as the light of the moon, only just escaping from the window fell on his locks. “Weren’t the smaller ones good enough for your king?” He asked this with as much mocking as he could muster. “I have no king, Denomark, now keep your voice and come to the corner here.” He pointed towards the corner nearest to him. “How?” Denomark asked in curiosity.

“Move you fool! We only have so much time.” Denomark saw the man take a small bag, tied with string from his belt and opened it carefully while Denomark shuffled carefully towards the bars. He poured some of the glistening golden dust that each shone as a golden star slowly into his hands and held his hand up to his face. Then the most wondrous thing Denomark had ever seen happened: The man blew soflty at the dust in his hand and the dust moved, first one grain then the whole glistening mass. The thin, weaving stream of stardust flowed twirling through the air, slowly and seemingly with its own mind. It weaved in between the bars of the window and out where Denomark strained his head to keep sight of the wondrous stuff. “Now cover your head.” The mans voice was still stern and humourless and therefore Denomark but obeyed, but kept one eye staring at the small window. After gruelling seconds a small flash of nearing light glared against the window frame, when it became blinding Denomark closed his lid. “What? What is..?” Denomark started in fright but was interrupted with a giant crash and crack of breaking stone and then more crunches and grinding as stones from the wall started falling out of the prison building. Denomark opened his eyes just as they started to tumble and took down his arms in amazement, he stood up and walked to the great hole which now exposed the free world to his cell.. He extended his face and a smile came to his lips as he felt the cool wind brush his rough face, he put his hand out and let his fingers fondle the gentle breeze, it renewed him and he at once felt revived. He did not even notice the man opening the gate to his cell, brush past him and tie ropes to the bars and only opened his eys as the man brushed past him and threw the ropes out to dangle down towards the roofs of the houses down below. “We have not much time, Denomark.” Denomark awoke slowly from his dream-like state. “The most precious thing we have, and yet we waste it the most.” He took hold of the rope and just as he started to climb he stopped and took a look at the city once more. Marred by pain and

hard times. He vowed that he shall one day restore his people to a better place. They now descended the rocky walls fastly and with a hasty sense of resolve. Denomark knew they did not have time and partly blamed himself for his floating mind. Halfway down he looked up and saw guards staring bewilderingly through the gaping wall pointing down at them and shouting orders to the guards within and moments later an alarm could be heard ringing throughout the city, each clang became the stroke the whiplash that drove them faster down till they reached the roof of the building below. They left the ropes dangling. Coolly the big man spoke: “Follow me.” And from his tone alone Denomark thought that this was not his first escape. Hurriedly they started along the wooden roof top, taking care not to slide down the angling sides. It was a calm night, no cloud or omen of weather marked the open heavens as all the stars of the gods shone at their utmost beauty. Denomark wondered now how they would reach the gate unseen and almost missed his queue to follow his rescuer onto the roof to the left of the house they now occupied, what followed was a carefully planned out route over the roofs of Duranhail that like a maze, slowly but surely, took them to the gate, towards the next obstacle. “We now near the main road leading to the gate, watch for anyone who might spot us and keep your feet light.” He only paused a second to speak and then started off again, as they jumped to the next roof to their left he crouched into a creeping stance. IN the air Denomark could hear the rustling of men approaching on the road from the direction of the kings hall. In a moment of hesitation his footing slipped as he landed and he was forced to throw his arms over the top of the roof to the other side to prevent him from falling and breaking his legs, he tried to get a good grip with his feet but was angered at himself to discover he had to pull himself up. The big man looked back at Denomark and, still crouching gave him a gesture with the hand to stay calm and stay down as the murmur of voices from the road started. He cursed frustrated under his breath, his body was still hurt and

wearisome and his arms started losing blood and going numb from the strain. After a short wait the horses were heard moving on again and just as the man carefully lifted his head to make sure the danger had passed Denomark felt his arms crying to give in... He had no choice. He pulled himself up only to look directly in the eyes of Furdon. He laid there on the roof, frozen with surprise and anger at himself. Weakling! He thought. Now you’ll surely go back. His eyes were desperately locked with Furdons, unable to break free. Just as one of the others left behind turned towards Denomarks roof, he felt his heart sink into his weared out boots. “Soldier! Take the others with you and clear the main street, if we have not found them yet, they are not here and we must search other parts of the city, go to north eastern district.” Furdon had taken his eyes from Denomarks and fixed it at the man that had also almost spotted them, Denomark quickly laid on his back against the wall and sighed with relief. How could he not have seen me? His eyes looked straight into mine!. This question occupied his mind until the man brung him back to life with a loud pssst and the another hand gesture past himself, signalling that they need to move. As Denomark got a grip with his feet he could not help but look over the edge once more. Furdon was now alone in the street, his head hanging down, staring at the muddy road. And Denomark knew, just knew that what seemed like amazing luck had been a loyal gesture, yet still the most oozing of anger drenched his heart at the sight of him. Denomark and The man started again towards the gate, crouched with one hand also balancing on the roof. For another half hour they kept up their trek towards the gate. No more men were heard in the main street but every now and then calls were heard from other parts of the city, and now they had to be even more careful as some people were driven from their beds by the search. Finally after what had seemed all night the came to the gate. The final house was a large three story inn which also had a triangular roof, albeit less steep than the house he had stumbled at before, still he kept himself as careful as possible. Ten guards stood between them and the gate, they waited now for some hidden help Denomark could not

conceive. The man turned back and pulled aside his cape, revealing two short swords hanging at his right side. he took one from its sheath and handed it to Denomark. Denomark gently balanced the blade in his hand. It felt as if he had been given the power to exact revenge upon those who had stood in his way and he relished in the secure familiarity. “What are we waiting fo...” Denomark tried to ask impatiently but was silenced by a hush and the mans large finger before his lips. The man pointed down and Denomark saw a strange cloaked figure, shortish and with a bit of a roundness moving in the shadows below. The man gestured to Denomark to join him in looking around the stone chimney near the wall-side of the inn, near the middle. As he looked at the familiarly dressed man approaching the guard at the gate Denomark could once more not submission a burning question. “Whats happening?” “When I say now we climb over the top of the roof and jump down the other side, do not kill the men, but put them down.” Denomark thought about what the man said, wondering if his emotional detachment from fighting his own countrymen was a morale fault. “They are not my kin, no more.” With these words he stilled his doubt and nodded resolutely at the big man. The man below now entered the circle of light from the gate torches and on of the guards, spotting him first warned the rest and they all turned to him, weapons drawn. “Who are you?” In the name of our king speak!” The voice was cold and hard and stubborn, The wizard lifted his arms and said in a amused tone. “Now, now! Put down your weapons, I am an old man and I mean no harm.” The man did not seem to find this funny and continued unhindered. “If you do not speak, old man, you shall rot in jail or die by my hand this night.”

The old man looked up slowly and Denomark now noticed the gnarled staff by his side. “I never did like jail, you don’t sleep well.” The man lifted his arms and most of the men seemed to be bonded by ropes of air, they were flung metres above the ground into the air and kept their, the bonds tightened so strongly that they could ot even keep hold of their wepons and they fell uselessly sown to the wet earth, the one blade fell point first and stuck their upright by itself. Denomarks mouth hung open in amazement. Another wizard? “Now!” the man yelled and as he rose denomark saw his hood fall back and the light reveal the snow white hair and pale face of, Eolfin, the Esgrothian he had met at the Inn with the Wizard. In a single moment realization pured into him and had to be casted aside unwillingly for the time being, some of the guards whom were not caught by the invisible bonds had come out of their state of awe and charged the wizard whom was defenceless as he kept up his spells. He fell to the ground just after Eolfin and in moments they were between the men and the wizard and Denomark used his hilt to hit them out one by one, they were no match for Eolfin and his expertise. Five of the guards now lay out cold on the sodden floor and as Denomark looked down at them thunder ripped through the night air. The wizard flung the men in the air a few yards and the fell to the ground, most of them limply. Finally rid of his load the wizard spoke in that same jolly voice, unsuccessful at hiding the worry and sadness beyond. “Denomark, Eolfin, glad to see you made it.” “We had e few close calls, but nothing serious, we better get moving.” Eolfin walked over to the gate and released the locks and bolts with his strong body and the wizard crouched and

reached out his arms and his fingers flexed. The large gate started to creek and moan and then to move. He stopped when the gate was just big enough for them to go through one by one, and they did just as the saw men filling up the streets far away, the gates groan could well have wakened the whole city in this quiet night. Thunder rippled across the clouds above once more. Not quiet anymore, Denomark stepped after the Eolfin who went second and as he passed through the third and loudest bolt threw its immense power down to the earth and lighted the whole southern sky. A arrow whistled and by ill luck flew between the gates and just flew past Denomarks face, leaving a thin open wound on his cheek. He put his hand to his face and looked at the blood go from red to blue in the lightning. He recognised one of the three horses wainting outside as his own and mounted him and rode off after Eolfin and Gambill into the stormy night, not looking back once until the reached the eastern river and crossed into a new realm.

They rode long and hard, through rain and lightning, muddy earth and flowing rivers, no element cast before them could hold them back. Denomark did not know what drove the whips behind the wizard and Eolfin but he did not mind, he wanted to break the bonds between him and Rhealdoné as soon as possible. Anywhere else is better. Just before morning the thunder and lightning subsided and the oceans of the sky quieted and withdrew to other heavens. This allowed a quick glimpse at the stars as just before the sun rose behind the storm which drew back to the east, unsuccessful at hiding the glorious sun. The light haloed the clouds and cast beautiful pillars of power life giving light towards the earth. In one of these celestial pillars, upon the horizon, small structures could be seen springing up from the ground and as they came nearer it could be distinguished as clusters of triangular shape, tents, and as they came nearer triangular banners could be seen

twirling in the wind, banners of the Rhealdonian army. A sudden suspicion of treachery flew up in Denomark and he halted his horse. The wizard stopped his horse to and looked back at him, his hat was pulled low over his eyes and he had the stem of grain in his mouth which he chewed at. “What is this?” Denomark asked, touching on anger, suspicion clouding his voice. “You will see.” The wizard again had that tone of mysterious humour in his voice, as if he knew something amusing you did not. However Denomark trusted him, as much as he was able to trust anyone in his current state and so he followed the strange two all the way to the camp. He put his hand on the hilt by his side and gripped it firmly when they entered the borders of the camp. The road to the village was raised about a meter up each side, lifted on this podium Denomark looked at the men, men of Rhealdoné, walking around in the encampment next to the road, some looked up at him, most with admiration streaming out of their eyes, others looked on curiously and some, some, even bowed before him. Automatically he sat up straighter at the sight of this and his iron grip faded into unassuredness. “Where have they come from?” “These are the men that marched with you to Mudean, Denomark.” “They are men of Rhealdoné, Gambill, cowards, honourless. Why have you led me to this place?” “They are the rejects of the king, Denomark, after your speech they all refused to lay siege on Mudean and was thus thrown into shame. If I were you I would guard my words more carefully.” Denomark did not reply, he looked at his hands. His heart suddenly ached with guilt. He now no more thought of Rhealdonians as stubborn followers of ignorant kings. The mans heart was at its core open and virtuous. They to now at least must know of the faults of their king, who is their king no more. They

listened to him, the believed him. The rising sun struck his eyes with a inner fire that cramped his mind with pain for a sudden, excruciating moment. Still he did not put his hand before his eyes for his self fulfilment numbed out the pain. His previous companions emerged from the streets: Holnin, Hamor, Dolanon, Ydin, Gruwaith... Berton, slowly the walked up to him and his heart was overjoyed at their long missed presence, They formed a circle around him and all bowed down to their knees, followed shortly byt the others that came from the encampment too look upon their knew leader. Denomark unsheathed his sword and thrust it up into the air. “I have returned, your new king is here my brothers!” Bursts of his name roared from the crowd and his spirit rose above the almighty heavens to challenge even the powers of the gods. Denomark now had his army. Denomark was now the shepherd of men. *** Smoke teething with the orange light of flames, flames from the deepest pits of hell, plagued the night sky, rising up towards the clouded heavens in columns of evil, fingers from the beast of death. Despite this the night was calm and placid. No more screams of pain, death or torture shredded the night. Rugkas stood upon a hill near the city that has been. He felt the fire burn within him, around him, it fuelled him, horrified him in the most pleasurable way possible. He could see the furagks down by the fallen walls, still torturing those that were not lucky enough to be consumed by the flame in which the city is dissolving. Like carryon to the carcass of a dead animal they descended upon the inhabitants, who were as defenceless as a guinea fowl to the fox. Then as crows they tore their prey apart with sharp beaks of the same dark steel. Now he stood there upon his unholy hill admiring the horror that is him. Grunting and growling proclaimed the arrival of furagks and as Rugkas looked around with a smirk

corroding in his eyes he soon smiled softly to himself, invisible under his helm. New prey comes with more cruel tragedy. The furagks roughly carried what seemed to be a family of inhabitants of the city, the only who were spared. Soon Rugkas felt the horrid irony of this please him. The man let himself be dragged unhindered as it was clear he knew he had no hope of escape, just as helpless as his wife and small girl, beautiful girl with blonde hair and a fair face, as far as the birth of spring after the icy cold of winter, tears streamed down her face but she barely sobbed so afraid she was as she trembled. The small boy with chestnut hair and hard face was the only to offer some resistance against the strong furagk that carried them. “My lord, we bring you fresh human flesh as you requested. These words were spoken by a small furagk, his face marred by cuts and bruises, cruel metal stitches held together his skin and he had the appearance of a half rat nature. “They are scrawny my lord but the younglings blood is sweet.” “Wha... What do you want with us? Why do you not end our torture and let us burn with all that is dear to us?” The man pleaded through his bloody face and Rugkas power grew as he felt their torment feed his evil heart. “I have need of you, maggot.” He spat out these words. “And you will obey me.” Rugkas poured no malice into his words, only a cold beyond the temperature of ice. “I will never obey you.” The man hovered on the brink of ruin and as much as Rugkas desired to break him he knew he could not, not yet. “Do not test me, human!” He lifted his hand and pointed it to the girl who immediately started to whimper and tremble uncontrollably. The a shriek of pain, unimaginable pain, tore at the very foundations of the fiery night as Rugkas broke her mind piece by innocent piece. The furagks let her go and she fell to the

ground, clawing and hitting her face and head, screaming as if the very demons of the evil in this world ran amuck in her small body. The mans face turned from fear and despair to pure horror. “Stop this! Stop this now! Let her go! She has done no wrong!” The mans plight fell on death ears, Rugkas did not even bother to look at him. The mans yells transformed into sobs of anguish. His head hung to the ground. “What do you want of me?” Choirs of devilish power hailed inside of Rugkas and he let the small girl out of his grasp. “I am yours.” Rugkas nudged his head backwards and the furagks threw him at his feet. Rugkas grabbed the man by the chin and bore into his eyes with fire of his soul. He whispered to the man and then flung him away, his weak body giving no resistance. Three furagks who had not been burdened by the family now stepped forward with blooded armour and weapons of Rhealdoné and threw it at the mans feet, they picked him up roughly and put the armour on. The man was too weary and too withered too care for the blood. As he was finished he walked over to his family but was stopped by the arm of a furagk. “When you return to me with the death of hope then you shall have them.” The wife whimpered something mournful to her husband and he only replied with a now cold stare. A horse was brought to him and he mounted slowly, not willing to leave his wife just yet. He looked to the west and a superficial resolution and harsh cold settled over his heart and mind. “The gods help me... my love has became man kinds despair.” With this he rode of into the night. Not looking back, his hands trembled so that if he would look back he would not leave those he loved behind. “My lord, what shall we do with this lot?” the furagks voice was laden thick with lust for blood.

“Do with them as you please, make them know pain before they greet the great dark.” His voice brought grunts and squeals and yells of satisfaction from the furagks who immediately set about their horribly pleasurable ways. Once again the screams of the slowly dying filled the night air, filled with pain and true terror, pushing into the dark that had no light to save them, no hope. Blood has been spilt this night, blood of the innocent. Rugkas stood and watched the man ride off and the pride of the tragedy he had committed lifted him to new heights. Too long has his will been kept idle, too long has the longing for blood call unanswered, too long has Esgroth-Marith been left to sleep peacefully in their beds, unthreatened. Now he is the shadow that creeps in your mind, he is the hand that shall spill a river of blood. He is pain, or pains master, the fingers of the hand of The Dark Lord. *** A golden sunrise greeted Denomark as he awoke from his bed the following morning. So bright and rich was the light from the sun that one would be easily fooled into believing the middle days of summer had come. The room in which he slept was simplistic and modest, what you would expect from the average Rhealdonian village home. Suddenly Denomark realised that very few homes are left in Rhealdoné, most burnt down or abandoned. He washed away this thought with cool water from the metal bowl that stood on a small table at the foot of his bed, in the one corner he saw new clothes laid over the back of a chair he quickly got dressed, eager to embrace the new day. As he took a small shaving knife that lay next to the bowl he started scraping at the rough beard he had accumulated in captivity and was glad to be rid of the irritating reminder. The blade caught on something rough clinging to his face he looked in a small mirror that lay next to the bowl on the other side and saw a thin trickle of blood running down his face from an angry scab on his cheek and he remembered the arrow out of the dark, the final separation between him and his former people. Slightly less joyful he grabbed his swords that has

been a family heirloom since the split of the four kingdoms of Esgroth-Marith and fastened the belt that held their sheaves around his waist, put on his boots and embraced the fertile hot day. Immediately he was greeted by a man he did not immediately recognise but familiarity came back to him and he greeted the rough man with dark hair as Gruwaith. “Brighter is the morn since your return, Denomark.” “It shines brighter for us all Gruwaith.” A question burned in his mind and he could not help but push the pleasentries away. “Where is the wizard I came with the day before? And his guard?” Gruwaith sensed the tension in his voice because his response was delayed and edged by care. “Gone, without a trace.” He decided that his own honest and forward manner was the best. “I found their tracks heading east.” Denomark looked away at the camps of men, both disappointed and frustrated at this renewed disappearance. “How many men have we here?” he asked, avoiding the subject. “Four thousand, almost four thousand five hundred, everyone from the siege of Mudean except the prince and his own company.” Gruwaith looked at the ground and then squinted as his manner is at Denomark when he felt inclined to some explanation. “Denomark, at Rahnen, when you were taken, we should have...” Gruwaith was cut short by the arrival of the bard, Brianan who walked with his customary quick pace and happy face. “Good to see you once more Denomark. Your presence certainly drives the cold away.” He embraced Denomark and then looked up at the sky with a hand shielding his eyes before nodding to Guwaith who just glared at him. “I heard the tale of how the wizard and Esgrothian helped you. I planned an escape myself, will not have been the first time, but then you showed up here out of nowhere.” He seemed almost

disappointed in a boyish manner at not being able to commit mischief on a grand scale. “I trust everyone is still with us?” Denomark asked this manner of fact and a nod from Gruwaith and the arrival of Berton and Ydin coming around the corner, talking and gesturing with their hands. Berton looked up and was silenced as that awkwardness grew again, though after their time apart it has lost its edge. The smallish Ydin ran forward and jovially jumped into Denomarks arms. “It has been a long time my friend and its an honour to feel your presence.” “So I’ve been told, Ydin, so I’ve been told.” He glimpsed into Bertons eyes giving a silent greeting. A cry went up from the road that came from the west. “A rider! A rider bearing the arms of Rhealdoné approaches.” A man came running forward, out of breath and gasping for air, supporting himself on his knees as he stopped. Denomark looked questioningly at Gruwaith. “We set up a watch.” Was the answer to his unexpressed question, given by Brianan. “Let him through.” His sapphire-eyes blazed with icy flames as he turned toward the west, seeing the rider approaching in his minds eye. “Let him pass!” Brianan shouted into the camp and was not answered as the man simply turned and walked back and moments later the far off command could be heard repeated. Now the rider made it into his true vision, slowly and lamely he neared on his mount and it was clear he has been riding long and hard without rest. He reigned his horse to a stop near Denomark and as he dismounted he fell to the ground, kind Ydin was with him in a flash and helped his head unto his knee, lapping him and calling for water. The man started to babble inaudibly in his state. Denomark felt sorry for the man in some deeper chasm of emotions he had in him, but his souls armour resisted him to show

or truelly feel empathy so he just stood and watched with calculative suspsion. “Who are you and what do you want of me?” Denomarks voice was icy cool and stung. “He can’t speak! We must provide him some lodging, Denomark, let him rest.” Ydin was pleading but some baser instinct of Denomarks held him back and kept him wary of this man. “Not until he has told me what I need to know.” Denomark looked at Ydin and then back. “What do you want?” Ydin just looked wide eyed at Denomark. “For heavens sake!” Berton pushed past Denomark and took the man up in his arms. “Is your answer worth his life?” He and Ydin both carried him now to the two story former inn to their right. “Gruwaith, go help them find a room.” He did not know what this new hatred in him was but he felt ashamed of it for a moment. Some hours later while he was sitting and thinking in his room, looking out the window a man came in hurriedly. “Your lordship, the rider from Rhealdoné is well enough to speak now. The master Berton id you speak to him.” Denomark stood up silently and then walked out, over the ground path and into the inn. It was a plain inn, simple round tables with simple wooden chairs around them, a rectangular counter in the farthest corner near the fireplace and a pantry and kitchen behind through a rectangular archway. Stairs disappeared into the wall on the opposite side and he ascended them swiftly, turned right at the top and entered the room the messenger stopped at, bowing to Denomark as he entered and closing the door behind him. The man lay in the bed, unarmoured attended by Ydin who had just put a wet towel to his head. “He is feeling better, says he rode four days straight... his horse is also barely alive. He is cut and bruised all over his body. Must’ve been in a battle by the looks of it.” Ydins voice was scented with concern. Denomark stayed where he was.

“What happened to you soldier?” The man lifted his head slightly, his speech was filled with pauses of raspy breathing. “My town, Ferahin... was attacked by furagks and... Maldourians. They... took our wives and children and slaughtered the men... I was the only to survive. Burnt down... everything... crows... a cold evil... dread” Something in the voice of the man planted seeds of doubt in Denomark and he did not reluctantly believe the man although the happenings did infect him with more emotion. “How did YOU escape?” The man grunted and seemed to not hear his question. “Easy Denomark...” Ydin warned. “How is it that only YOU escaped?” “I ran, fled in terror.” The mans voice was now truly filled with lies, but the overwhelming real horror held Denomark from convicting him. “Your wife and children?” “I have none.” Ydin looked shock that Denomark refused to believe the man. Denomark walked out of the room, downstairs and saw all of his own company sitting their, they welcomed him by standing up and he gestured to them to sit. He shook hands with those he passed. Ernon and the bard sat in one corner exchanging tunes and skills. He sat at the same table as Honin and his brothers, avoiding Berton altogether. “So, Denomark, what do you think of our guest?” Honin asked. “He is lying. I can feel it.” Denomark looked at he stairs and as if summoned the man descended out of the shadows, supported by Ydin. Suddenly Denomark felt another wave of anger push through him as he saw the mans beady eyes and as he remembered the lies he had told. He stood up and walked over and grabbed the man on

his colour, pushing him from Ydins hands and holding him up against the wall. “How did you escape.” He did not yell or shout but the warning was thick in his voice. “You tell me now.” The mans eyes darted faster now, seeking to avoid Denomarks gaze. “I, I, I told you!” “I swear you lie once more...!” Denomarks hand gripped the handle of his sword giving his warning a sharp edge. “They are marching to the east! The army has split in to two. One to conquer Duranhail and one to take the eastern plains!” The man's eyes were wild with desperation. The mans desperation was intense. “How...” Denomark started but was cut short as he considered what the man had said and what it meant. Denomark looked back, a silence has settled in the room. Their guerrilla army hadn’t really had a purpose but if what he said was true they would be fighting for their lives. “How... How do you know this?” Denomarks eyes squinted in question at the man. “I have come to warn you, I can offer no more. See for yourself if you do not believe me. We were the last defence before they strike at the heart of Rhealdoné. I saw some of them leave eastwards... how much I do not know, but it was no scouting party.” Denomark called for two men at the table nearest to him and let the man fall into their arms, considering what the man had said, he walked to the window. “Foren, is your horse still as quick as memory serves?” “Yes captain.” Denomark looked back. “Go scout.” ***

Foren reached a high place of gorged rock, one peak in a series of deep stone chasm, broken and eroded by the precise hands that only time possessed. Slowly he made his way to the top taking his horse only to where the slowly rising grass hill met its rocky outcropping. The earth has brought him vibrations of men marching and he knew that if he waited long enough he would find them. He felt uneasy, not just because of the irregular rock forming an uncomfortable rest but because of some small despair inside of him. As often happen in times of war the inexperienced young can only keep their sorrow in check by filling it with anger and burrowing it somewhere deep inside of themselves. This small tumour made his mind doubtful. It felt at moments as if he would not be able to restrain himself from entering a fitful rage that will not yield easily, especially weakened by the sight of his enemy. He made a small fire. It was curious... an icy cold has taken over the air, a solemn wind blew from the west, dark clouds, too dark has also formed is moving east, pushed on by the small but unyielding breeze. Great bolts of thunder and lighting shot through the sky though no rain was seen... His eyes was pulled westwards at this frightening sight and he turned slowly as he stood up. From afar a thin dark line could be seen bordering the earth, thin and unclear but chilling. It came forth with the same pace as the clouds, slow but steady and for some reason they seemed, one. Forens heartbeat stopped as it lodged itself within his throat and he staggered back. Some amazing, horrid power filled the land from crack to heavens and nowhere seemed hidden from it. he backed down the rough stone to his horse which whinnied and neighed and made small nervous skips. Foren now heard the remarkably terrifying beat of feet against solid earth and his insides shook with every pound. Hurriedly he mounted his horse and slapped the reigns in the air, spurring on viciously. As he rounded the rocky outcropping he turned and stopped his horse parallel to the road, he did not have his helmet on and his hair blew viciously backwards in the wind. Cries of war could now

be heard from the deep voices in the dark. He could not bear it any longer so he turned and ran. Back to Denomark.

“Denomark! Denomark!” The crash of the door bursting open in the inn made everyone look to the gasping Foren that stood leaning on the frame with his outstretched arm.

Denomark looked around, he had sent out Foren the day before, he looked much better than the other man because he had a healthier horse and more supplies but nor a long journey nor hunger could pale his face more as its shade was now. “There are thousands, more than twenty and I could not even count all! Death has truly come to Rhealdoné. They control nature itself, a cold breeze and heavier clouds than I have ever seen proceeds their coming. Denomark, I have never been that fearful.” Denomark stood a moment in thought, the man had not lied... was he too hard or was he right? One thing was certain his moral resolution began to fumble. “Are you sure Foren?” Denomark was now truly on the verge of fear. He was responsible for all of those who followed him and now he had come to the brink of war with no experience his only consolation was that Foren was in a terrified state and that he could have misrecalled his findings. He looked at him. “Are you sure, Foren?” Foren said no words but only nodded his head, no vagueness or lies was in his eyes. “We’ll need defences!” Someone shouted from within the room. “We have not the strength to take them on in open battle. Denomark put his hand in his shirt and took out the small golden pendant that Leayna had given him and fingered it, keeping to himself, his back turned on the others. “We go to Mudean.” ***

The walls of Mudean stood proud and stoutly between the two mountainous peaks that reached out like giant fingers on both sides of the wide open plains before the great fortress-city. Denomark and his thirty companions were at the forefront of his army and they approached the city slowly. As the came nearer they could here shouts from the walls, unmistakably that of coming battle. He held up his hand and the host behind him kept their ground, only he and his closest allies now rode forward, nearing Mudean. Denomark could feel his guts knot in his stomach, thanks to Rhealdonés former aggressiveness the residents must have no other opinion of them than as reckless warriors and they still bore the armour of Rhealdoné which made Denomark flinch as he remembered it. all except him, he had not regained his armour from the prison and thus they had made him new armour, starting before his arrival. He kept the two blades of his ancestors and his shield he had made himself as a battle hungry teenager. His armour was of simple yet strong mail with leather gauntlets and boots and plated skirts at his flanks. A leather belt, diagonal with his torso, running from hip to shoulder served to hold his shield and swords and another belt at his side held a dagger and space for other items to be tied to. Unfortunately they had not made a helmet. They were now easily within bow range and they slowed their pace even more. “Do you come to parley on behalf of Rhealdoné?” A husky voice shouted from the walls and Denomark looked up to see a man standing in the middle of the gate house looking down on them. “I come to parley, but on the behalf of myself good sir. I bid you open the gates so I might speak with your leader.” The words came more naturally when in the moment then when thinking about what you had to say. “Nay! Young lord, we must be careful, we all too well remember the last visit you had payed us.” The mans voice was stern now though Denomark could here he was not a stern man. He silently swore under his breath and paused to think. He would have preferred to first discuss this in private but he had no other

options, “I bring with me terrible news. The Maldourians that has come across the walls to the east has divided its power. Not only Rhealdoné shall fall if we do not put aside our hates and fears. They crush all in their path. We have a man here whose city was burned, their women and children and men slain. No hope remains if we stand alone. Their power numbers far, far beyond our own, their feet shake the earth. Even together we will suffer to claim victory. I ask you now to forgive us for past differences and save not only us, but yourselves as well.” An eerie silence has taken the walls and no sound was heard. Denomarks heart beat audibly in his ears and he looked around in scant hope. Without warning the gates of Mudean creaked open and the sound echoed throughout the valley and fields. Denomark sighed with relief and as the gates locked in their slots he started to lead his body guard in to the outer city. It was the first time he ventured into the fortress-city of Mudean. It awed him passing through the great arch. The house inside was made of the same sandstone as the walls, great buildings stood near the gate and in the middle of the courtyard a great statue stood of Ghorinfon, founder of Rhealdoné, even in his divided state he felt hushed and humbled at seeing his great hero stand before him, eyes staring out into the valley, hand raised outwards, fending off those who stood against Rhealdoné. People brimmed in milling crowds, the city was full, undoubtedly some came to escape the war ravaged Rhealdoné and the horrid circumstances within its capitol. Whispers and groans went up as Denomark rode past them, and he even heard his own name mentioned hushed a few times. A man on horse approached from the rear and came up next to Denomark. “You bring strange and woeful tidings stranger. We do not meekly let men enter our peaceful city. What is your name?” The man held no offense in his voice for which Denomark was grateful. “I am Denomark, son of Deárin. Not so peaceful anymore...” Denomark fought back stinging tears at his fathers name. The

pause at the end of his sentence made it clear it was a gesture to come to learn the mans name. “Gealnin.” The man paused. “You are the one who saved us before, when the prince, Denain, marched to our walls?” “Yes.” Denomark thought it ironic that he had saved them only to plunge them once more into peril. “You are highly esteemed within our city.” The mans voice sounded lighter than before. “We call ourselves the Colinea. The true peoples of Arith-Moore. Most of us opposed the assertion of Sareth to the crown, even some of his supporters have joined us. Woe, that Sareth! Some evil brews within him. Some darkness and shadow that is not akin to mere man.” The man seemed chilled at the recollection of this. Denomark though a moment about what the man has said. “So you are rebels?” Denomark asked with a hint os suspicion which he regretted afterwards. “Alas, no, Denomark, we are but upholders of the values of ArithMoore and its history, enough of our own blood has been shed, those who would join us are more than welcome, the rest... We have not lost hope.” The man looked up and Denomark realised they have already reached on of the two gates that led to the keep and inner city. “Uliona pareth autûmni.” The man shouted up to the watch and the gates parted almost immediately. They rode in. To their left stables stood and to their right the inner city walls ran from the gate into the west. In front steps led to a great hall behind which an even larger and greater statue stood of Ghorinfon, holding his mighty sword pointing downwards. Denomark was surprised how quiet and still the city was, it did not seem as if anyone had anything to do and yet, war was raising its fiery sword against them. Their horses was handed over to some stable boys who led them to the empty slots. Denomark followed the man before him till

they reached the great wooden doors, inlaid with bronze that opened into the hall. The two guards stationed at the door had mostly the same armour as the normal soldiers, like Gealnin, though they wore purple velvet capes and large horns adorned their helms, they also wore different brooches than the rest. Their pole arms were crossed before the gate and they glared at the arrivals through the eye holes in their helms. “Are these the men who claim that war approaches us?” The man to the left. “Yes, Cealmrin, they’ve come to warn us against the Maldourians. This is as far as I go, Denomark. I need return to my post.” “Thank you, Gealin, It has been an honour.” “Likewise, may we meet again soon, and may the great Arithnati grace you. Cealmrin, Farinos” He bowed slowly as he took a few steps back and then turned and left. The man turned to Denomark. “You as well as three others only are allowed to enter the hall. Bows and other ranged weapons are to be left outside, your swords may enter with you.” The mans voice was stern and cold, albeit anything but sinister, more incurring thoughts of glory and valour. Arithians are taller than the other Marrithian races of Esgroth-Marith, still Denomark was as tall as any of them. He looked back and motioned at the man who had come to tell them of the Maldourians then at Honin whom still carries his banner and finally to Gruwaith, who was now his second. Gruwaith exchanged cold stares with the men as he refused them contact with his bow and arrows and placed it next to the door himself, Honin had only a sword with him and the other man no weapon. The guard nodded his head and pounded three blows on the door, slow and deeply. The door creaked open in reply and the guards stepped aside letting them enter as they slightly bowed beside them. The hall was much like the great Kings Hall in Duranhail except for the sandstone walls and flags of the rebels that hung from the roof between the pillars and behind the throne which was lifted on a short flight of steps. Denomark

walked in front followed by Gruwaith to his right and the other man slightly behind them to the left. The man that sat in the throne was seasoned, Denomark put him at fifty, if not slightly more years. He had a thick greyish-brown beard, hanging to the middle of his chest. He wore white clothes with a ceremonial silver necklace hanging below his beard from which ten strange symbols hung also wrought of silver. He sat with his elbow supporting his forearm on the armrest of his throne, his chin on his closed fist. He looked up quickly as they entered and then slowly stood up. His posture spoke of deep pride with humble overtones. “So...” He lifted his arms so that they ran out in each direction. “The great Denomark, saviour of our city, is come and supposedly he brings tidings of great fear and despair.” His voice was neither joyous nor mocking nor livid. It sounded as if he accepted everything that has happened and would happen as a part of life. Denomark bowed swiftly, followed by Gruwaith and the other man, Beanon, Duke of Mudean replied with his own small bow. “It does not please me to bring you this news Beanon, still we have now two trustworthy reports of their threat as well as their number.” Denomark gave a sidelong glance to the man whom had stumbled upon their camp back in Harlaim. “We were deserted and abandoned by king Thurdan after we chose reason above madness.” “Ahh, Rhealdoné has never been the most forgiving of peoples and king Thurdan has been one of its more stubborn figures.” They stood still for a moment, the scar on his cheek and his faint memories mad any reference towards Rhealdoné and its ideals a more than awkward subject for Denomark. Beanon realised this after some strenuous silence and then continued cautiously. “And you have come here for protection I assume? Your forces outnumber our own... We are but here to instil peace between Rhealdoné and Arith-Moore, but in light of recent events, Colnas, High Lord of Colinea, has granted us three thousand more men to protect ourselves. This is a strong and well thought through fortress, it must count for something” To go on with business was

the best way to cure the uncertainty and Beanon was relieved as much as Denomark about the change of subject. “I must also admit that we do not trust even you all that much, son, your king has almost done us a great injustice... and Rhealdonian loyalty runs deeper than most.” “He is not our king, we are our own. The time for mistrust and old ways are long past Beanon. We face a vast force, better armed and stronger than any that has stepped foot on Esgroth-Marith for a long, long time. I cannot make excuse for the past, but together we can look towards the future. We can either keep our substance less pride and fall alone or band together and stand tall in our alliance. Enough bridges have been burnt... Enough lives lost for me and my men to know what is right and what is wrong.” He paused, the last comment bringing a wet sting to his throat and he fumbled for words. “I have come not only to protect my men, but also to reach out my hand towards your people and ask for your forgiveness and then your alliance. Side by side we stand a chance, small, but better beyond imagination than before.” Denomark exstended his hand towards Beanon whose breath was heavy and eyes unsteady. Suddenly he gripped his hand firmly. “All my life I wished to battle that coward Sareth! Now war has come to my very feet! Ahh my blood pumps like a young man full of dreams of valour and glory. Come my friend, death approaches us! And I plan to meet the cold warden fire with fire.” Denomark smiled slyly to himself. Beanon looked out the small far off window with wet gleams in his eyes and nodded his head as he spoke. “Yes we must plan! Follow me.” In what Denomark assumed was his office Beaonon hurried to a triangular stack of maps, quickly searching amongst them he grabbed two and through them open on a small, simple wooden table upon which instruments for measuring direction and distances lay. It was a disorganised office, his antique desk was filled with pares and letters and junk, his bookshelves were unarranged and most did not even stand straight. Denomark walked over as he spread the maps open with his arms and

slammed his finger on a point west of Mudean. “This is were they were last...” Denomark stopped and turned as the door opened hastily behind them. His hand instinctively slipping to his sheath. His hand dropping as Beanon greeted them as, Cealmrin, the guard at the gate, and leader of the Valour’s Guard and Craivahn Lower Duke of Mudean. “This is were we last saw them, here, 300 leagues west of Mudean.” He ran his finger slightly around the paper on the same path he describes. “They will have to turn north slightly here to avoid the feet of the mountains. Here is where we anticipate their presence.” Denomark tapped his finger twice and looked at the grim faces surrounding the table. “At the speed they were moving they would reach Mudean in three days from now.” Their was a pause as Denomark left them to digest what they heard. “No army of the number and armour you speak can uphold that pace, it is impossible!” Cealmrin spat. “We must at least have five days to prepare. We send the women and children to Cavaldri and pull all the men we have into the city, barring it shut thoroughly. No enemy will be able to enter.” Cealmrin seemed to speak with some authority and his confidence was overwhelming. Beanon thought a moment. “That will not do, we need to send at least five thousand men to escort the women and children. 500 leagues north at the very least.” “This leaves us with too few men!” Cealmrin appealed as he looked pleadingly at Craivahn to back him. “I do not know much of war, Beanon, Cealmrin, maybe we should hear what our young warlord here has to say.” Everyone turned to Denomark. He looked down at the map intently as he planned, frowning ferociously. “We only have three days, four at the most. I do not know what or whom drives them but we are not dealing with mere men here.” He paused, organizing his thoughts. “I have seven thousand men at my command. I shall send four of these thousands with the refugees. The other three will go and slow the Maldourians by as

much trickery as we can think of and then retreat back to the city and join the siege.” He looked up at the thoughtful faces around him. “What of those that escorted the women and children? We cannot afford to lose all that strength in men!” Cealmrin seemed disgusted at the thought of wasting manpower. “We send them with a message to your Lord Colnas pleading for help. If we can but weaken the Maldourians enough they would be able to charge them.” “And what if the first wall falls as it surely will? The Maldourians will only barricade themselves between the two of us.” Cealmrin challenged. Denomark shrugged. “That is a chance we must take, I see no other way till we have a more sound plan,” He looked back at the map of the city. “I shall stay behind to keep my men in check and act as our ambassador. Gruwaith, my best soldier will lead the men on the skirmishes and Dolanon shall lead the escort to your Lord. I will need to know more of the defences we have at our disposal.” He felt he had now asserted his plans superiority, he did not like suppressing others but he saw no other way, this war requires sacrifice. *** Denomark watched from the Feraforg tower, between the outer wall and the keep in the left half of the city, as all the peoples and the escort left, no flowers or parades or song greeted them from their homes. The slow stamp of their feet and rustling of their possessions was the only music that hailed dreary departure. The city already felt eerie at the lack of noise and movement brought by inhabitancy and this depressed him even further. Gruwaith and his gorilla fighters had already left early in the morning and Denomark eagerly awaited the arrival of the falcon that would report what they saw as soon as the reach the invaders. He looked at the maps that lay at the small table beside him. Seven

thousand men: three thousand heavy infantry, two thousand light infantry equipped with bows, the versatile three thousand Rhealdonians. Fifty so called scorpia that hurled large and thick arrows via a large bow like design, twenty-five trebuchets and small wooden platforms raised on the walls to give the high ground for archers. Mudean was a formidable obstacle to overcome, but it still may not be enough, the walls are long and they would have to stretch their forces, the streets were irregular and it would be more than confusing to try and retreat... and worst of all: They were trapped. Rhealdonians training in speed and mobility counted for nothing and it frightened all of his men, he could see it. Just as the last remnants of the escort left the pass created by the bending in mountain ranges on either side and the gates started to creak shut Denomark saw two figures approaching through the now almost empty pass through the mountains. Something of their coming aroused curiosity in Denomark and he felt compelled to let them enter, the flagmen on the gate reported their approach using their banners. He looked at the guards stationed within the tower and nodded to them to signal the opening of the gate and the greeted them as he left via the spiralling stairs that led downwards while passing a series of other rooms on each floor. He skipped a few steps as he sprinted downwards. As he exited the two guards greeted him at the door as Milorin, meaning saviour in their language, a new title he has somewhat uncomfortably gained. Hastily he took his horse from the stable boy and rid him out of the gate of the small fortress. He did not know why he felt this urge in him but the need to escape from near future problems made him yield. As he entered the main street that led directly to the gate he saw the golden light beyond in the horizon which cast the approaching figures into dark entities, at first Denomark pondered who they could be but soon made them out as the mysterious wizard and his swordsman because of the wizards pointy hat and the great man next to the wizards size. More swiftly now he spurred his horse on reaching the courtyard before the gate just before the wizard entered, followed by Eolgrin. In one swift move Denomark

stopped his horse and dismounted just as he passed the statue of Ghorinfon. The wizard lifted his bent down head and looked heavily at Denomark, his soul was filled with weariness and worry and loss that rolled out of his eyes. Denomark saw their ragged and worn clothes, their dirty and tatty skin and red eyes. Denomark stopped in his tracks at the sight of this destruction. “Gods... What has happened to you? Where have you been?” He looked at the horses and saw their skin torn at places and their bruised joints. “How long and far have you travelled? Your horses seem on the edge of collapse.” Just then Gambill rounded his horse with a limp hampering the movement of his left leg. “We have worse worries than two dead horses, Denomark.” He looked around warily as Eolgrin groaned from the thump of dismounting his steed. “I fear our very existence is result of borrowed time, and we have not the balance to repay it.” He sighed heavily and looked around hopelessly. “But for now we must survive the first dark thrown against us... Has your preparations for the city begun?” Denomark avoided this. “You better get some attention up their in the keep. We will need everybody at their best, and for now I’d prefer that we all stay alive. Are you acquainted with the lord Beanon that rules this city?” “Ahh, yes, old Beanon, I know him well enough.” The wizard gave a faint recollecting smile to Denomark. At this Denomark sent the wizard and Eolgrin to the keep with a guide just as Ydin came to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Things don’t look well Denomark.” Ydin expressed as they stared at the horizon shrinking behind the bulk of the city gate. “The way I see things now, Ydin, is that they never were good enough to begin with.” ***

“... I am not proud of what I have done... Neither do I seek forgiveness nor sympathy. I only wish that you know a mans impurities is what makes us great. What better to fight for than love?” Hesitantly he finished his writing as if finishing it would force him to meet the realities of what he is to do once more... But he knew their was no other way. He cursed the gods for the fate his wife, his son, his daughter is suffering. No other will drove him to live more than the need to save that love that binded him towards them. He remembered teaching his boy to wield the weapons of Rhealdoné and watch with pride as he grew stronger and taller, the smile of his little girl as she bathed herself in the beautiful Rhealdonian summer and his wife, whose loving and supporting presence had brought him through the deaths of his father and mother all those years ago. Carefully he walked over to his bow and arrow and took one arrow out of the quiver, distinguished from the rest by a greenish tint to its point where he had put the venom of a scorpion he had found in the near mountains. He remembered with a disturbing image how he sapped the venom from the scorpion, as the morals were sapped from him by the suffering of his family. Tonight was the feast, tonight was his chance. He heard a knocking at the door, three quick ones followed by two long ones. “Open the door, come in!” He grimaced at the thought of talking once more to this despicable little man called Grimwel, the one sent to make sure he did what was required of him. “Are you ready? Ahh I see you have poisoned the end, good work.” The creature, as he preferred to refer to the man tried to touch the arrow before being shoved away by him. “Don’t touch it, I would not want to ruin the poisons effect on you.” He would very much like to kill him was the truth, no such cruelty should be suffered to live. “Just remember Derin, I will be watching you... and my master is not far.” The words spoken creped up Derins pine like they were transformed into arachnid like creatures, he had almost forgotten

his name, the dread of the master and just the tone in which the creature could speak. “I’ll do it!” He barked, but his fear took all the sting out of his voice. “And I will see to it.” The small man left the building and Derin stood watching his arrow in a trance like state. No matter how hard he tried that small shard of honour that Rhealdoné had put in his heart would not yield completely. He knew that he was doing the wrong thing, that the death of his humble family was not worth the death and ruin and sorrow he was to sow tonight. Still he could not falter before the step of seeing his daughters beaming face saved from a painful and horrid death. The trance of welling morals held him until he heard the booming echo of a horn reverberating throughout the streets of the city. Slowly he put the arrow back in its quiver and climbed the ladder to the roof. As he reached the roof he walked to the palisaded edge of the roof and looked at the great gate as it slowly opened to let horsemen pour in from without. They’ve returned on schedule... the banquet would go forth as planned... *** Denomark greeted Gruwaith at the stone yard before the hall where they greeted in a quick embrace and then turned and walked to the doors of the hall automatically. “So, what news?” Denomark inquired cautiously, afraid of the answer. “Not much more than what I sent with the falcon. They have overrun most of western and eastern Rhealdoné, the north must have fallen completely as they are joined by thousands of furagks from the northern mountain ranges...” Gruwaith looked troubled. “What else?” Gruwaith paused while they entered the hall and then answered. “The force that marches hither numbers over thirty five thousand

easily. Well armed and equipped, competent and disciplined, even the furagks...” Something was bothering him still... “That’s not all?” Gruwaith grimaced. “We spotted another thirty thousand heading south, into Dulair-Mon...” He looked grim at best. “How?...” What!? They number too much... we cannot hope to fight them back with such a considerable amount of support! Denomark trailed of towards his thoughts as they headed towards Beanon. *** Something in the air was... wrong, it was the best way the minds of any that walked the streets in the twilight before the banquet could describe it. Pure eeriness enveloped the city within its uncomfortable mass. The final wood was brought to the big pile of tinder ready to be burned for the festivities. Fifty long wooden tables were set out to make as many men as possible comfortable, some had graciously offered to be on watch and would only be given some of the food and sent on their way. Some would sit on the wall or steps or any other place they would feel comfortable. Beanon watched the preparations from his room window, situated on the fourth floor of the building that was carved into the rock face behind the great hall in which he ruled. He took in a deep breath and savoured the pride he inhaled, his sacred guardian against fear. True Arithians! Resolute and proud, tall, dark men half descended from the great Esgrothians themselves! They would not fall. Even faced against the direst of evil. To the west dark, devouring clouds crawled in slowly and darkened his very soul. Evil as pure as diamonds were spectacular, darkness as deep as the very oceans of this world. Devouring, creeping, nearer, nearer. His chest full of pride began to falter and tremble. They would not fail! They could not fail... Denomark sat at one of the heads of the tables that was filled with all the most important feasters. They all sat in silence awaiting the

beginning of the evening. The doors to the hall slowly slid open inward till the figure of Beanon, fully clad in the ceremonial armour of his heritage, was visible. He stepped forward slowly as if relishing every step he made. He stopped behind the stand at the top of the steps leading to the halls doors. “Soldiers of Mudean, men of Arith-Moore and Rhealdoné, today, we celebrate the unity of our respected and individually mighty forces!” An approving hail went up from all of the men gathered there as most lifted their pints and took a deep sip in commemoration of a speech well begun. “I wish only we could have begun our friendship and alliance in happier and more hopeful times as I have come to feel honoured to know you all.” A few agreements in the form of “Aye” followed, scattered randomly among the listeners. “Troubling times lay ahead of us! We stand upon the very brink which will either smash and burn all the values we have built or the uplifting of our alliance into eternal glory!” A few enthused exclamations went up from the men. “The joined might we possess is strong... I have yet to imagine such a force as would be needed to tear us apart! So feast tonight in solace! For tomorrow we show the world and the very gods of Esgroth-Marith our worth as we forge a new standard, one that shall uplift mankind to new heights of valour and glory!” Three very spirited roars went up from the courtyard, accompanied by more rhythmical bangs of pints on the tables, applause and hoots. Denomark coolly sat and clapped his hands, the night still found strange and this prevented him from any excitement. Still, Beanon had given a great speech, one that shall be sang one day as he looked over to the bard whom was busying himself with his lute while teaching Ernon more music. He saw Berton feeding his new found love fondly, whom had stayed behind with the old and dying and those who could not bear it to leave. His heart ached suddenly... although he would not openly admit it, he dearly missed the true friendship, nay, brotherhood, they had shared. Now, at least, Berton would not be angered at him about Leayna as he found new love.

Love. Denomark desperately felt the need to tend the love he had for her, to run his fingers through her dark wavy hair... to run his finger tips gently over her fair cheek, to feel his stomach gain weightlessness as the warmth of a loving embrace drenched over him in waves of shivers. He shook himself awake as he saw Bertons love walk from the tables and disappear around a corner, Bertons eyes followed her all the way. Gleaming he stood up, took up his helmet and his spear and banged his swords blunt side against the mettle of the helmet in announcement. Soon Honin and his brothers joined in to silence everyone before a short milieu of thumping pints and shouts of “Speech! Speech! Speech!” “I have a happy tiding to bring to you all! I will be a taken man soon!” A split second of deadening silence turned into a wave of roars and cheers and well-wishes. Marriage was especially prized in Rhealdoné. Drink and coming evil also heightened the joyous newsto a point of euphoria. On this note Brianan the bard and Ernon took up their instruments and started up glorious tunes and soon everyone chimed in the choir of ecstatic volunteers and gained a march like rhythm from the banging of mugs on the wooden tables. It was thus almost easy to forget the strange chill that shivered its way through the night, almost, to Denomark the endeavour seemed like some mask to hide the true fear of everyone inside. *** Derin sat against the wall inside one of the chambers of the inner wall towers and slightly ran his fingers down the string of his bow. He had been an unusually well trained bowman by Rhealdonian standards, his father had trained him when he was young, and living near the wood had to hunt for food. The cool night air gently brushed his even colder face, he was pale, he knew it. He had volunteered to keep watch and had been given a plate with a healthy serving of the food at the feast, which still stood as it was

received by the door on the other side. He did not hymn or sing along as most of the other guards did from their posts. He just sat their, seemingly looking at the far wall while his minds eye reached leagues off and back in time. He could not help though to softly and interruptingly mouth the words to the song “Return of the Golden Bloom”, prized war song of Rhealdoné, sung by those staying behind as the men left for battle. Shuddering sounds escaped his mouth every now and then. Time. *** “Silence! Silence!” Someone shouted from beyond the throng of celebration, but remained unsuccessful. “Silence you drunk swine!” Slowly the euphemism died down with some chuckling and some pained expressions. “It has come to my attention dear friends, that almost everyone here has spoken except one of our most prized guests!” He effectively paused in mid announcement and seemed overjoyed at the whispers, confusion and curiosity he had spread amongst the semi-drunk men. “Thus, I call upon Denomark, son of Denmin, to glorify us before battle with his words as warlord of Mudean!” Denomark whinced at the mention of his fathers name and faltered somewhat in pulling himself together and thus could not comprehend the implications of this new promotion till he felt rough hands push him forward through the tables and he felt a new dread come over him: Speech. The very renewed beat of the thudding cups seemed to hammer the vocabulary out of him as he stood before his army. “Don’t worry lad, their so drunk by now it will not matter what you say.” Beanon encouraged him. His heart and temples thudded louder than the heartbeat of gleeful drunks. “Go for it lad.” Denomark felt inevitability befall him and braced himself.

Beanon waved his hands and yelled for silence and the noise slowly died down once again, deafening silence, pressuring him even more. “Men of Mud...” He was cut short by a strange thud next to him and a pain filled groan. He looked to his left and saw Beanon, bent backwards with an arrow protruding from his chest and horror filled him. *** Derin heared a repeated yell of what he guessed was “silence” because after the third command the song died down into silence. Another sentence followed after awhile and the name Denomark drew his attention, so he stood up and walked to the window peering out inquisitively and cautiously. He saw a figure clothed in white with blonde and black hair standing beside Beanon: Denomark. Purpose grabbed him by his throat and he knew that a better opportunity would not arise, fate must want him to save his family. Slowly and shaking like an infant tree in the wind he lifted and drew the string of his bow taught. Carefully he took aim. Their was no wind, no obstacle obstructing his arrow. He concentrated all his skill on his prey and took a deep breath as he peered prowling into his eyes. Eyes which immediately flashed with some inner fire, a fire of hope and justice. Now he shook right down to his foundations. Something in that fire stirred his purpose into a whirling mass of moral indignity and conscience. It moved his mind which moved his body. Willingly unwilling he aimed to the left and let his arrow fly. *** Gasps and shocked exclamations to the gods was now all noises to be heard, the two guards by the gate rushed up next to Denomark and caught Beanon by the shoulders as he fell. The quivering man with unknown desperation in his eyes gripped

Denomarks robe with some deep strength and pulled him nearer. He blinked wildly as words seemed to wrestle their way out of his soul. Some men had already made their way to the tower from which it was decided the arrow had come and horns were blown to alert the other posts. Denomark looked desperately into the eyes of Beanon, drenching himself in every word. “Denomark, lad, I do not possess the strength to resist the coming death.” “Beanon, you can’t..” “I shall do what I please! You shall rule over Mudean after my time here is done.” He grabbed Denomark by the arm. “You have unknown honour and strength inside you. I could not make a better choice if I lived a thousand years.” “Bea...” Denomarks mind raced with disbelief. This was not the first time... “Leave me know, lad, you have duties now, apprehend my reaper and bring him to justice!” Denomark looked up and saw Cealrim looking at him with utmost loathing and envy before they carried the fallen leader off into the hall followed by the wizard, Gambill. Denomark looked back and saw Eolgrin commanding men this way and that, Denomark rushed to his seat and grabbed his sheath sword by the belt and tied it around his chest as he ran to the left gate of the inner city in pursuit. *** Derin waveringly opened his eyes. No movement came from the gathering place except the steady burning of the fire. Denomark still stood there unharmed but looking frozen to his right where a man with an arrow in his chest faltered and fell back into the arms of two men of the Valorous Guard. The silence did not last long, he saw men pointing to his floor in the tower and scream muffled shouts at the others. Dread fell from his head, drenching his whole body in waves of terror. They

now where he is and they were coming for him. Quickly he turned and stepped towards the window, testing his ropes strength and then climbed out of the window and slid down his escape rope. Already commands and curses filled he night air. He could not find any single rope long enough for his needs and thus had to settle for binding some together, he only wished it would hold. He had not come all this way to fall to his death at this moment. Denomark rounded the corner that hid the city from the gate and looked to the east. A man like figure was halfway down the inner wall, climbing slowly by a rope downwards to the narrow ally’s and streets that made out the lower class part of the city. He waved his arm and shouted for some men to follow him and so they set off into a forest of broken equipment and buildings, hurling themselves to the unknown. Derin had made it to the third and last of the unified ropes, roofs and leather or linen canopies now lie less than twenty feet down. Before he knew what happened the third and last rope slipped out of the knot he had made and he fell hopelessly, not able to shout or scream. Air whipped past him till he felt himself collide with one of the leather canopies which held him for a second and tore at the seems afterwards letting him fall in a confusion of being surrounded by constraining material. A loud thud was al he heard as he made solid contact with the paved street, he flung his arms wildly to emerge from the leather at last out of breath and aching with pain throughout his whole body. He grabbed his throbbing shoulder on which he landed, luckily it was not his best arm. He took the leather and made a makeshift hammock for his arm and took up his sword in his other hand. Panic and guilt engulfed him as he started down the street towards the wall, hearing the sounds of searching men to each side. It started to rain and it rain hard. As he passed. A corner someone came hurling into him and they both fell to the floor, rolling as the went. Derin grasped his blade and sprang up quickly facing the man who had ran into him and who looked just as shocked and bewildered as he did. It was

Denomark wearing only the same white clothes he had worn at the celebrations and his throat cramped. Denomark stood facing the man in the pouring rain and slowly took his sword from its sheath on his back. He was filled with need for self indulging retribution and strained himself as he recognised who the man was. “You!?” He uttered it out as much as an insult as anything else. “We took you in! We trusted you!” He was filled with a rage that eroded all reason and self restraint. “Now you do this?” Derin wanted to but could not explan, he just stood there waveringly holding his blade up to Denomark. “You shall not see the rise of the sun!” Denomark started towards him, his blade still hanging in his hand. “Their already is no more dawn in my life!” Denomark halted as he heard these words. “I did what I must to save what grace I have left in this world.” “You betrayed us! Mankind stands upon the brink and you betray us! For one mans grace!” Derin heard men closing in from every side. “My faults are my own, they are what makes me a free man.” He paused. “I cannot explain my actions! Just know that I had no choice!” “You will pay.” Denomark started forward again. “I have to go.” The man clutched his throwing knife behind his back, trembling. If he should miss... In a flash he pulled his arm around and let the knife fly straight to Denomarks chest. Denomarks breath caught as he saw the knife, as best he could he tried the block it with his sword only to divert it straight into his thigh. He shouted in anguish as he ripped out the small blade and threw it to the side of the road. Derin stood their still for a moment and then turned and ran to the wall as Denomark followed him as fast as he could. The irritation of being too slow almost drowned

the pain that shot through his leg and back cramping the muscles in his body. He strained forward pushing himself as hard as he could. The sounds of pursuit now neared him as thousands of thuds resounded through the empty city of leather boots pounding on stone as every man joined in the pursuit. A group of them rounded the corner into the street where Denomark had found Derin. “My Lord, are you alright?” one of them asked, they were Arithians and it seemed as though adrenaline had roused them from their alcoholised state. “I’m fine, soldier, but quickly! He ran down this street, towards the wall I guess, you must catch him!” With that they all ran past him in hot pursuit following the invisible phantom that fled between these lifeless stone jungle. Denomark could go no further, he felt out of breath and light headed. His mind pained as much as his legs and he felt cramped in by the night air around him, his vision was hazy at the edges and this grew inwards as his range of sight also slipped. He looked down and wasn’t surprised to see the blood streaming down his leg, leaving a reddish pile of water by his feet, he guessed the water had already washed the trail away. His hands quivered as his leg gave under him and he fell to the ground on his one knee. A final image of revenge flashed through his mind and then his thoughts gave way under oozing darkness and he fell heavily to the paved road under him. *** Slowly moving figures, each with their own faint light coming out fro within drifted vaguely and churning in and out of his peripheral vision which was darkened at the edges to form a uneven round window on his surroundings. A strange orb made its way into his sight and then started moving closer in a ghoulish manner, he heard mumbling and then a soft hand touching the back of his neck, lifting up his head and then some cool hard surface come in contact with his slightly open lips. A fluid entered his mouth, it was cold and refreshing and as he struggled to swallow it his vision

slipped once more and then came back clearer as it entered him. It was a face! At thirst he swore it was... Leayna? Yes. No. The person had the same coat of skin, the same dark wavy hair, but her features were rounder and she had dimples in her cheeks as she smiled encouragingly at him. Her face was still vague but he knew even in the worst of states he would know when it was his Leayna he saw. She spoke again and this time he could make some of it out. “Come, drink some more, you’ll need it.” He could even hear the soft tinge of worry and fear in her voice. Fear? Why? He remembered now as he once again took in some of natures best healing elements. And then he remembered: War, Maldour, the death of Beanon. Frantically he tried to speak, but only incomprehensive murmuring escaped him and he softly took her arm in his wavering grip. She looked away. “Berton, call for Gambill, the wizard, I think he is ready now.” Surprise filled Denomark. His visions range was now adequate for him to make out a worried man sitting in a chair behind Aurelia, his hands covering half his face: Berton. He quickly stood up and hurried out the room. The woman took his hand in both hers and sang softly to herself and him. A tune he did not know, it must be Arithian. It was beautiful, the tunes were full and lustrous and longing. A short, roundish figure, dressed in a travelling robe hurried into the room as Berton leaned against the doorframe behind him. The woman stood up and gave the chair to the man who sat next to Denomark. “He even tried to speak. Can you help him now?” “Yes dear, I think I might just be able to.” The mans voice was calm and soothing. The woman took hold of Bertons hand and he followed away, no letting his gave slip for one moment off Denomark.

“Now then.” He put the back of his hand against Denomarks brow and felt along his wrists with the other. “Mmmh...” Denomark felt compelled to stand up, he had work to do. He tried to speak but his mouth would not comply. He tried harder. “Have t, to go... Preparations.” “Hush!” The wizard sat a moment thoughtfully. “Good news, you will be alright.” He paused a moment. “Bad news, you’ll have to sleep first.” Denomark felt a strange energy fill him like a thick liquid and some fulfilling warmth fill his body. His vision grew sharper along with all his other senses. He was at a height. He felt as though he could stand up now and climb a mountain. And then everything fell once more into a darkness, but a calmer, peaceful one. “When he opened his eyes again his mind was clear, along with his sight, the nagging pain in his leg has given away to a small tightness in his upper leg. The sun shone brightly trough the white lace curtains that blew softly in the wind and Denomark guessed it was midday as he peered at the window past Gambills head. “Any better?” Four figures appeared in the doorway just after the wizard spoke. Gruwaith, Ydin, Honin and Brianan. He was glad to see them, but was disappointed to not see Berton among them. “Yes.” He paused a moment and felt his head. “My leg is stiff, but the pain has gone. What news of Beanon?” The wizard sighed. “He is alive, but barely.” He shook his head slightly. “I am not much skilled in the art of healing, Denomark, he has been poisoned by one of the breeds of scorpions that inhabit these surrounding mountains.” Denomark gave himself time for the words to sink in, trying hard to fight the sorrow. “How long does he have?” “No more than a day.” “Are you staying for the battle?”

“Yes, I had a good mind to return to the place of my learning. I have much dire news to share, but in light of recent events I think you will need my help.” “Thank you, Gambill, you have helped me so much already. I cannot imagine you leaving now.” Denomark pushed himself up further leaning against the wall behind him. Gambill patted him on his good leg and winked at him and then slowly stood up and left. As he passed them the men at the door walked inwards, Gruwaith seemed even more grim than before. “How long Gruwaith?” He knew he did not have to explain further. “They will arrive near sunset. I am sorry Denomark. I did all I could.” Denomark felt panic fill him and he jumped off the bed flaying the sheets off him. “I have wasted too much time!! All the preparations were still to be made!” Ydin put his hand on his shoulder. “Relax Denomark. Cealmrin, Gambill and Eolgrin have taken care of most of it already. Beanon’s funeral will take place after the battle, if we lose... There is no point to it then.” Denomark only calm down on the outside, his spirits were still mad with turmoil and panic. “Denomark... Are you sure you are ready?” Denomark could not help but grin grimly. “Have we ever been ready Ydin?” Eolgrin stood on the inner wall talking to Cealmrin and explaining with his hands. As he neared Cealmrin gave a cold greeting to Eolgrin and walked off, unmistakably irritated by Denomarks presence. “Good day Denomark.” Eolgrin surprisingly sounded less troubled and downcast than normal. “Eolgrin.” Denomark nodded his head in reply. Already he felt his insides knot and twist under the stress and worry. “How are things going?”

“We found a groove cut into the mountains long ago on either side. it smells strongly of oil so I suspect it was used as to light a fire in to bring light on the assailants. We have already filled it with oil.” He pointed along the fingers of mountains extending outwards towards their right. “Cealmrin has divided the men into their various posts. Signs have been constructed and your banner now flies over the gate of Mudean along with that of the Arithians. We are as ready as we’ll ever be, Denomark.” Denomark stood a moment in thought. He felt ashamed that he had placed so much of the task on himself that he forgot about all the support he had, their was two friends he longed to see. “Eolgrin. Where is Fyrton?” He followed Eolgrin towards the stables. Fyrton was in a stall, third from his left. The horse neighed and nodded its head as Denomark approached and even gave little excited jumps inside the stall. Denomark put out his arms and softly soothed the nose of his horse, relishing the feel of the short and soft hair sliding between his fingers. Fyrton sniggered and pulled back his head. “Woah. Easy boy. I am sorry I have neglected you all this while, things have not been well.” As if to ease his spirits the horse gave in and put his chin on the gate and pushed it against Denomarks chest. The horse looked to his right and gave another nod and flicked his ears. Berton stood on the other side of the stables, leaning with his back to Denomark against one of the wooden pillars, holding the hands of his new spouse. She looked grimmer than Denomark had ever seen before and he saw Bertons head move in pleading ways as he talked with her. “This is a masterful beast, Denomark. In all my years and travels I have never met one this strong.” Eolgrins words flew through Denomark into empty space. He longed, craved to speak with his old friend, if not only for friendships sake then for the sake of forging a real bond with his lost past once more. Eolgrin shook his gripped softly in a greeting gesture and walked off briskly. Bertons woman noticed this and looked past his shoulder straight at

Denomark. She nodded her head at him and Berton looked around. She gave him a squeeze of the hand and a kiss on the cheek before she also strolled off. Denomark noted the clouds closing seemingly in on Mudean, thickly and oozing. Berton turned and leaned with his back and head against the pillar and drew a deep breath. Denomark took a few steps towards him and stopped next to a barrel in which spears were held for the cavalry. “You ever still think of home Berton?” Berton let down his head and lifted it up as he looked at Denomark. “I find it hard not to. Although, sometimes I want to forget.” Their was deep down regret in his voice. “The fresh smell of crushed grass as we innocently played in the coming summer, the thuds of axes culling trees for a warm fire in the winter cold, the people, their voices... It’s all still so clear.” Denomark could not recall Berton ever sounding like this. “We could not have saved them.” This felt as false to him in his own heart as he knew it felt to Berton, deep down he knew they all thought they could, should have saved them. Berton murmured his agreement. Denomark carefully fingered the shaft of one of the spears, curiously of Rhealdonian make, and then took it from the barrel. “I also recall the long hours we spent training near the woods. Do you remember?” Berton smiled softly. “I’ll never forget, you always made me lose better than I should have and I almost always got pissed at you.” Denomark chuckled softly to himself. “Jealousy does not compliment you, Berton.” He swiftly swung out his spear under which Berton ducked and with a thud cut an inch into the hard, wood pillar he was leaning against. Both of their eyes glinted with child like enthusiasm and playfulness. Denomark drew another spear and tossed it to Berton who caught it horizontally in the air. “This time I won’t have mercy on you.” Berton said as he quickly lashed out with his own slashes and thrusts. Wood banged on wood as Denomark retreated and parried each blow that came his way. “That is a pretty girl you have Berton. What is her name?” He

said as he casually caught Bertons spear in the corner the wall formed with the pavement. “Her name is Auleira.” Denomark let go and swung around holding his spear out at head height where it thudded once more shaft to shaft against Bertons. He retreated up the flight of steps that led onto the wall holding Bertons lance of his feet. They though a while longer on the wall until they both backed off to get some breath. Almost immediately something changed in the air. It came from the north, rushing in cold, churning air that seemed to weave around itself in strands. A distant thud resonated into the valley. Denomark looked down and saw his shadow thinning and combining with the ever darkening stone and as he looked up the clouds turned dark and black and churned around their white counterparts until they dissolved and devoured them. Fear filled every breath took and horror seeped into the cracks of every very being. Denomark looked over the wall, still in his crouched pose but only the horizon was visible. His flesh turned icy cold as he straightened himself and carefully walked to the battlements. Rows upon rows of gold and purple might marched into the fields. They sing thunderous war cries and the rhythm of their feet made pebbles skip and tremble in fear. Denomark placed his hand on one of the stones that made up the battlements along the wall and felt his breath catch inside him. He could not taste nor hear nor see anything but the slowly approaching doom. He did not know how long he stood in that eternal trance and was suddenly brought back by a gulp of breath as the cry of the horn went up from the gate, signalling the obvious. He heard someone stand behind him and heard the voice of Brianan as the invaders stopped at the command of their general. He could hear nervous whispers of fear and doubt all around him. His knees felt weak, a cold sweat broke over him and nausea overtook him. If he was not brave, how could they be? “Gruwaith, Ydin, get ready my armour. Eolgrin get some men and go seal the gates. Cealmrin organise the others and get them ready to get to their posts.” He waited for them to leave as all the

other men also discharged unto their separate ways. Denomark tore his eyes from the now still mass and started down the small flight of steps, Gambill following close behind. “Where are you going?” He asked more nervously than curious. “I am going to make ready my horse, speak with Beanon and then send word to Cavaldri. We will need all the support they can give.” Denomark stopped and paused. An image flashing before his mind for an instant, triggering his curiosity. “Gambill?..” “Yes?” “Did you see furagks amid the Maldourians?” There was a pause as he waited the wizards reply. “I believe so... Yes.” The wizard also seemed uncertain of this as if it was a vague perception not fully seen. Denomark ran back to the wall and looked doubtfully hopeful outwards. The dragon was already settled on the ground and he now also saw two figures seated upon it. next to them a great tent was being hoisted up amidst the rising encampment that stood just out of range. At the far right of the natural arena, looking out from Mudean their was a force of its own. Their armour was dark and they where rowdy and violent. Furagks. Ten thousand at the least. His insides knotted up and went lame once more. He heard a moan from the wizard and him slapping his forehead. Just then he felt a hand grip his shoulder. “My lord. The lord Beanon requests your presence” “How come?” “Alas! Our great leader stands on the edge. He will not live much longer, thus he bids you and the esteemed Cealmrin to his side in his final moments.” Denomark looked once more over the wall. It was almost night and yet it was the middle of the day. “Take me to him.” Fyrton must wait. This was more important.

Two servants stood next to the bed in the lavish room in which Beanon lay. As he entered they stopped attending to him and in a low husky voice he bade them to leave. Denomark brushed past them and sat at the side of the bed. Still he lay there quietly. Seemingly not noticing his presence, looking at some far off place that would give him peace. Denomark decided by himself Colnas had called them to announce Cealmrin the duke of Mudean seeing as he gave Denomark the title in a shocked state. He did not mind, he was only afraid of what Cealmrin would do. Cealmrin was a man of glory, not a man of the people. Denomark noted footsteps in the hall that fell in a pace only prescribed to Cealmrin and soon the man himself entered through the arched doorway. And came to stand at the foot of the bed. Both of them now waited in silence for Beanon to speak. “My lord.” Cealmrin probed acutely after a few moments. “Ahh yes, it comes down to this.” Beanon breathed out solemnly and then continued. “I have sent for you both to discuss what shall follow on my passing.” Another series of slower footsteps proceeded the arrival of Craivahn whom leant against the frame. I almost delighted sigh escaped the dying mans mouth. “Craivahn, I would not have started without you!” Craivahn dipped his head. “Just giving a dying man the respect he deserves.” “MY LORD.” Cealmrins voice was more urgent, more worried this time and much more impatient. “We have other matters to attend to.” “Cealmrin...” Beanon looked down at the sheets that covered him. “I have decided to name Denomark as my successor. I hope you can come to forgive me and respect my decision as you shall respect your new lord.” Craivahn lifted his one eyebrow in a exclamation of surprise, but showed no other sign of emotion. A silence hung like death over Cealmrin and Denomark stood shocked.

“You are a man of glory and battle Cealmrin. You believe in a glorious death and valorous charges. You believe in saving your people by crushing you enemy beyond rebirth, no matter the cost... I would rather have my people kept alive. And so you shall understand why I have chosen Denomark.” He paused once more and looked pleadingly at Cealmrin. I loved you as a son Cealmrin, as I raised you like my own. Therefore I know you best of all, do not fail me now.” Cealmrin turned his face away and Denomark could see the inner pain bur him like acid. “Cealmrin...” Beanon reached out his hand touched Cealmrins fingers who turned and briskly left the room. “Beanon, I...” “Hush, hush. I have made my choice.” Denomark bowed stiffly and then left slowly making sure he took the opposite route as Cealmrin after he greeted Craivahn at the door. Denomark made his way down the stairwell leading to the hall, his mind raging with worries. Cealmrin had many men loyal to him. Nothing stopped him from seizing control. He just prayed his common sense would stay his hand till after the battle then he would give it away freely. His footsteps echoed through the large, open space, void of any human. Most men were spread throughout the city, preparing themselves, eating their last meals or finding something to turn their minds from madness. As he exited the hall he was struck by how dark it was. The thick clouds rolled with drum like sounds in each corner of the night sky. He looked around for some distraction and saw Berton sitting at the top of the rocky outcrop upon which the great statue of Ghorinfon stood. The rock was thick gray and except for the carved-in steps running around to the top no attempt was made to smooth the formidable stone elsewhere. Slowly Denomark ascended, it was puzzling how fast true friendship would mend and forget all the past sins. Still, he was grateful, he would need all the friendship

and support on offer now. As he reached the top, without a word he slumped down next to Berton, his back against the wall. “Have you ever felt as though your death is approaching? Like a shadow in the dark... Always their, yet you cannot see it... Crawling all over you, marking you for the inevitable, yet you cannot stand up to it? I feel it now... So strange... Almost welcoming yet... Who would want to die?” “We are all afraid of the Maldourians, Berton.” “I do not fear them. Not anymore. I will not die by their hand.” “Berton.” Denomark was at a loss for words. He wanted to believe, but his sense did not give way. “We do not know when we die, neither how. Perhaps its for the best, perhaps not. But if we give up now we will still die, more woefully than if we had given ouself a chance.” Berton seemed to ignore all Denomark had just said, wrought shut in his own self depression. “If I die. Look after Auleira. No words are necessary. I have already said all I’ve wanted to say to her. Just, just... Protect her.” Denomark gave in. “You knew I would.” Berton acknowledged with a moan that anyone else would have taken as a snobbish remark. So they sat their and sleep took them, they fell asleep head on shoulder and time took its path... Denomark shook awake as the sound of a horn filled the air within the walls of Mudean. Berton groaned and grunted and they both stood up slowly, helping each other up. A foul gale blew up from the fields below. Flinging both their head of hairs backwards in flingy trails. The Maldourians and furagks looked like a army of angry ants as they assembled themselves into position and a sudden realization of NOW overtook Denomark as it pierced through his sleep-hazy mind. “This is it?” Berton inquired. “Guess so.” Denomark replied.

They started running down the stairs just as someone, waving their arms and shouting called on Denomark. “My lord, the lord Craivahn has requested your presence.” “Where to?” “Follow me my lord.” The followed the man through the hall and the winding steps their after, down corridors he had not yet walked. On the tenth floor they made their way down a corridor that led to only one room. The doorway was adorned by pillars on each side and a stone ribbon over the oak doors with a strange language written on it. The messenger opened the door and bowed as Denomark and Berton entered and closed it briskly behind them, shutting himself out. Denomark noticed that all of the most important persons were already assembled: Honin, Gruwaith, Eolgrin, Gambill, Craivahn, Cealmrin, Ydin and some others he did not know, but distinguished by their clothing. And now, he and Berton. “Greetings Denomark.” Craivahn bowed deeply and slowly. “And the new Duke of Mudean!” “Has Beanon passed?” “No, but as we are pressed for time, you shall be inaugurated now, all who need be are here around you.” Berton eased away from Denomark and joined the others who were scattered around the circular room. “Who shall be your third and second?” Craivahn asked. “Gruwaith shall be my second and Berton my third.” Craivahn gestured for them to come forth and then ushered Denomark before the window that looked out over all of Mudean and the field beyond were their adversaries prepared. He was already armoured in the armour he had received at the camp since the morning. He heard Berton and Gruwaith behind him and then felt them loosening and removing the pieces of his armour as Craivahn spoke.

“The time of peace has been expended, The time of war is come; The time when men take arms and the women weep The time when darkness prowls and the light fades The time of terrors, bred out of fire The time that champions are borne... As the power of the dark deepens and squanders what hope of glory is left... A time has come that the trust in the power of man shall be the beacon of valour In this time, whom shall have the courage and justice to lead us? Who shall we call upon with horn and drum to drive back the shadow? Who has the strength of will to become our saviour?” (rough idea) As the final click of his new armour being adorned resonated through the round room Denomark spoke: “I carry that strength which is given to me by the people whom I serve. I shall call upon all the valour I possess to drive back the evil that lays siege to our humanity.” “Well spoken. All hail Denomark! All hail the new Duke of Mudean! All hail our beacon of hope!” Craivahn shouted and a loud yell of “Hail Denomark” went up from those in the room. Denomark turned and beheld the proud men of noble nature that stood before him. None seemed to fear what is to come, though Denomark knew their was a small unshakable shudder in everyone. “I gladly accept what honour you have presented to me. I swear I will lead you as best I know how for as long as I am your leader, however short that may be.” He paused a moment. “I do not ask

your unyielding servitude. Only your trust and fealty when needed. Do I have them?” He looked around, everywhere there was nodding heads and agreements. “And you Cealmrin?” The question did not yet escape him when the door that led out of the room banged shut. Cealmrin had left.

Chapter 7: The cost of true power. Denomark walked out the door after everybody had left, he thought he knew where Cealmrin would be and this struggle will end now. He was deeply immersed in his own thoughts as he wondered what he would say, even the slightest misperception would send them both spiralling down this selfish nonsense. Finally he reached the door of the room where Beanon spends his final time on earth. The door was already ajar and Denomark could hear ragged whispers of sorrow on the other side. he winced as the door creaked when he slowly pushed it open. Cealmrin looked up at him and without reply bent down over Beanon once more, giving no other sign of his awareness to Denomarks presence. Cealmrin sobbed softly, but his face was hidden by his long hair that hung down the side of his head. Denomark walked over and stood behind Cealmrin with his hand on his shoulder and looked down sadly at the now completely still figure of Beanon, is face was as calm as if chiselled in stone. “He died in peace.” “He died nonetheless!” Cealmrin shot back softly. Denomark gripped the mans shoulder tighter. “He loved you as a son, Cealmrin, I grieve as much for your loss as for mine.” He paused a moment. “I do not wish for your obedience Cealmrin, only that you support me in a battle we both must fight. He knew you had honour and valour. Now, prove it.” Cealmrins breathing slowed and he half looked up at Denomark and then back at Beanon. He took his helmet that stood on the small cupboard next to the bed and out it over his head, then he rose from the stool and bent down over Beanon. He kissed him on the forehead and then reached out his hands and softly slipped

the ceremonial necklace Beanon whore from under him as if not to disturb his sleep. He turned around and, walking around the stool and standing before Denomark put the necklace over his neck. Denomark looked down and took up the lowest golden symbol and turned it horizontally. He looked up and Cealmrin, happiness surged through him as he accepted the acknowledgement from his former rival. He took Cealmrin by the shoulder once more and Cealmrin him on the neck and then Cealmrin simply walked off, out of the room. This time Denomark did not know where. *** Denomark stood on the inner wall with Eolgrin and Farinos to his right, Berton, Gruwaith and Honin to his left and Gambill behind him. “Any messages? Offers?” “None.” Farinos replied bluntly. “Their final count?” “Fourty two thousand. Twenty thousand Maldourians and the rest: furagks.” Eolgrin answered him. “And all our preparation is made?” “We only wait on their assault.” He replied again. It was now almost completely as dark night, Denomark guessed on a normal day the sun would be just behind the horizon, painting the sky a mellow milieu of pink and yellow and orange, but, this was not a normal day. They heard the dragon roar from somewhere above the clouds. He looked down and saw the men already lined up on the walls, the towers were filled with archers and the silver block of men defending the gate in ranks and columns. They seemed so impossibly few against the horde outside of the walls, like a small pebble attempting to block a river, a dark river, filled with violence and terror.

“Let us go then.” Denomark said and headed to the western gate with everyone following him. As they passed through the gate and had made their way thirty yards from it he heard pebbles roll down from the mountain face next to the city and before he knew it a cry went up from the gatehouse: “Lookout!” as heavy figures pounded their feet down on the stone road. Swords and bows unsheaved and drew all around Denomark and Eolgrin stepped between him and the insurgents. “Stop!” Denomark managed to yell before any action took place. The figures looked strangely familiar. “Guruwan.” The elf, Belion, said from somewhere in the crowd behind him and let down his bow. “You are of the Guruwan? Why are you here?” Denomark said as he walked past Eolgrin and pushed down his blade. Eolgrin looked pale and worried and uncertain. Never has Denomark seen him like this before. “Yes. My name is Gorfair. I have come to deliver a message from Elghor.” “You have come a long way... What news do you bring?” “You already know of the furagks. They escaped our borders after overrunning more than half of our lands.” All of them wore leather or mail, if any armour. “We were sent to track them down and to warn you of their approach. We have also come on behalf of the elves and Guruwan to ask for your help should you overcome this great threat. Even our combined efforts can no longer withhold the shadow that has arisen from its lair. They are too many, these furagks and their trolls.” Denomark looked closer and now saw elves also between the Guruwan. Almost thirty of them were now assembled in the middle of the road. “And in return you have come to help us in our fight?” Denomark asked.

“It is so.” Gorfair acknowledged promptly. Denomark knew that they might number few, but elves and the Guruwan were a more than adequate allies. Denomark was still a bit startled. They had come into the city as if nothing was strange or unexpected about thirty elves and Guruwan dropping into the city of Mudean just before a great siege. “You shall go with Eolgrin and do as he asks of you, I have a feeling we will need you at the gate.” He looked around, many soldiers had already come to see what has happened. Thunder slapped the night air with all the fury of natures voice. The bellow of a deep and ancient horn raised the hairs on the back of every mortals neck. “They call for you Denomark. The time of reckoning has come.” The wizard Gambill spoke solemnly behind him. Denomark looked back and then up at the monstrous clouds that ruled the sky above them. “So it has... Gorfair, I shall like to speak to you more after we are through here, until then I hope you are with me.” “Elghor holds you in deep esteem, my lord, I would gladly fight by your side.” Gorfair bent slightly. “Now. To the walls!” *** Denomark stood upon the ramparts on the gate and stared out at the scene of awe inspiring terror before him. All the power imaginable to him now stood joust beyond these walls. He did not openly challenge his opponents but waited silently. A whisper, terrible in its calmness, horrific in its malice swept across the valley and the city. “Put down your mortal weapons and yield your city. A quick and painless death shall be your reward. You cannot escape, you cannot withstand the Dark Lords power.” His voice chilled the very life blood that gave warmth to the body, it took away memories of

spring and hope and left only a very empty darkness. The fear of Denomarks situation charged him with unknown and unsubstantiated courage. He knew it was now his turn to show his worth in front of those who had put their lives at his feet. “We will not yield!” He shouted over the battlements. “Our honour and courage will not allow us to bend to your will!” He paused a while catching his breath. “If you fear to take it from us while we live, leave now!” The silence of the evil voice was even more worrisome than when it spoke. They looked over the field, siege towers taunted the old sky, the same gigantic, four legged, rhino like beasts the Maldourians rode snorted and pounded their feet. “This doesn’t look so bad.” Brianan said mockingly. As of the gods heard him mocking death a roar greater than thunder ripped through the now freezing air above the Maldourians a brimming cloud took flame and then dissolved in the fire. A great and dark figure burst through the whole and plunged downwards before coming up a hundred feet from the ground. The great winged beast swerved and roared and growled its curse upon the living and Denomark felt a chill crawl through his arteries, mingling with his blood and turning him mute and immobile. “A dragon! A Kor Lurdîm! May the gods protect us!” The wizard spoke next to him. “In the fires of Gorthungal where evil is borne and the light flees. In the heart of fire and smoke and wrath we give evil its wings.” The wizard sounded distressed beyond belief. “In all my travels. Never have I seen one so immense. So powerful.” All mocking was gone from Brianan now, as hope also fled Denomark. “Such dragons of this kind we thought extinct long ago. Wiped out by the Horintheá in times long gone. It seems evil never, truly dies.” “How can we fight this!?” Berton shouted. “Cog eskovian nichtol gorgovni feragknu il, qua dorhol gokr!” The cry of war went up from the assembled host before them and cries

of ahoo filled the air along with the growling of the dragon. A drizzle soon filtered down from the sky and cooled the night air even further. Denomark trembled under his armour as much from the cold as the fear and intensity. “My lord! My lord!” The exasperated shouting roused him and he tore his eyes from the ground to look at the men that had rushed towards him. “Speak.” “We found one of the sentries dead, his throat was slit.” The man quieted for a moment. “We suspect it must be the same man that assassinated Lord Beanon.” That decided it. it was not worth fearing them. This new deed burnt his fear and worries away and kept on burning inside his soul. “Return to your post.” He looked over the army below with new found hate and loathing. “They dare challenge us! They murder our lord and threaten our lives! Today we urge them to make that fatal flaw and cross our blades! Let them come! We are the first combined army of men in hundreds of years that stand proudly next to one another in the face of death! Let them come! We stand under the gaze of one of the founders of our world as it is today! Let him look upon us and wonder at the power we possess when we throw away our pettiness and embrace each other!” Denomark melted into the surrounding silence and then started slowly once more. “Hold your heads high, and so to your shields, for they shall break upon our bravery. Do not yield men! For I am here with you and I shall not yield!” “Ready the bows!” The elf Belion shouted and his message was carried through by a sign from the horn. From all along the wall the strenuous groan of stretching wood sounded. Denomark had pulled all the notably great fighters to the gate house so that they could be sent wherever needed most. Another round of shouting in a rough voice went over the army below and slowly but surely the first ranks of Maldourians creeped up steadily towards the walls. The drizzle turned into a stormy downpour and thunder and

lightning soon followed in more rapid rhythms and each time it struck down from the heavens the whole army of Maldourians would light up and shine in the dark. The line of fire that rang along each range of mountains barely lit the furthest flanks of the army. “Fire! Belion shouted and a volley of arrows fled from the gate as the horn blew once more and thousands of arrows met the rain and flew into the Maldourians emitting screams and shouts from individuals but doing no real damage. Following the arrows, the trebuchets and catapults and scorpions let loose their charges. Still the Maldourians came forth like a bear that has been pricked by a bee and does not heed any pain. Everyone now chose their own targets and fired as they loaded. Denomark saw that the Maldourians had put archers on top of their siege towers, but these were picked off quickly by the archers in the towers of Mudean. He noted the sound of boots coming up and stopping next to him. He looked to his right and saw Cealmrin standing next to him, overlooking the field. “I am glad you came.” “I would not miss my revenge for all the glory the gods could praise me with.” Denomark nodded quaintly, he thought he understood how Cealmrin felt. The looming siege towers were now within fifteen yards of the wall. Denomark felt panic trying to infiltrate him even though his heart was still hot and angry. He was relieved to see a few siege towers had perished at the hands of the flying boulders, he was not pleased to say the same for parts of the wall that have been smashed, flinging men into the houses beyond. The creaking towers stopped a few feet from the wall, let go of their gates and chaos ensued as the Maldourians poured out of them, in a matter of mere seconds the wall was crawling with men like a nest of angry ants, only with more blood. It was not long before the group of men on the wall had completely dispersed among the desperate defenders to help them fend off the ruthless assault.

For hours the battle raged, like the oceans it swirled this way and that never fully favouring any side. Denomark knew though the Maldourians must pull back some time or another, the archers on the wooden platforms and towers were giving them heavy losses and this first wave would be completely annihilated if they did not act. When it came to their own losses, Denomark silenced his thoughts. He sometimes wondered of the safety of Berton, Ydin and all the others, but did not have much freedom to linger on his concerns, except the one to stay alive. It was not till the great bang, followed by a great creak, signifying the breaching of the gate that Denomark had a new purpose. He looked back and screams of, “Trolls!! Trolls!!” come from the men guarding the gate. He charged down the walls stairs and up the main street, not even looking at the desperate struggle at the gate, he knew now the men’s faith would falter. He ran to where Fyrton was kept, just outside the small fort that stood in the middle of the city. He jumped on his horse and charged down the road, he did not know how he was going to fight the trolls, but he knew he had to rally his men, he saw a troll arm swing and then men yelling as atleast four was killed with one blow, some were already retreating and falling back. He cried as loud as he could over the noise. Someone in the massof Arithians yelled: “Look! It is our lord Denomark!” “We cannot abandon him! Charge!” He rushed through the crowd that now slowly followed him. He saw the Guruwan were already at work, trying to fell the trolls, he also saw they already killed two of the beasts, whose lumpy bodies were lying outstretched on the stone. Charging forward a troll made its way straight toward him, Denomark took a throwing spear that stood on his back and taking careful aim, threw it straight into the monster grabbing its throat, gurgling horribly and finally dying. The Arithians whom rallied behind Denomark now took their lances to good use, stabbing at the creatures till the fell, one by one. Acknowledging the gate was now under control he was somewhat disheartened by how easy everything was almost

lost. He heard the final groans as the last troll fell backwards, four lances sticking sorely out of his chest, a loud thud was followed by a dull shake of the plaza as his ancient body slammed to the ground. Very soon all was overly quiet behind the shattered gate. The captain at the gate relayed loud orders and the men slowly started manoeuvring back into position as if they were weary that anything might storm through the fire beyond the gate where the bowling pitch had been lit to keep out any smaller insurgents. A lazy rhythm of footsteps resounded inwards from beyond the black smoke as the fire started dying down as if it was a strange hour glass, counting the time they had left to be in peace. The creeping footsteps were so threatening that even the sturdy Guruwan slowly retraced their steps nearer to the main guard of the gate. A guttural cry was greeted by sinister sniggering and growls as shadowy figures and torn banners appeared through the haze of smoke and as the last wisps of the fire dissolved into thin air the furagk charged and all hell broke loose. Denomark reigned his nervous horse back towards the ranks as lances were lowered to meet the oncoming furagks and swords were drawn by those who lost there lances to the trolls death. A wild battle ensued among the corpses of the trolls in the plaza. Denomark fought valiantly from the back of his horse as did the Arithians, but the Guruwan cut down furagks left to right as if they were born with axe and sword in hand, and now that he thought about it Denomark decided they probably did. The vanguard of Guruwan saved a lot of Arithians from death. Decidedly beaten the furagks finally started to fall back from their hellish onslaught, sensing that even though they all might die the gate might still not be won. Denomark began a row of cheering as the furagks retreated and immediately cries of victory came from the walls as well. Denomark felt he could cry of joy. Hasty repairs to the gate was made, closing what was left of it and blockading the gate with any heavy materials that could be found like wagons and large wooden beams that they lodged between the stones that made up the pavement. Back in the hall news was given and reports handed out as the damage was inspected. The

victory seemed to have come too easily. In reply to a few hundred slain men the Maldourians and furagks lost some thousands. Cealmrin and the others seemed only to care for the victory, but in silence Gambills thoughts turned dark and foreboding. The great dragon, the Kor Lurdîm, had not made its appearance... also he feared that the beasts master might be one of the Dark Lords great minions, he could feel his presence wriggling into the very marrow of his bones. It seemed that with the retreat of the Maldourians the storm had also abided. If the enemy can control the weather. Gambill would often think to himself, what else can they not do? In spite of all his worries he was relieved that Denomark held out and that Cealmrin had cooled, so far everything was as good as he could wish them to be, except for the broken gate that was heavily guarded now. That will be a great weakness. *** Following their short victory the city of Mudean was in hesitantly good spirits, due to the circumstances drinking was forbidden although a few thirsty men enjoyed some in private company and the city was quiet. Denomark stood watch over the city from the lavish circular room were he was coronated, behind him their was bustling and loud talk as plans were made for the following days imminent battle. Some argued that they should pull back to the inner wall where the broken gate would not be a problem, Denomark knew this was impossible. In doing it the would give the Maldourians a place of relative safety in which to oppose the help that would hopefully come from Cavaldri. Also, the trebuchets and so called scorpions would fall into the hands of the Maldourians who would be able to yield them with greater efficiency against the cramped up force. As he stood there looking at what they could lose his thoughts could not help but remind him of what he had already lost: citizenship, Rahnen, his family, Leayna. All this burnt like a hot iron pressed to his heart and he winced at the cramp as his heart retreated ever further backwards. He could already feel himself becoming vague and cold, flowers did not

smell so sweet, a cool breeze did not replenish his spirit, small actions of consideration passed him by as if it never happened and even pain no longer hurt as much as he hardened. He guessed the only saving factor was his salvaged friendship with Berton. And now Berton spoke of this strange feeling of approaching death as if he had given up on life already, although he knew deep down it was only a self righteous attack on Berton to shield him from the sorrow of believing his friend would soon die. He looked up to the sky and saw that the weather had cleared, yet he could feel and hear the rumble and groan of a gathering storm, one that would test his very being and bring him to the edge of madness. *** Denomark stood once more upon the wall of Mudean, overlooking the tremulous forces readying underneath the watchful gaze of all those who defended the fortress. His eyes were cold and stern; the morning had started with an unshakeable sense of oncoming tragedy. The morning, if you would call the darkness they were in morning, did not only bring this fearful sense of tragedy, but strangely enough it brought snow. Snow, just as summer should begin. It did not fall down in great waves of white, but drifted down slowly, flake by angelic flake. The wind slowly blew strings of his hair, he held his helmet by his side. He wore a thick woollen cloak that hung from his shoulders and was draped over him, as most high ranked men did. Even Cealmrin and Eolgrin had taken more precautions to the cold, everywhere inside the city small fires burned where men tried to keep warm. The only once not seeming to notice the intense cold was the Guruwan whom still whore only their flimsy leather and impenetrable mail. Denomark looked to the west of the plain outside the city and before him the great dragon roared and bellowed all its fury upon the world, he could see the furagks trying hopelessly to control it with thick chains, only to be flung aside or swallowed.

“I fear today we shall fight an enemy we do not have the strength, nor the will to withstand.” Gambill uttered the dark thoughts that had made their way into Denomarks own, despairing heart. He had organised with Gelmas, headman of the siege equipment to take charge of a single trebuchet whose only purpose is to stem the dragon should it show itself in battle. He had also given the eastern tower, nearest to the gate the order to concentrate their fire on the beast. As a counter measure he pulled up some elves and Guruwan unto the section of the wall normally helped by this tower, the very one he was now also on. Denomark found no words to console either himself or those around him so he just slid on his helmet and unsheathed his sword as the enemy made ready to attack. Again that call of war was made: “Cog eskovian nichtol gorgovni feragknu il, qua dorhol gokr!” “Ready yourselves men!” Cealmrin shouted. “Today we rally together and send these demons back to hell!” A great call of arms went up from the men on the walls. Arrows whistled, engines creaked, banners flapped in the desperate wind and the gears in Denomarks heart slowly froze over as chaos ensued once more upon the walls. The dragon tried many times to descend upon the walls and send it up in flames, but the archers on the tower and the trebuchet kept it at bay with close calls and harrowing defence. After one particularly menacing and purposeful sweep that was once again stopped a loud, frustrated and angry call of doom was released with more fire in its warning than any dragon of ancient times could summon up. The beast pulled up high into the frost dotted air and like a dark angel arched its wing in each direction, seemingly casting a deeper shadow over the city, smoke rose from it in great clouds, like those already covering the sky and then, from its god forsaken, hellish chasms a great fire erupted came from his mouth unto the tower, Denomarks breath caught in his chest as the tower went up in flames and screams of the dying filled the air. Torch-like bodies fell brightly from the tower like the

snow from the clouds up above and the roof collapsed, spewing its remains to the ground below. “By the gods!” He heard a nearby soldier shout as every man on the wall spared a glance at the giant torch that now lit the dark. “Cealmrin! We must help them! Folow me!” Denomark shouted and fought his way alongside Ceamrin to the gate, hoping beyond hope that some may be salvaged. Three steps at a time the climbed the wooden stairs to the top of the tower. As he flung open the wooden hatch and stuck his head out the whole his eyes immediately stung from the intense heat and he could feel his lips drying, all around him strewn bodies lay along with strewn rubble from the collapsed roof. Ignoring the flames he jumped out and ran over to a man that struggled to get loose from under a beam that was one of the four legs of the roof. The man was badly burned and could hardly speak. The only words Denomark could make out was: “I am dying my lord, please tell my wife and children I love them.” He reached chokingly inside his armour and took out a half burned note. Denomark looked back and yelled at Cealmrin. “Cealmrin, come help me! He’s still alive!” Cealmrin rushed over and bent down next to Denomark. The soldier was quivering badly and it seemed as if tears were welling up in his eyes, looking down Denomark saw the note and grabbed it. “My the stars guide you soldier of Arithia.” Cealmrin said as he held the dying man by the back of the head, he took out a dagger from his belt and stabbed it into the mans heart. “And my the celestial heavens show the way.” “What are you doing!?” Denomark screamed in incomprehension. “Are you mad!” we could have saved him!” “He was already dead, Denomark, in all but his body.” Denomark shoved him away. “Who are you to decide who lives and who dies!?” Denomark yelled, infuriated. “Who...” He did not finish his sentence, a

thundering crash brang forth a quake on the tower and part of the floor gave way, Denomark saw Ceamlrin slip and fall, just in time grabbing hold of the floor that was still intact. Denomark jumped forward and grabbed Cealmrin by the arms. A stone from one of the catapults had shattered through the western part of the tower, bringing down a great deal of its wall and the uppermost floor, Cealmrin would fall down twenty yards if he let go. “Pull me up Denomark!” the floor creaked as Denomark knew the damaged wood was giving way more and more. “The floor would not hold much longer!” More creaks. “Damn you Ceamrin!” Denomark yelled and then bent down and took Cealmrins arms. He pulled as hard as he could and his muscles seemed to lock into position as his arms ached more and more. The sounds of more rubble falling finally gave Denomark the resolve to pull up Cealmrin. Though he was still angry as hell at him he admired Cealmrins quiet strength and bravery. “Go get more men.” He could still hear groans and moans from those among the rubble. “And bring water.” Cealmrin only nodded and then headed for the hatch, climed down the stairs and disappeared. Denomark felt now as he stood searching among the flames all the anger inside him well up against the dam he had subconsciously built. The strain already created small cracks in his resolve that leaked silent hate in the form of tears. He looked up as he heard the dragon that had created this chaos growl. He looked up at the fiend as took out on of his throwing spears and threw it with all the vengeful strength he could muster. As fate would have it the spear struck the beast below the wing where it stuck in the unprotected skin. A howl of rage and pain resounded throughout the atmosphere. The dark beast circled the tower and landed on the side that faced outwards. He could see two figures mounted on top of the Kor Lûdim. The beast reached under its wing with its head, gripped the spear in his teeth, pulled it out and flung it carelessly away. Only now could Denomark truly realise the greatness of the beast, its yellow teeth were long and sharp like a blades edge, his jaws were strong and muscles

formed great mounds where his skin was not guarded by his black, steel like scales. The beast drew back its head, sniffed at the air and in one movement blew out a stream of flames as it lowered its head to Denomark who held up his shield and diverted the flames over his head. “Hold. Enough.” And if the hellish heat of the dragons fiery breath boiled Denomark from the inside out, the voice that sounded like a great whisper, like dry leaves blowing in a cold wind, almost froze him. Stunned, he lowered his shield slowly, it took him a while to feel the immense heat of his bronze shield searing his skin and at the realisation of this pain he threw the shield away quickly. Before him the flames parted away from two large men like figures. They were heavily armoured under the dark robes that they wore, black as the crows feather or the pupil of a corpse. Momentarily his anger bowed down to his instinctive fear as the looming figures draw nearer. To their left a scuttlish sound saw a badly wounded man crawl from the wreckage. Whimpering. He stopped his desperate struggle as he looked up into the face of Denomark, just before the approaching figures he did not heed. “My lo...” He was cut short. His face and body seemed to wilt and become black and ravaged as one of the figures simply walked over him, he disintegrated and turned to a black dust that swirled away in the wind leaving only his armor to protest his living. Once again all Denomarks anger turned to wrath and he unsheathed his blade, pointing it at the ever nearing figures that seemed to walk but making little ground. The one behind seemed to sniff at the air before he spoke. His voice was raspy and low but could not dare to compete with the other. “I smell the death of a great one in the air Rugkas!” “You seem to mistake my death for yours!” Denomark yelled defiantly, he had caught a glimpse of what he had hoped would come and moments later a great stone flung itself straight towards the dragon, over the heads of the figures. The dragon gave an uncharacteristic yelp as his ribs were crushed along with his wing and he began falling haplessly towards the ground. He

knew he was driven by blind purpose but he did not care, would not allow himself to care. The front most figure lifted his arm dangerously at Denomark. “Wait.” The one behind walked briskly to the front, rolled up his sleeves, lifted them up, clenched his fingers “Let me!” Denomarks head exploded as if it was pulled apart from both sides. The unfathomable pain made him cower and trip over his own feet and scramble backwards, till he gathered himself tightly together against the battlements. His screams of utter pain and hopelessness filled the air. All the while the wretched laugh of the evil perpetrator filled the corners of his mind that was not consumed already. “Finish him.” Even through the most impenetrable barriers of suffering that whisper entered his mind. As he started to embrace his own death, he felt himself welcoming and needing void from this pain. “In a moment!” the cackling was interrupted for a short while only before beginning again unforgivingly. “I said finish him!” The unmovable voice now sounded impatient and, strangely, worried. Off course Denomark knew none of this, his mind was to preoccupied, trying to hold him sane before his imminent death. The pain was so immense, so boundless, so consuming. He found himself desperately feel for some saving grace as the thought of never dying came to him. Suddenly he encountered only darkness. Far off before him a light grew flickeringly. He thought he was dead, he reached out. The sudden feeling of no pain was so strange he felt isolated and utterly alone. He reached out to the light and slowly wrapped his hand around it, then two hands, then himself, all the while the pulsating light grew and grew. He came to see it more as a power as a light as it slowly entered him and made him whole. Unknowingly he gave more and more of himself over to it as thoughts of Leayna, Rahnen, his dead parents and all the wrong of the past month came back to him. Everything built to a climax and in a split second he lost control of that power, and then, control of himself.

*** Shackled to the other slaves Derin looked blindly out before him. In front of him the siege of Mudean was unfolding in all its wroth. He felt know more, he knew now more. He did not feel the wind to his face or the grass to his feet. He no longer felt the tang of pain when memories of his daughter, loved above all by him entered his mind. His body felt like salted meat, left out to dry on a rusty wire that was life. He had assassinated an innocent man to regain a family he found slaughtered, whether his captives freed him or not he knew would make no difference. He was beyond feeling, beyond being human. He could still remember how he and the creature had fled across the wall. He still remembered the sticky warmth that clung to his hands as he slit the guards throat just before he would have undid the creature. Ignorantly he undeniably blamed even the death of his family on his own hands. Sometimes it seemed as though he was covered in the blood of all those he had killed and as if it was crawling into his mouth, drowning him for what he has done. He could even taste the iron in his mouth. He looked up at the sky, above him the great, dark mass of clouds were turning, faster and faster. They grew bright in colours of orange and red and yellow, it took his dreary eyes a while to see that the clouds had burst into flames. Slowly the clouds reached downwards and created a titanic fiery tornado that lit light up the world and shot down from the heavens. Derin looked up at the phenomenon and it seemed as though the gods had answered his plea. For the first time in what he could not begin to guess, he smiled, and the flames consumed him. *** “Do it now!” This time Rakgin could not mistake the threat in his dangerous companions voice for anything other than a threat on his life. He felt rather frustrated at having his game interrupted. It has been so long... And now! But, he must be careful, he was still the weaker and where they came from, if you are weak you are

dead. The screams of the boy became tiresome to him anyway. He took more power in exorcising his power unwillingly on something than the actual pain, which was just an extra pleasure. He pulled back his arms in preparation for his final blow, but stopped as he felt his grip on the boy completely disappear and the boys tormenting convulsions cease. “Rakgin n...!” Rugkas stopped midway as a crackle akin to thunder ripped through the world. So loud it was that it was heard by the elves in their forests to the north just the same as tanned men sailing the southern seas. Its mere power was tremendous and it shook the earth and Mudean so greatly that the lead tower of Ghorinfon that stood at the top of Mudean for a thousand years came down. Rugkas looked curiously at the now still body that lay before them, slumped against the stone with the closest sense of nervousness that he could remember ever encountering. Suddenly the body rose with the greatest ease as if he did not need to live on the ground and stood up proudly before them, its head bowed down. The mans head lifted slowly and as it looked up into the heavens a bright light that was thick and righteous exploded from his eyes, moving slowly at first and then erupting into all directions. So sharp this light was that even Rugkas, emissary of the Dark Lord had to shield his eyes. The man now looked coldly at them with his shining eyes. The light had slowly faded so that it only covered his eyes. Rugkas brought his hands together above his head and in a smoky burst of black was gone. Ragkins eyes shook with fear and he fell to the ground and begged for his life. The man or whatever he was now lifted his arm and simply said: “You.” Ragkin pleaded for his life. Incomprehension and surprise added to the desperation. Member of the Counsel of Ruin and now no more than a whimpering beggar brought to his knees by a mortal man. The man lifted his arm, whispered and in mere seconds the tables turned as Ragkin found himself tearing at his own head to stop the terrible pain that rendered his very soul. Soon the body of Denomark seemed to lose interest and stared curiously over the wall at the Maldourians below. With a flick of his

hand, as if dismissing Ragkin, he ended the whimpering fiend in a great explosion of fire that almost tore away another quarter of the towers upper floor. One final scream and he was gone. Slowly walking towards the edge of the tower the flames he pass seemed to twirl around him. He lifted his hand towards the black clouds and turned it slowly until the clouds started to turn and turn orange and red and yellow as they caught on fire. Slowly at first and then lightning quick a flaming tornado shot down to earth and amongst the Maldourians. And somewhere inside himself Denomark fought against the other might that now resided within him. An entity as old as the world and more powerful than anything that has yet set foot on it. *** Eolgrin looked around him worryingly from his position on the gatehouse. All around him the battle was being lost. to add to his worries he did not know where Denomark or Cealmrin were and he had no time to find them. “They are readying those great beasts of theirs. For what, I do not know.” Belion the elf remarked worriedly. Eolgrin felt his heart sink. “They will use them to break through the gate. I have read it before, in the histories of their wars against the Marithians.” “The man at the gate will not be able to withstand there charge!” Came the shocked reply. “I know, Belion.” He looked back and grimaced. We will need to pull back soon, but we must find Cealmrin and D...” “Look out!” A desperate warning came from one of the men on the gatehouse. Belion flexed his bow and Eolgrin started to, once again, unsheathe his claymore. The Maldourian had forced his way from the wall up the steps of the gatehouse by pushing aside the men before him. Both Belion and Eolgrin would have been dead if not for the blade of Cealmrin that suddenly broke through the oncoming Maldourian from behind. The blade slowly receded as

the dying Maldourian slowly fell forward to his death. Cealmrin looked up at them wildly. He was breathing heavily and his posture was sagging, which was not like him at all. “Cealmrin?” Eolgrin asked, surprised and gratefully at the same time as he carefully sheathed his sword once more. “Where have you been? Where is Denomark?” When Cealmrin finally spoke after a few ragged breaths it made Eolgrin sick with hopelessness. “We.” He paused for one more breath and pointed backwards at the burning tower, the tower that had strained them to their limits in its annihilation. “We went to search for survivors on the tower.” He took a few more deep breaths and stood up straighter. “Denomark is still up there. He commanded me to get more men, I do not think any will live, but his heart is set.” Just as he spoke Eolgrin noted a strange black movement behind Cealmrins head and a soft crash. Cealmrin followed Eolgrins eyes and as he turned round and saw the dragon perched on the edge of the tower all three of their hearts sank. Eolgrin pointed at one of the Valourous Guardsmen that was stationed on the gatehouse. “You! Make sure you get the scorpions ready for one more volley, and do not fire until I give the signal!” He looked back at Belion. “Get as many of the Rhealdonian men that stayed behind as you can and meet us there. Cealmrin, follow me!” With that they plunged in amongst the desperately defending men of Mudean and the now rabid Maldourians, fighting their way to the burning tower. *** Berton ran to Gambill that stood behind the battalion of men guarding the gate, casting spells at the fighters on the wall. “Gambill! Have you seen Denomark?” The wizard looked confusedly at Berton. “No! Why?” “I have not seen him for hours and I am starting to fear the worst.”

The wizard looked down worriedly. “I have not seen him, but we must not despair. The battle is going as badly as it can. We have no room for men who fear such things.” With the battle raging on the wall there was a strange silence in the plaza brimming with men, that strange time when you know the worst is to come, but it seems as though fate is stalling the inevitable. Tormenting man for our fears. It was just as this strange mood came over Berton that he saw the elf, Belion rush straight towards them, his eyes watching only ahead. Berton ran to block his path and grabbed him firmly by the arm. “Belion, have you seen Denomark?” Berton asked with pleading eyes. “Cealmrin said he was still on the tower, looking for survivors. Eolgrin sent me to get more men. Berton, you must let me go.” Berton ignored the elfs wish. “The burning tower?” “Yes. Ber...” “Come with me! NOW!” Berton pulled the elf until he felt him running by himself and then let him follow. “The dragon landed on that tower! We must help him!” “Berton, you and I can do nothing against such a dragon! We need help!” The elf stopped abruptly, which stopped Berton in turn. The were running along behind the wall, avoiding the obstacles of battle on it. “They are losing the wall Belion! If we do not do something now it will be too late, even if we had a thousand men.” Berton looked up at the wall that was filled with dying screams. At that very moment a sound of metal on metal brang forth a yell as a man in Arthian armour fell between them to the ground. “You may go get your help if you must, but this would be easier with you by my side.” ***

Eolgrin looked up at the smouldering tower as a second crash sought to the death of the dragon that had thwarted all their efforts. Brought forth by a stone that hit it from the side and flung it off the tower. His joy was overshadowed by his growing knowledge of their coming loss. The further they made their way to the tower the more apparent it became as the relation between the Maldourian’s and defenders seemed to change before his very eyes. So this is what an age of resentment and hate creates. He would think to himself as the unrelenting and seemingly unending force of Maldourian’s poured in one after the other. He had only partly taken the route to the tower via the wall because it was the most direct route, in fact he knew they would make very slow progress. He thought that he and Cealmrin’s presence amidst the defenders would hearten them. Now that they were within a hundred yards of the tower his hope slowly drooped further as the nearing tower also enlarged the prospect of Denomark’s death. Suddenly screams of immeasurable agony came down from the tower and his heart leapt at the confirmation of Denomark being alive. If he was burnt Gambill would remedy him. If he was dead they would not have been so lucky. “He is alive!” Eolgrin shouted to Cealmrin, but his joy slowly shrunk under the continuation of the vile screams as their true range become apparent. Those screams does not confess of any flame I know of. Slowly even the unshakable Eolgrin’s resolve began to waver as the possibilities came to him. Maybe, possibly, that dragon had a rider, a particular sort of rider. But would a farm boy turned duke be worth it? *** “Come on Belion! Run faster!” Berton shouted while running up the stairs, never once looking back. When his uneasiness overtook him he resolved to taking three, sometimes four, steps at a time. Not only was there friendship and brotherly love on the line, but also his only sure tie to Rahnen. As he reached he floor that was third from the top he stopped briefly in awe of the sight where the

boulder had smashed its way through the one corner of the tower, the very same hit that almost had Cealmrin falling to his death. A tug on Bertons shoulder acted as a prelude to what followed. “I thought you were in a hurry.” Berton took one last gape at the dire seen before him and then ran on with Belion following once more. *** No! NO! Denomark yelled uselessly at his own body, trapped behind his new eyes as if in a cell within his mind. Let me go! Now! He did not know who or what he was yelling at, but he knew that something was holding him. The realisation of what he or the person who had assumed control of him was doing amazed him while scaring him to death. Suddenly a voice came to him from within himself. “You dare draw on MY power? Mortal! You are mine now.” The voice chilled Denomark and he knew that if he still had his body he would have felt the hairs on his neck rise and his insides churn. Who... Who are you? The voice was silent for a while. “I am you, Denomark, son of Denmin.” The voice remarked casually. Denomark’s thoughts raced with disbelief. He only wanted to end the suffering. You lie! I am no part of you! “You do not have to be a part of me for me to be a part of you Denomark.” How do you know my name and that of my father? “We are one. I have seen everything you have lived.” The voice seemed to be running out of patience. “I life you will now watch through my eyes as I rule the world.” I will never be a part of you! Never! With that Denomark struck at the intruder with all the might he had, might that he did not know he possessed.

“Ahhh!” The intruder recoiled furiously like an injured beast. “Now you will pay! I claim this body as my own and if you do not agree then burn mortal!” With that Denomark watched hopelessly as his hand flicked backwards and the great burning tornado made its way straight to Mudean. *** “Quick Belion! Let me climb on your shoulders!” Berton said and dragged a table to were a great gaping hole stood in the roof above them. Compliantly, knowing Berton would not stay still and deliberate Belion climbed easily on the table and helped Berton up after him and then unto his shoulders. “Got it!” Berton shouted as he gripped the wooden floor that creaked as he hoisted himself up. Belion felt the load on his shoulders lift and looked up curiously with his hand shielding his eyes from the heat that still poured down from the slower burning. As Berton looked up after his ascension onto the roof the heat did not even bother him as he looked with incomprehension at Denomark that stood overlooking the field before Mudean, his arm outstretched as if he controlled the great inferno. Berton approached his friend, but slowed down as he realised something was wrong. “Denomark?” Peering beyond his friend he saw the tornado making its way nearer to Mudean, straight to the tower on which they stood. “Denomark?” He asked with more intensity this time. Hoping for some reply. But still the pillar of flame came nearer as Berton’s indecision and confusion grew. Denomark answer me now!” His fear had now grown into anger as he became more and more aware of the desperate situation. If that tornado made its way to the city they would all die. He looked down thoughtfully and worriedly at the blade he now slowly drew from his side and his mind explored countless possibilities. “Denomark don’t you here me? You will kill all of us! What are you doing?” Slowly the figure looked backwards and the eyes of light shone out once more before raising an arm to Berton and flinging him backwards without any contact. Those eyes... Berton thought.

He did not know how or why, but something other was in Denomark and controlled him. He looked past the figure of Denoamrk who seemed to have his will now fully bent on the rapidly approaching flames. Berton stood up and looked down at his sword once more. It was now his choice. Save all those inside the walls or kill his brother. “What is happening Berton?” The elf Belion shouted from the floor below. Without reply Berton made his way insecurely to the edge of the tower where his friend stood and with one last look at his blade and one last wish he lifted his sword and plunged it into the back of the figure before him. *** Denomarks anxiety grew into breaking point as the voice became once more silent and did not reply once towards his threats and plea’s. He struggled wildly to free himself from invisible bonds and would resent the fact that even though he should escape, where would he the go? He remembered the tales his father had told him as a child of men from the north who could make their spirits fly from their bodies if they wish to be free. Now, he wished he could be one of those men. Suddenly he heard a voice cry from somewhere beyond his body. It was faint and vague, but as he strained his hearing he discovered it was the voice of Berton calling out his name. By the gods no... Not him! Uselessly he screamed and begged Berton to run from the void in which he was trapped. Suddenly he felt a sharp pain that made him shriek out in pain as if a dagger had been thrust into his back and soon it shadowed the worries he had of Berton. He felt himself growing tired and his senses dull. Soon he fell into a deep unconsciousness in which he heard the dying wish of his friend and brother Berton echoing. “Forgiver me.” ***

For a moment nothing happened as the dagger protruded sickeningly from the body in front of him. Then, slowly the pillar of fire retreated from the ground below and Berton felt some sigh of relief deep within him resound. Suddenly the figure turned and faced Berton, the face of Denomark visible with glowing eyes that was not his. Berton stepped backwards slowly. “Denomark! Are you there?” Nothing but a solemn expression answered his question. He noticed that as the tornado slowly shrunk back into the clouds from which it had formed the air around him grew hotter and brighter. Alarmed he looked around as sparks of fire blew around the towers head, coming gradually closer and closer, wooing the air. “Berton! What’s happening?” Belion shouted upwards. Berton’s mind was by now too frantic to comprehend the words and he found himself stumbling back further towards the opening through which he had climbed. As if building towards a climax the figure of his friend bent backwards with strain as the air became unbearably warm and thick and even breathing became painful as each breath burnt your throat and heart. The flames that now formed around them grew even higher until both of the men on the roof were encapsulated in a cocoon of flames. At the height of its threat the flames receded and then burst inwards, closing in on the two figures before exploding outwards once more into the cold night air and dissolving as its energy was lost. *** Still frowning from worry Berton looked at the stairs ready to defend himself, but relaxed when his eyes met the frantic faces of Cealmrin and Eolgrin, both panting from exhaustion. “Belion, where are...” Eolgrin started but was interrupted as a great explosion from above shook the tower sending them all to their backs on the wooden floor. Slowly and insecurely they stood up as the grown of protest from the building subsided. Belion looked up once more through the gap with a expression of fear lining his face. “Berton! Answer me now! Are you alive?” Once

again no answer came and worry forced its way through the elfs calm. “Eolgrin help me up!” With Eolgrin’s help the elf needed no table. The great man merely interlocked his fingers and with a jump and a slight push he pulled himself easily onto the roof. He was disturbed at seeing a empty and burnt set of armour lying on the floor a pace from the gap and he made a large circle around it as he walked on. Catching a glimpse of Denomarks body lying on the floor he rushed over and skidded to his side and checked for wounds or bruises, but found none. Under Denomark was a pile of blood, concerned he rolled the unconscious body over but found no wound or gap in his armor. Beside him lay a sword Belion guessed must be Denomark’s, but where Berton was he did not know as he scanned the rooftop. “Berton?” He shouted. “Where are you?” A few scraping sounds behind him made his heart jump with joy, only to find Cealmrin climbing onto the roof as well. Questioningly Cealmrin looked around until he noticed the body lying next to the hunching Belion as that of Denomark. With alarm in his eyes he started forward, but was soon calmed as Belion shook his head and stated that he was alive and unharmed. “Where is Berton?” Cealmrin asked puzzled. “I do not know... I have not seen him since he came up.” “Maybe...” Cealmrin said softly as he walked to the edge of the tower and looked over. “Let us hope not.” Belion stated gravely, he knew there was no other explanation. As Belion dragged the body towards the waiting arms of Eolgrin along with Cealmrin, Cealmrin noticed the armour was Rhealdonian since they posted no Rhealdonian’s on any of the towers. He helped Belion to lower Denomark’s body down to Eolgrin and then went back to the sword; he picked it up and examined it. At the base of the blade was in scripted in small rough words: “Berton.” Pursing his lips he walked over to the armour in which he now saw black ash leaving behind traces of its former wearer. It couldn’t be. He picked up the helmet and the

fine black soot slowly blew away in the wind. Inside, at the very top of the dome the helmet formed above the head almost identically rough and small words read the name that brought a haunting worry to Cealmrin’s mind. Unnoticed by him Eolgrin and Belion had constantly been calling for him. He muttered that he was coming and then, looking back once more, also climbed into the waiting arms of Eolgrin. *** Gambill looked up worryingly once more at the tower that was now completely flameless. Of all the possibilities there was not one he could account for in his mind that was good or fathomable. Still, he had been entrusted with the gate and if he wanted any chance of finding out what had happened he must keep it until everyone involved came back. So he had stayed and fought alongside the Arithian’s and the Rhealdonian’s that had come in as reinforcements. As he put his staff to a furagk and made him disappear in blue flames with a simple spell, he looked up grimly at the wall where the situation was dire at best. His mind felt taken captive by the chaos around him, the noise of steel on steel and the whirlwind of men made it impossible to think clearly. Farinos, one of the Valours Guard came running towards Gambill, he looked tired and bewildered by the frantic defense he and his men had put up. “Gambill, we must retreat, if we do not draw back now we will have no men left and the Maldourian’s will surely take the city.” A growl made him turn and bring his blade down on a charging furagk that fell to the ground with a lust guttural shout. “No! I shall not go till we find Denomark and the others. I must know what happened, Farions! I fear we may be dealing with more than furagk’s and Maldourian’s.” “But, Gambill! Surely you cannot let us all, including you die? Then it would not matter wether you know or not.” Farinos seemed frustrated and angered by the wizard’s lack of sympathy for his men.

Gambill sighed in irresolution and sorrow. “Very well, Farinos, ready your men, we will wait a while longer. At my signal sound the retreat.” Gambill looked up alarmed at the walls. Finally the defences had given away and from everywhere the shout of retreat was sounded. “We have no choice now, Gambill.” “I know.” Gambill looked down in disappointed. He reached out for Eolgrin with his mind , but found it occupied. “Pull back!” He cried. “The outer wall is lost! Retreat!” His voice boomed throughout the defences as he willed it stronger. He the conjured up a wall of flames where the gate should be and called to Farinos. “Take men and fortify the Feraforg tower, if the Maldourian’s seize it we will be hard pressed to retake it.” Farions nodded and rallied some of the men rapidly retreating up the main road to him. Then, just as Gambill gave up hope and started for his horse, a familiar figure grabbed his attention. His heart sprung with a surge of joy as Eolgrin appeared with the body of a man draped over his broad shoulders. He was followed closely by a panting Cealmrin and bewildered Belion, but no Berton. He waved his hand and the neared him. “Where is Berton?” “I do not know, we will explain la...” “He is dead, burnt to death. And not by any fire on that tower.” Belion and Eolgrin both looked at him in surprise as he strayed off to Farinos and the men assembled around him. Gambill felt a knife of ice enter his heart. “Come, we must not linger her, my wall will not last forever.” They quickly made their way to where the horses stood, Eolgrin put Denomark in the saddle of Fyrton and made sure he would not fall. Then they all mounted and started off past the fast retreating men to the inner city. Sounds of pursuit could now be heard coming from the walls and outside the burning gate. Gambill tried his best to put them from his mind as he pondered what would happen when

Denomark learnt of a friend’s death. And softly and to himself he found himself praying for the first time in many years. *** Slowly Denomark’s eyes wavered in and out of the complete darkness as hazy images of men running faded in and out of existence. In a pathetic excuse for a frown he tried to remember his name, who he was, where he was and found no answers. When his eyes opened a little once more he caught a glimpse of a lone figure that did not run like all the others, but stood looking intently at his own arms. His mouth whispered inaudible words he himself did not know. His eyes closed. Black. They opened once more. The figure was now running down the empty street, cursing and shouting barbarically as he went. His eyes closed. Black. Noises of protest willed the running figure back. They opened once more. The figure was now swinging his blades left and right, killing everything that came close. A shadow from beyond the flames emerged as one of the great beasts the Maldourian’s rode. It trampled everything in its wake, even those that appeared to be on its side. The beast pulled back its head and swung it out, meeting the figure and flinging him through the air against a pillar where a sickening crash brought forth his death. His eyes closed. Black. His eyes opened. Behind them, drifting away, the figure lay slumped against a wall as evil and dark figures run past him, chasing their prey. His eyes closed once more and this time, they did not open again.

Chapter 8: The Great Return.

Denomark awoke with a sudden gasp that made the woman on the bench next to his bed jump in astonishment. By the feeling of warmth from the hearth that gently stroked his skin he could feel he was bare-chested. His torso expanded and receded heavily as he progressively slowed his breathing into a faint whisper of wind. Looking sideways at the startled woman he was surprised too find himself feeling fresh and sharp and, strangely, powerful, unlike the last time he had come to in this bed. He told himself that she must be one of the women that stayed behind to look after the injured, surely they could not have ended the battle already... Unless. “How long have I been here?” He inquired carefully. “Why only what was left of the morning. I’d say about eight hours my lord.” She had a mellow voice that occasionally dwindled to a high tone and upon hearing it you would immediately judge her character as a caring, curious farm wife. Denomark exhaled, not sure if it was a sigh of relief or of worry. What is there to worry about? He asked himself. Then everything came back to him in a sudden rush of anxiety. “Where are my clothes?” He asked, feeling a built guilty of the hurry and sternness of his tone. The woman pointed to the other side of the bed on which clothes were hanged over the back rest. “Breakfast is on this here tray, Mi’lord.” She pointed nervously to the tray covered by a napkin on the bed rest beside her. “I am sorry.” He shook his head as he wiped it down with one hand. “I did not mean to be rude.” “No need for that my lord, you must be thoroughly disturbed after what happened.” She stated as a matter of fact. “What happened?” He squinted his eyes curiously and then looked expectantly at her. “Why losing the wall is all. sir.” Denomark looked at her a while longer, he knew by her voice she was avoiding, or softening the

truth. Still feeling guilty of how he treated her he let it go, but vowed that he would find out soon enough. Disappointed as he was at losing the wall, he took comfort in the fact that it was inevitable. He worried more about the loss of lives and how many were still able to fight. Looking down at his hands as he made his way down a corridor, he was surprised again by how fresh and able he felt. One does not go unconscious for a small reason. As he briskly walked he started to inspect himself quickly. A faint jab of pain caught his attention as he ran his hand over his chest. Suddenly, he stopped as a memory rushed into his mind. All around him fires were blazing while a familiar figure stood behind him, gripping a short sword that protruded from his back. His left leg gave way and he fell against the wall next to him, clutching his chest over his heart as it beat rapidly. For a moment he stood, breathing heavily as he leaned against the cold wall, waiting on his strength to return. What happened? His last memories were of him and Cealmrin, rushing up the tower to save the men trapped in the fire. But who was the familiar man? In a instant, fearful flash one name came softly to his lips. Berton. Urged on by a new sense of dread and anticipation he gained speed as he made his way down a flight of stairs, through another corridor and to the arched doors that led to the hall. He put one hand to each of the doors and pushed them open as he walked in. He was greeted by a din of voices that quickly died down and a silver tray that clattered against the stone floor along with its contents as it was dropped by a servant, now rushing away. “Denomark! Over here.” He looked to the centre of the hall were a short, plum man with a black beard and pointy hat stood next to a tall and broad man. His worry subsided somewhat at the sight of Gambill and Eolgrin, they were hunkered down over the table along with a few others. Craivahn, whom stood looking at Denomark with his arm raised in a beckoning gesture, was the one who called Denomark. He looked suspiciously at the people around him, all of them were men of any rank higher than a normal soldier and they were all

still staring curiously at him, as if they were expecting something from him, like bursting into flames or endangering them all in some way. “No time for staring. Yes, our Lord is alive and well. Now get to your own business.” Craivahn announced and soon the hall was once again filled with a welcome din of voices and movement after the awkward silence. Gambill and Eolgrin finished the conversation they were having and looked up around at Denomark. Both Gambill and Eolgrin looked curiously at him, as if trying to sum up what was going in inside of his mind. “Greetings.” Denomark said as he neared them. “Hello.” The wizard said promptly. “Good morning.” Came the reply from Eolgrin. Denomark stared back at the wizard and Eolgrin, challenging them to say something as his irritation grew. A hand on his shoulder broke his gaze. “Denomark, are you alright?” “Yes, of course.” Denomark hesitated a moment before testing Craivahn. “Why would I not be? What has happened?” “My lord, you were out cold only a moment ago.” Craivahn inclined his head slightly, again Denomark could feel that fearful tone of trying to hide the truth. Looking down hastily, too hastily, at the map of Mudean stretched out below him, he immediately began to talk of the siege and the state of both forces, but every word passed straight through Denomark without notice as his irritation mutated into anger that surged upwards through him and his confusion grew into a milieu of fear and insecurity. He caught Gambills tongue flicking over his lips with worry and how Eolgrin could not help but fidget with the hilt of his sword and his calm gave way. Keeping himself composed as he could he still made his resolution clear.

“What has happened? Craivahn? Gambill? Eolgrin? One of you will answer me now.” “We have lost the wall, many...” Denomark waved a hand to silence him. “You know that is not what I want to hear. Where is Berton and Cealmrin? “Cealmrin is stationed in the Feraforg tower.” Eolgrin answered. “And Berton? What news of him? Is he with Cealmrin?” Denomark asked with regained hope. He looked around expectantly for an answer, but everyone seemed to hide their faces in shame or fear. In this moment Denomark took Gambill by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “Gambill, what happened.” When Gambill looked up he seemed more a worried, ageing man than a wizard and his eyes were showing the faintest moisture of forming tears. “Gambill, please.” The wizard began slowly to reveal the sorrowful truth. “Berton burnt to death at the top of the tower where you were saving the men.” In an everlasting instant Denomark felt his hands and face and feet freeze and pale and go numb at the horrible truth that he had heard. More flashes of the night before flashed through his mind. How could it be? I could not have killed him! His hands were so numb he could no longer feel the wizards shoulders beneath them. Putting a hand against his mind that seemed ablaze with unbelief and horror he stumbled past the wizard before his grief stricken legs could no longer support him and he stumbled to his knees. Not noticing the bruising, nor the scrapes of his fall he pounded the cold stone of the hall with all the force he could muster behind his closed fist. He heard the voice of Craivahn shouting orders behind him, but it was muffled out by his clogged senses. Quickly the hall cleared, leaving only himself, wailing and weeping shamelessly as he cursed the gods, as he cursed life, as he cursed himself, and the other three men, who stood watching him in indecision and sadness. A servant rushed to him with a tray upon which a goblet of wine stood and offered it to Denomark,

who gripped the tray and with the strength only such fearsome emotions can invoke, hurled it through a small, round window in the roof of the hall. A musical tinkle resounded through the hall. And as the moon and the sun had once circled his head a crown of sharded glass and darkness framed his being. *** Ánother bash against the gate awoke Cealmrin from his slumber. He looked sleepily at the men who hurled them self against it in order to keep it from breaking. Since they had entered the Feraforg tower and its small grounds, surrounded by a wall and a moat, they had been under constant assault. The besiegers had built a bridge by throwing debris of stone from the damaged houses into the mote before the gate and have now been hammering on it ever since. Cealmrin grimaced with a strange sense of humour men undergo when they realise how difficult their situation is. The Feraforg tower had an almost endless supply of arrows and other weapons, but a leak in the canal had spilled water in this arsenal and most of the arrows and spears that have been made largely of wood has rotten away beyond use. Without arrows and spears defending the small fort would be difficult, the besiegers can no longer be kept at bay by archers and once inside the gate hand to hand combat with swords and shields is the only option. As he looked up at the sky he smiled at the irony. Finally the dark clouds were steadily receding, letting in some light, a great sign of hope to man, yet no hope was to be seen in their situation. The Maldourians had all but left anything to chance by entrenching themselves within the outer city, if they could not be driven out then the cavalry support from Cavaldri would be of no help and they would have to wait for the infantry forces. Looking at the ghastly circumstances they would have to live in if they were to stay a few days longer, they would all be dead of plague by then. “Cealmrin, we have some news from the inner city. They sent us a hawk with a message.” Cealmrin looked up straight into the face of his companion Farinos, whom seemed to have the same doubts

as Cealmrin. The Valours Guardsman with his dark brown hair and ever present stubble had a strong face, featuring a straight chin and cheekbones and a strong brow. Though usually neat, he looked unkempt and robbed of sleep. He jumped as yet another bash rocked the gate. “I’m coming, help me up.” Farinos eagerly offered his hand and pulled as Cealmrin gripped it. He took a moment to steady himself as all the blood rushing from his brain to his body made him nauseous and light headed. Chuckling softly Farinos mused him somewhat. “I told you to sleep inside.” “Three hours is hardly sleep Farinos, the men are weak, when those bastards break through they will need a leader.” “All the same, you would die soon fighting in this state.” Cealmrin grimaced at acknowledgement in the truth of Farinos’s words as he felt his body struggling to climb the steps that lead to the top of the Feraforg tower. “How many men do we have, Farinos?” “Five hundred and thirty seven able men.” Farions paused a moment and then promptly added. “I’ve told you that five times now Cealmrin.” Cealmrin ignored the last statement, refusing to validate his weak mental state in shame. “How many in the inner city?” “I do not know, many more than we have, they also have all the injured men. Ahh! Here we are.” Colnas looked up as Farinos creaked open a plain wooden door that stood on a small piece of flat stone at the top of the stairs. Two black torches, mounted to the walls, burnt steadily on opposite sides of the door. “After you.” Farinos gestured with his hand and Cealmrin entered slowly, scanning the room as he came inside. Three arched windows were spread evenly along the inside of the room, a small hawk stood on a horizontal pole supported by a vertical beam, a

small note tied to his feet using a reddish ribbon. Cealmrin walked over calmly, not wanting to scare the bird, and slowly loosened the note while the bird ruffled is feathers and picked at itself. He opened the letter slowly as he made his way to the simple wooden table and stool at which Denomark had sat almost a week ago. Denomark has been informed of Bertons death. He is not well, thus we know not when our plan shall come into being. We have two thousand men, of whom five hundred are injured. Craivahn, Eolgrin and myself are planning an assault. We look forward too receive news of your condition. Gambill... He did not expect much more than he has read. Although he did not know much of the relationship between Denomark and Berton he knew that the death of Berton would not be taken well, especially considering the strange circumstances of his death. He asked for a candle and on receiving one from Farinos put the note to fire and after watching it burn for a few moments, cast it out the window. “Well? What news?” Farinos’ voice was almost pleading for some hopeful news. Cealmrin shook his head disappointedly. “No news that will help us now. Denomark has not taken the death of his friend well and the wizard seems uncertain whether their plans will take place.” He sighed and looked down at the bottle of ink and the rolls of maps and papers covering one side of the table. The quill lay to the right of the bottle, leaving a black blotch on the wooden surface. “I fear, for now, we are on our own. We must make our own plans for survival. These men have fought too long and too hard to die now, cornered, to be put out like dogs in a cage of stone.” “We have no way out, the water from the canal has filled all the secret tunnels and passages from here to the inner city for certain and the Maldourians are surrounding us like bees to a hive.”

“I know Farinos, I know.” And in that moment Cealmrins unyielding courage failed as his belief in the power of mere man started to waver. *** Sitting in the simple chair in his simple room with the hearth burning slowly somewhere beside him Denomark watched the breaking clouds releasing some sun unto the world as he was kept prisoner by his own feelings of grief and injustice. He had come all this way, went through everything and at what felt like the very end he had lost something he cannot replace. It went beyond losing a friend, a brother. The loss had wrenched from him the only real bond he still had with Rahnen and the memories that went with it. He was slowly fingering the golden amulet shaped like a leaf and encrusted by a round ruby, set in the cleft that ran through the amulet. His eyes stung and the skin around them was red and moist. The memories that filled his mind fed his tears and every now and then a single tear would roll slowly down his cheek and drop to his shirt. Deep down inside him he knew that something must be done, but each time that his legs would try to pick him up another memory would pull him down. Caught in this unending circle of mourning no one saw much hope in him and he slowly faded out of memory in his lone chamber. Food would be brought and picked up once more in the same condition, his clothes washed and nothing more. Living in visions of the past draws the road of time from under you and soon you are a straggler in the endless void of the human mind. Countless times his chamber would became a field of green and yellow with a clear blue sky with a small village in the background whose chimneys leaked small streams of grey into the sky. Even more times did the ghost of Leyana swirl round him and slowly caress his face with the tips of her fingers and each time he would notice even her less and less as the wall around his heart grew and grew. ***

Cealmrin disappointedly started to close the door behind Farinos as his companion strode out the room after him. “Yes Farinos, if support from Cavaldri does not come soon we will be undone. No food and after a few days no clean water.” His mind already slowly started to except the thought of death easier. He was nothing if not a true soldier and true soldiers die for their country or their cause, but if he was to die it would not be of famine or hunger, it would be by leading men in one last charge: To death or to glory. A sudden flutter of wings in the room grabbed his attention just before he slid the door shut and he stiffened his arm. He looked sidelong at Farions who also seemed puzzled. “They couldn’t have, not this fast. What....” Cealmrin interrupted himself as comprehension filled the eyes of Farinos as well as his own. Off course! He flung the door open and burst inside and behold! On the same wooden perch sat another hawk, darker in colour than the one before with a white stomach and black and brown back. It squawked as Cealmrin stormed in, but did not shy away when he reached for the anticipated note tied to its leg. This time he did not waste time by sitting at the desk first, but unfolded the letter rapidly and read its contents. “Who is it from? What does it say?” Farinos asked pleadingly of Cealmrin with his hand stretched out towards him. He looked up at his old friend with an unmistakeable gleam in his eye. “They are here! Farinos, we are saved!” From far outside the small room in the Feraforg tower, outside the walls and the moat that surrounded it, even outside the city of Mudean, from across the field before its walls a horn was heard, a horn that’s song carried with it a message of hope and glory. For this horn is Arthane, one of the four great horns which was crafted at the beginning of the new age, one for each land of the Marithians. Cealmrin ran to the window at looked out on a glorious dawn where the sun reflected of spears and armour of men who ride to battle and towards victory.

“By the Gods, Farinos. We are not out done yet. Make ready the men and wait for me. I shall be damned if we will cower in here while our kinsmen are at war!” *** A low hum that rose around him brought Denomark back to life and from inside he could feel some of his sorrows break. It sounded like a horn, but one of power and majesty that Denomark had not yet heard. As he looked out the window before him he saw the last of the clouds break away before the light and the emergence of a new dawn, one not seen in a long time by the defenders of Mudean, unfurl. Slowly he stood up and made his way to the window. He gently pulled the thin curtains wider apart. The warmth and joy of the sun overwhelmed him and as that glorious horn blew once more the bulk of his sorrow broke and faded like melting ice in water. The suns beams shown brightly on rank upon rank of armoured men that made their way proudly on horse to the walls of Mudean. Such glory and hope was captured in this one moment that for a time all the wrongs and sorrows could be forgotten and the future looked upon. Denomark heard a door burst open behind him without looking back. “Denomark, they have come! And they are going to assault the city immediately, luckily the Maldourians had completely destroyed the gate! We need...” “Ready everyone, Ydin, I’m coming.” Unbeknownst to Denomark Ydin gave a smile and left the room in a solemn understanding. Sorrow can not be cast aside in a moment, but it can be forgotten for a while. Readying himself for battle, Denomark slowly armoured himself. Berton shall be in this very moment avenged. He shall not have died in vain, he had said Denomark for a reason, a reason which he must now validate or carry in shame for the rest of his days. He made his way purposefully to the plaza before the hall not looking anywhere but at his feet that rhythmically carried him to his men,

only looking up as he reached the gate like doors of the hall as they were swung open before him by two men of the Valour’s Guard. Again the sun faced him and bathed him in a holy light as he made his way to the head of the stairs all the men stood up and looked upon him in awe. A few cries of his name went up and many secret whispers made their way through the force. Denomark waited for silence and then poured in his words all the emotion that he had felt for the last days: “Long has been the night around us! Long have we suffered and lost and grieved for those we have lost! But now, as the sun rises once more upon this fortress we must also usher in a new dawn within ourselves! One of glory, one of good, but mostly one of victory!” With that a cry like the shaking of the earth reverberated throughout the city and upon his mighty horse Denomark led the charge into their conquered city. Soon they were joined by the relieved men of the Feraforg, whom stormed the enemy from the gate. Crushed from two sides the Maldourians and the furagks put up a desperate defence in the middle of the city, but it was no match for the wrath and vengeance they faced and soon they resorted to suicide, no Maldourian or furagk was left alive as they put their fate in their own bloody hands. Denomark watched the carnage around him and as he paused to look up at the heavens a wind stirred up from the north and blew through the streets and in this wind a small note was blown from a broken building and drifted down slowly towards Denomark, who caught it in its descent. He lifted up his blade and rored in victory, joined by Rhealdfonian’s and Arithian’s alike, who were now united after thousands of years under one banner. *** After Denomark met with Colnas and the other Arithians within the chain of command and had greeted his own returned men, he had retreated to the statue of Ghorinfon to stand under its shadow and wade in his thoughts. For him too much was lost to celebrate this

victory by drink and laughter and he had much to think of. The flashes he had of that night on the tower when Berton was killed he had condemned as falsehoods of his mind. They were too fantastical and also made too horrific thoughts all too plausible. With the siege of Mudean broken and his feet free to take him where and how he pleases he could not help but wonder at a return to Rhealdonê, to save them from the fate that had almost befallen Mudean. Another part of him wanted no more to do with the country that had tried to kill him and his men shamelessly, who had cost him his family, that very country that had imprisoned him and almost assassinated him, murdering Beanon in the deed. He also felt as if his heart was too heavy to push himself to action. The coldish wind flickered his hair playfully and he kept his eyes open in slits in a half sleep. A slowly approaching set of footsteps did not distract him from his peace until the soft voice of Gambill sought his attention. “You should be celebrating, you have achieved a great victory.” “Do not be coy, Gambill, you know why I do not celebrate.” Denomark remarked carelessly. Gambill frowned his bushy brows and stroked his beard. “Indeed I do, yet you can certainly not blame me for trying.” He paused a moment and rummaged for words. “You know Denomark, you are not held unwillingly in your grief. You have the choice to overcome it.” “I need to want to overcome it and for that I need a reason. It seems as though death follows me: Hammelhor, the people of Rahnen, Feran, Beanon, Ber... and how many are still to come?” He had to suppress a choking lump of sorrow at the mere mention of Berton’s name. Gambill moved in next to Denomark and folded his arms on the golden rail that ran in a circle around the hill of stone. “Death follows us all. Sooner or later it taps you on the shoulder and then those closest to you feels it following them. We must remember that death has no preferences, no rhythm or plan. It comes and

goes at its own will and we are subject to it. Do not over think it or try to resist. The most we can do for those deceased is honour their passing and enjoy our lives, they would not want us to be decayed by our own grief for them.” When no response came from Denomark, Gambill decided to play a dangerous card. “I know Berton would have you enjoy your days.” Denomark only sniffed and turned to lean with his back against the rail and Gambill could see the tears glisten in the last light of day just before Denomark wiped them away. Laying a hand on his shoulder Gambill looked and smiled caringly at the young man. “I know of death more than most as you might guess. Recently I have witnessed the loss of a great mentor and friend. They say the greatest die first. I think the greatest is still to come.” Gambill nudged Denomark on the shoulder and strolled of with his hands held behind his back and whistled a slow and moving tune. Denomark watched the wizard move away with a sense of awe. The wizard had an aura of a seasoned man who had learned to accept life. Before the wizard tunred to move down the stairs he looked back on Denomark once more. “I think we both know you have more to live for.” Gambill gave a last sly wink and then moved off, continuing the same whistle. For what was not the first nor last time Denomark reached within his coat and drew the golden amulet that he and Leayna shared and fingered it as he leaned on the rail and looked over the field of Mudean and the partially ruined city. It was as these thoughts of home raged war in his mind that he remembered the small letter that he had caught fluttering down in the wind, he slowly took the burnt and crushed piece of paper from inside his vest and looked it over before placing it back in its place and after thinking a while longer, left. Promising he would read it tonight in his chamber. Taking care in opening it so that he won’t damage it more in its fragile state he softly flattened the paper with his hands on the desk he had put in his chamber. The paper had a date written at

the top, 24 Winterfall 1035. Today was the thirtieth of that same month and year which meant this entry was written the day before Beanon’s murder. The hand was rough, yet neat and legible, just seemingly out of practice. 24 Winterfall 1035 At the time that this is read, I, Dorin, son of Deavran, will have either failed my family or have failed myself. I write this letter as a final account of my life so that the honourless deed I am now still unwillingly compelled to commit can be explained and so my family may not lose their honour on my behalf. A week ago my home, the city of Findeas, was besieged. So vast and fierce were those we faced that the battle lasted mere minutes. I had run home to safeguard my family. Everywhere fires burned, yet the air around me was cold, cold as the frost in winter on the grapes. As I entered my home a blow to my head left me unconscious and darkness filled my senses as I heard my families screams fade away. When I woke, drying blood covered half my face and I could hear my wife and daughter and son whimpering and sobbing. I felt for my blade, but all armour and weapons was stripped from me, I tried to struggle, but my weak body would not comply. Hopelessly I was carried by the cruel and unyielding furagk to a hill the soil was blasted and burnt and all but dead. Here I met true evil... Their leader stood tall and broad, clearly neither man nor furagk. His armour was made of dark iron and was forged in all the cruelty one could imagine. At first, I refused to obey; the old ways die hard... But, they are no match for a mans heart. He tortured my daughter, her screams contorted my very foundations and I could not help but bow to his will. I received one command only: “Kill Denomark, son of Denmin.” His voice was soft, yet penetrating and deep. If the dead could speak they would not sound as malice full. “Your reward will be the safe return of your family. Your debt would be their eternal suffering. Wash your

hands in the blood of your fellow man or in the blood of your loved ones. Obey me! Obey the Hand of the Dark Lord!” They armoured me in a dead soldiers armour, gave me a horse and sent me on my way. In my terror I imagined shrieks of pain tearing through the black night as the flaming city slowly melted away behind me. The thought of my dreadful dead fills my mind with rabid snakes. Guilt is my greatest obstacle. I am not proud of what I have done... Neither do I seek forgiveness nor sympathy. I only wish that you know a mans impurities is what makes us great. What better to fight for than love? Denomark let the note go with a dismaying sense of comprehension quivered through him. The man was so consumed by longing he could not even recognise the screams behind him. His wife and children were surely murdered as soon as he was out of sight. Suddenly some guilt troubled his mind as he remembered the hate he had harvested for Rhealdoné and for this man so long and somewhere deep inside, he knew he would have done the same. Now the question burned evermore potently in his mind: To save Rhealdoné or leave them to their own fate. He could not decide alone, more peoples lives depended on saving a nation whom, only weeks before, had tried to destroy them. As he looked down at the paper once more an urge to be rid of the Maldourians and the furagks boiled up inside him, until something burst and he knew what he wanted to do. Rushing down the circular stairs with his hand sliding over the marble rail he plotted muttering what he wanted to say. A meeting would have to be called. As private as possible; with only himself, Gambill, Eolgrin, Craivahn, Cealmrin, Colnas, Gruwaith and Ydin attending. For the first time he could feel himself slipping into the role of someone who was important and needed to make decisions and although the ever present loss of Berton still brooded in the back of his mind he knew he could not mourn forever. His mood was still mostly sullen and distraught, but he no longer secluded

himself inside the past to escape the present. Nevertheless he avoided his company of Rhealdonians, not wanting to make eye contact or talk to them alone, feeling that they all secretly despised him for what they must think have done. As he reached the small, gate like doors that led from the hall to the corridors and chambers beyond he pushed them open slowly and entered the bustling hall, filled with laughter and joy as many men celebrated the victory. This time even his presence did not do much harm to the atmosphere though some of the noise died down. He could see Colnas sitting in the throne, enjoying a glass of wine. Gambill and Eolgrin, were as ever bent down over a map, talking and pointing fingers as if planning some adventure. “Denomark! Come, sit with me.” Colnas called to him from the throne and Denomark made his way up the short flight of stairs to take a seat in a elaborately carved wooden chair that stood next to the throne. As Denomark looked into the eyes of the man on the throne next to him the same feeling of recognition came to him, but he discarded it hesitantly. After all where could they possibly have met? The man seemed in his late fifities with an intelligent, but kind face and hair as white as snow. He had a rough stubble running along his chin and cheeks and his hair hung at shoulder length. “Good evening my lord.” “No need for that! It seems we are almost equal by now, Denomark and so my name would be sufficient.” Denomark ignored the compliment and continued with his request. “I’m arranging a meeting, we have much to decide.” He paused a moment, only now remembering they must have a place to meet. “We shall meet in Beanons old office at the eleventh hour. I will get the others and you may bring those you wish to attend.” Colnas seemed to think for a moment. “Hmm I was hoping for more of a rest, I’m old and tired, but I will be there.”

“Thank you, I do not wish to discomfort, yet it is very important. I shall take my leave of you now.” Denomark slowly rose from his seat, but before he could stand straight Colnas gripped him softly by the wrist. “I have heard of your loss. I’m afraid Beanon was like a brother to me as well. Therefore I grieve with you, for I know your loss. But do not let it guide you, Denomark.” Denomark could merely incline his head meekly and give Colnas a wavering smile before his arm was freed and he made his way to Gambill and Eolgrin. After they accepted his invitation he made his way to Cealmrin and Colnas and then to the group of Rhealdonians he recognised as his company, whom stood and sat in silence at the tables in the far right corner of the hall. As he closed in he could feel the tension in the air mounting as every expression became more nervous and grim. Trying his best to heed it none he made his way to the middle of them. “Gruwaith, Ydin.” He said as he looked around at the faces. A hand at the back and a cry of “Yes” alerted him to Ydin who slowly made his way past the men to Denomark just as Gruwaith brushed past Doldar, whom had already consumed half a pitcher of ale, and made his way next to Denomark. “I need both of you to meet me in the late office of Beanon. We may be returning to Rhealdoné.” Both of them looked confused and unsure but agreed with a pat on the shoulder. As he walked away he could hear the voice of Doldar: “No grave for our Berton. His parents will be shamed.” Again he could feel the overwhelming sorrow well up inside of him, but ignored it and walked off. Denomark sat on the chair that accompanied the desk on which all the maps lay, with his hand supporting his chin as he leaned on the armrest. He wondered how he should convince them to do something that he did not know if he wanted it done in the first place. Footsteps just beyond the door made him sit up straight and interrupted his train of thought. Shortly afterwards Conas entered the room seeming strangely jovial and very curious as to what is to take place. Denomark was surprised to find he did not

bring any advisers with him and in his often quiet manner he simply greeted Denomark with a gesture and waited for a reply before walking around the office, looking at some of the maps and books contained on the shelves. It did not take long for Gruwaith and Ydin to enter as well. Colnas seemed silently amused by the way they bowed deeply to him. Denomark looked at the door as someone knocked on it and soon after Cealmrin stepped through. He bowed deeply with his fist over his heart at Colnas, whom acknowledged him with a slight gesture of the hand. After inclining his head to Denomark he moved over to the opposite corner of the room from where Ydin and Gruwaith stood. Ydin seemed to feel awkward as if he was out of place or even worse; in someone else’s. Not long after Celmarin Gambill and Eolgrin also arrived, keeping up their habit of being fashionably late. Eolgrin stood by the door and Gambill sat down on the chair next to Colnas, both of the elderly men inclining their heads to each other. Denomark roughly wiped his face down with his hand and looked up at those who have joined the meeting. “Thank you for coming Colnas, I promise I will not keep you for long, but I have a very serious matter to discuss.” “No trouble.” Colnas waved his hand dismissively. “What is it you want to discuss?” “The future of Rhealdoné.” Denomark paused shortly to examine the impact of his statement, but both Cealmrin and Colnas kept their composure unreadable. “As strong as they might be they have suffered much, most of all the people. I dislike the views and actions of our previous superiors as much as I would imagine the rest of you do, yet I do not believe leaving their woman and children and innocent men to slaughter will justify what they have done in the past. It’s not the people who deserve to suffer.” Denomark pointed to the north of Rhealdoné on the map. “Countless raids by furagks from the Hallowood have forced all the northern inhabitants to seek shelter in Duranhail where king Thurdan and all his forces are now also trapped.” He ran his finger along the rivers that funnelled out from both sides of Duranhail

and then along the stretch of land from which the Maldourians are moving north. “From what we know of our culture in war they will not defend Duranhail in a siege, but move out of its walls and face the Maldourians hand to hand in a mounted charge. They will not make it.” Denomark kept himself leaning over the desk staring intently at the face of Colnas who seemed in a restless battle with his own thoughts, his forehead lined with deep wrinkles, chin in his hand. “That is all tragic Denomark, but let us not forget who savagely and ignorantly tried to besiege us when their own borders were under threat. It was reckless at best. In these times one is wise to look out for ones self. We cannot afford to weaken ourselves by saving our enemies by destroying theirs.” Denomark sighed and looked down, he knew that Rhealdoné’s actions would haunt it one day. “I will understand if you would not risk it, yet, I must go and those that will follow me I will gladly except. I will not let the innocent pay for decisions that was not theirs.” “Hold, Denomark.” Colnas looked up from his ponderous silence. “We harbour no ill wishes towards the people of Rhealdoné, but this is a decision that needs clear thinking. Especially when accounting for Rhealdoné’s previous behaviour.” “We may be stubborn, Colnas, but we honour our debts and those who have willingly helped us. For all our faults we are not unappreciative. Even king Thurdan will be bound by your help. If only to force a peace. What Cealmrin said is true, but if we are to stand a chance we will need as many allies as can be made. I know that their word may not mean much to you, but it means something to me.” “You have made up your mind?” Colnas looked speculatively at Denomark. “No... Yes, yes.” Denomark silently cursed himself for wavering. “Yes, I have, I will go to them, although that does not mean I will join them afterwards.”

Colnas thought a moment and then looked at Gambill and Eolgrin. “And you, Gambill? What do you suggest?” Gambill looked from Denomark to Colnas and back again. “Rhealdonians are men of honour, all be it misdirected. They do not deserve to perish yet. If my fears are corrected in a journey I must soon undertake we will need them in the near future.” “Very well. Denomark, I will come with you and bring as many men as can be spared.” Denomark could see Cealmrin tense and lift his arm in protest, but sagged back against the wall. Colnas often sounded persuadable and open, but from his tone of voice no argument would overthrow his decision. Denomark could do nothing but bow his head deeply in thanks. He looked at Ydin and Gruwaith. Ydin seemed relieved and happy while Gruwaiths stiff posture could also be seen to loosen up. Colnas replied to Denomarks gratitude by shaking his hand and announcing his departure toward a deep slumber. Cealmrin followed him closely out of the chamber. With quick good byes Gruwaith and Ydin also made their way to the door, leaving only Eolgrin and Gambill behind with Denomark still seated silently behind the desk. “They cannot look me in the eye.” Denomark stated solemnly. “They will never understand.” Gambill had lifted himself from his stool and strolled to one of the bookshelves covering the walls looking over the backs of volume upon volume. “If they do not understand it that does not mean they will not forgive.” Gambill pulled a neatly bound book of dark brown from the shelf and fluttered the pages through his fingers. “For them to do that you must lead by example.” “Who have I to forgive? Have I not done enough to now save those who almost killed us?

“I was talking about yourself.” Denomark now realised one very strong, underlying reason for his return to Rhealdoné: To wash the blood off his own hands by forgiving those who trespassed against him. “I just wish I knew what happened that night.” “We all wish that sometimes, but in this case it seems we will never know.” Gambill slid the book back into place and turned to give Denomark a caring and sympathetic smile. “I have lived long and hard and death is a blade you cannot blunt, yet you can armour yourself by acknowledging it and accepting it.” “Why must I accept things when they can be changed for the better?” “Because, Denomark, thinking like that will gnaw at you till you bleed to death.” Denomark looked down as injustice and revenge against an unknown foe raged inside him. He felt like he had the methods and not the means or maybe the other way around. Looking for a change of subject Denomark asked the question that was burning inside of him since that day a ragged old wizard and dreary Esgrothian stumbled on poor horses into the gates of Mudean. “Where were you before the siege? When you and Eolgrin returned here looking as if you were present at the end of the world?” Gambill sighed and turned once more to Denomark, leaving the books in piece from his eager fingers. His eyes sagged and his posture talked of hopelessness and worry. “I guess I do owe you some explanation for our disappearances. Yet, I must ask you to keep whatever I’m going to tell you a secret Denomark, even some of our friends cannot be trusted to know all.” Gambill put his hands together and paced to the other side of the room while Eolgrin followed his movements with a cool gaze. Still Denomark was in awe of the unflinching trust the two had in each others judgement.

“After talking more closely to Foren of the approaching Maldourian army combined with rumours of turmoil in the north and east I had more than enough reason to fear a greater dread than invading, vengeful Maldourians. The storm he described following them also supported the claim of darker forces being at work. Naturally, I and Eolgrin decided that this matter deserved to be looked upon more closely. We planned to sneak into the Maldourian encampment with as much stealth as my skill in magic can provide. The worst I suspected was a dark wizard or witch, an emissary of the Dark Lord sent to guide the Maldourians.” Gambill seemed to give a distracted giggle that could just as well have been a cough or grunt. “Imagine my surprise, and fear, when I found members of the Counsel of Ruin, their leader too, leading the force. As we fled a small careless moment when my magic failed me alerted the weaker one, Ragkin I believe, to our presence.” Gambill paused and continued as if absorbed in another frame of time. “I tried to resist him, tried to stand and fight while Eolgrin held off the furagks. He was so strong, recklessly so. If he had been trained to use his power skilfully...” Gambill shuddered as he turned around. “I thought us outmatched, like fish in a shallow pond ready to be caught, Mudean being our pond. We do not have a likeness in power to resist them and yet, some hope came to us.” By the way Gambill looked at Denomark it made him feel uneasy as if Gambill was expecting to see some heroic man who would save the world with one swipe of his mythical blade. “Me?” Denomark blurted out unbelievingly. Gambill turned to the shelf once more and ran his finger curiously along the back of the books. “That fateful night on the burning tower you faced both of them. Between them they must have the power to rule the world, Denomark and yet, by some miracle you not only returned to us alive, but killed one and drove off the other.” Gambill tapped on a book and gave a sigh of achievement as he took the book from the shelf and started paging slowly through it. “Do not ask me how I know this, but I knew at the

moment that the earth shook and the great tower of Gorinfon fell that a great power was released onto this world.” Gambill stopped at a page that seemed of interest and ran his finger down it, reading as he talked. “It seemed in desperation of your situation that you tapped into the well of power that brings magic into this world and absorbed an enormous amount, far greater than that of any member of the Counsel of Ruin, maybe even greater than that of the Dark Lord.” “Magic!?” Denomark felt a feeling not far from outrage and disgust. “How can I have magic?” Disbelief raced through his mind and irritation built up at the calmness in Gambills voice, making him kick harder against the information he thought impossible to absorb. “Gambill, your talking of a farm boy using magic and a Dark Lord and a Counsel of Ruin. Things I know nothing of as if it happens daily!” “Calm down, Denomark.” Gambill walked over slowly to the desk his eyes still fixed on the book in his hands, only briefly looking up into Denomarks burning eyes. “You will not know this, but power, or magic as you refer to it, is a gift given to a select few at birth. A gift that does not only promise a life of wonder and mystery, but one of responsibility and care. Never before have I heard of a man, or woman, who received this gift later in life.” Gambill let the book drop open before Denomark and turned his back to him. Denomark looked at the pages before him from behind his fingers and slid his other hand through his hair. So much has happened in so little time and still there is more. “This still does not prove that I can use magic or power, call it what you like!” “That is were you’re wrong, Denomark. The night you received your power I thought I must be mistaken when I felt the birth of what seemed to be someone with the power. Yet it felt different, more powerful and as if it had a mind of its own, it felt dangerous.” The wizards eyes cringed and he frowned worriedly as he spoke. “Nonetheless, a power wielder or Timneras as we

refer to those far more powerful than the average wielder had been made and not born.” Denomark felt himself slowly sinking into a void, his eyes stared at nothing as wide as they were, he saw but he did not perceive. “Even now I feel your presence. Although your power lies festooned deep inside of you: It is there, but it can not be ignored.” As distracted as he was there was one question he could not ignore. “So that is what killed, Berton?” After a pause in which no one spoke and in which Denomark could feel his eyes warm uncomfortably and start to twitch he spoke again. “So it was me.” Gambill sighed and let his head droop. “It was not you Denomark, it was something else inside of you. It was too strong and you could not have stopped it.” “I want it taken away.” Denomark felt anger and disgust build up inside him. “I don’t want it! It made me a monster!” His soul felt corrupted by this filth inside of him. “It cannot be taken away! Especially not from someone with such a vast store of it! Denomark, embrace it. You now have something that could sway the war in our favour! Do not cast aside so quickly what you cannot understand!” Denomark felt defeated, not only had he lost the closest thing to a brother he had, but now he had to foster the very thing that undid him, he could hear no lie in the wizards voice and knew that he himself had no way to remove it. “Denomark, please try to understand.” The wizard looked, frowing with worry and care at Denomark. “I can teach you to control and use this power for good.” “No, I will not use it.” Denomark shook his head slowly to himself. He stood up and made his way to the door. “I will bear it, only because I do not have the means to be rid of it.”

As Denomark stumbled away he felt his knees go week and he braced himself against the wall for support. His forehead broke into a fever and cold sweat covered his body. Pulling his hair as he ran both hands through it he struggled to comprehend what he had done. He saw the figure of a woman move into the corridor. She looked thin and even her posture could only be described as pale with grief. “Aurelia...” Denomark uttered and she looked at him, her eyes red with tears, as she saw him a whimper escaped, followed by sobs as she ran away from him. He remained against the wall. The stone was cold on his skin and the torch, burning behind him heated up his neck eerily. Berton was dead. It was as much his fault as it is anyone’s. He would not even receive the final honour of a burial. His parents would mourn the loss of their son without consolation. He looked down at his hands. Once he was a farm boy, once he had no dreams beyond serving his country by way of arms. It seemed now as if the world was laughing away all his previous aspiration. Magic. The power to do what he pleases and he cannot use it, or will not. If it can take away life can it not also give it? Denomark frowned as enormous thoughts raced through his mind and he stormed into the room where Gambill and Eolgrin still talked. The both looked up in surprise as the door burst open. “You said I was strong?” “More than you can imagine.” “If I can use my power to take life away can I not also use it to give life?” “That depends how you want to give this life.” Then Gambill sighed as he came to understand Denomarks excitement. “You’re not able to give Berton back the breath of life Denomark, I’m afraid even if your powers were endless it would not be possible.” Denomark shrunk back in disappointment, he felt a fool for arousing such unquestionable hope from a quick fancy.

“The best I can do is to remake his body, though it would take a store of power far greater than my own.” The statement was obviously made to derive some reaction and Denomark immediately knew what he meant. “You could use my powers to recreate his body from the ashes?” Denomark looked up with a strange comprehension on his face like I child learning something he would never have thought possible did actually exist. “Its worth a try.” The wizard smiled encouragingly at Denomark. “I will sleep on it.” He replied and then slowly slid out the room with his hand trailing the doorway as he left. Gambill turned to Eolgrin who could not help but smile. “We could not have gotten a better man to receive such a gift, even if we had to find one ourselves.” “Maybe the gods has not left us completely. Still, it remains a cruel way to award such power. I hope that when he sees the good he is capable of he will change his mind.” As Gambill said this he lit his pipe that he removed from some hidden pocket inside his robe and sat down on the other corner of the desk, smoking heartily. “I am afraid to leave his side. Are you sure it is wise to go? We may both die and he will need more counsel and guidance than we have provided thus far.” Gambill blew out a puff of smoke and then manipulated it with power to form a sun, not unlike the one on Denomarks banners, which quickly dissolved into the air. “He will be alright. If more members of the Counsel of Ruin has been sent they will be with the Madlourians in Dulair-Mon. Besides, we must know for sure what we are up against, and who! Do not fret, Xearon Hûr will join us in our expedition.” Eolgrins eyes widened. “I’m honoured, not many chances we have been granted to travel with such company!”

“They have seen the situation fit to award it the utmost care.” “And here I thought that the counsellors of Vernidal where lazy, old, greedy men who would rather turn away from trouble.” “They have their exceptions. Do not be so quick to judge, Eolgrin, that’s one lesson you should have learned by now. a few weeks ago he was just an average, Rhealdonian farm boy whose dreams did not go beyond being appointed as a captain. Now he is the leader of his own army and Arch Duke of Mudean. Maybe, soon, the saviour of Esgroth-Marith. One thing is for sure, Eolgrin. We live in a time of great events and I will be there to guide him.” *** Denomark knelt by the empty suite of armour, his grim eyes looking over the black ashes which have been depleted to almost nothing and wondered if Gambill could do what he said he would. When he could look no longer he turned and stood facing the fields before the walls of Mudean and Gambill took his place. Already the first ranks of men were exiting the fort on their way to Duranhail where this part of the war, at least, would be won or loss. Slowly the snake of armoured men crawled over the fields, all of them on horses. They would meet the infantry a few miles to the north and then march west, straight to the passage between the two rivers that led to the field of Cormalé. Denomark heard Gambill ask for his hand and Denomark gave it. As if singing a deep and slow tune the wizard started to chant slowly and then louder as the song progressed. A strange sensation seemed to form in his bones, as deep as his marrow ripples of power seemed to run through him and it made his hair stand on end and his skin form pocks. It seemed to replenish his body and free his mind, he felt as though he would be able to jump of this tower and survive the fall, as if he could best any animal or creature on this earth, as if he could: rule the world. He could not help but look. Below Gambills hand a pool of brilliant light as pure as snow on mountains swam in the shape of a man, it pulsed and pulsed; each pulse seeming to be stronger than the first. The wizards chant now

seemed to fill the basin of hills in which Mudean stood. Slowly the light receded and its movements slowed. A nose, then a mouth and eyes, forhead, cheeks, neck, hands was left behind as the light faded till it was completely gone. Denomarks’ breath caught and he kneeled down hastily. He brushed the mans cheek with the back of his hand, took his hand in his own. The warmth of the body belied its death, but this time Denomark kept his hope in check. Some hope, some joy filled him in the form of consolation and he choked once on his own tears. Gambill gestured to the men carrying the leather stretcher and they quickly loaded the body, surprised faces hidden by their helmets. It took him a while to stand up again, but when he did he emcraced the wizard fiercely. No words were needed. “There now boy, your friend can be departed of in honour now.” He said as he slowly pushed Denomark away and held him by the shoulders at arms length. “This may come as a shock and a particularly unwelcome one, but if I could have it any other way I would rather stay.” “Your leaving?” Denomark could not help the disappointment in his voice. “Yes, regrettably we both have a vital journey to make. As I’ve said, since that night in the Maldourian camp our situation has changed drastically and not for the best. For once and for all we must know what we are facing.” “But what about the power? I do not know how to use it! What if what happened that night...” “It will not happen again. Be calm Denomark. If you do not use it, it can do no harm.” The wizard spoke with genuine care and concern which eased Denomark somewhat. “When will you return?” Somehow he knew that question would do right without the when by the expression on the wizards face.

“I do not know, look to the east.” He said and pointed his old, chubby hand over the range of mountains. “However if we do not return to you within the month, do not lose hope. I have arranged for one to teach you in case of my departure.” Denomark was saddened by the acceptance in the wizards voice, it was as if he did not care to die or live. He patted Denomark on the cheek before turning and making his way to the ladder, disappearing below the burnt and broken wood. Eolgrin also walked up and patted him on the back and Denomark found he could only greet him with a grim smile. He waited, gave them time as he stood and looked over the field. All of the men, Rhealdonian and Arithian, has already gathered on the field, awaiting their leaders. A cry arose after a small while as Gambill and Eolgrin flew past them into the horizon. *** Denomark inclined his head to Colnas. “If you cannot fight you must fall back now.” The older man inclined his head with a smile in return and started riding back past the ranks of men. Before Denomark the mass of Maldourians were drawing together once more, realising the threat from both directions. They looked like gold and purple ants, scurrying into position to protect their queen. Farther way, on the other side of the Cormalé stood the army of Rhealdoné: Thousands of men on horseback, ready to charge. Breathing heavily Denomark took in a few last moments of peace. His army consisted of Arithian infantry, flanked on the left by Rhealdonian cavalry and on the right by Arithian cavalry. “Sign the march.” At his command Honin put up the black banner with the golden sun and waved it in the wind so that it danced gracefully. Seperate cries arose from each group and soon they were all marching side by side, nearing the Maldourians. From across the field of battle a horn was blown and the Rhealdonian army started forward in a slow trot. “Cavalry charge!” Denomark commanded as loud as he could and soon the ground shook as thousands of hooves beat it like a

thunderstorm. The thudding grew so intense it seemed to pulsate within his body, rising from his feet to his head in barrages of glory. With Denomark at the head of the charge even the sight of the Maldourains mounted on their great beasts riding out to meet them could not instil fear. No words were needed, every man who though this day knew what they were fighting for. The same dark clouds that had imprisoned the sky at Mudean were not present here and the sun shone brightly down on the field of Cormalé. It reflected of the blade of Denomarks sword and it was truly righteous. *** Denians eyes filled with horror at first. Beyond the Maldourians rank upon rank of another army were massing and any hope he had of saving his people faded like dust in a storm. Still they would fight to the death, even till he himself must lay down his life. He will die making his enemies wish they had never set foot upon this field, but in the end even a death on the field of battle did not seem enough. His father has died without receiving the same honour, all he knew would end and Rhealdoné would perish. Something though did not fit this chain of thought. The men on the horizon did not where the same gold and purple and they seemed to stay out of the reach of bows. Many years of training has sharpened his mind to small details such as this. Could it be that help has arrived? By all the gods could it be? Who would help us? The question lingered in his mind, sinking into his soul like oil into a sponge. Who? They have throughout history alienated them from all their allies. The last offering of help they received they have rewarded by threatening to kill those that would help them. Burn their homes. Exterminate them. All because they refused to be part of a kingship who did not care for them. Yet, something in the air proclaimed that they were not doomed. He saw the far off army start to march. “Feanron! Signal a trot! Follow me!” From somewhere next to him a horn bellowed and soon after they were also approaching the Maldourians.

“Men of Rhealdoné! Gather to me! Today we stand the final test of our strength! Here on the field of battle fighting for our very existence! They have slain our king and they have burned our villages! Now they shall taste the fire of their own malice! Gather to me, Rhealdonians and ride!” He felt that feeling of finality flow over him, where whether you live or die did not matter only they way in which you achieve either. The glory in him sprang like a tongue of flame at seeing that other mysterious army charge to the same cause. He wondered who their saviours were. *** Denomark felt the cool wind smoothly drift past his face and took up his spear as he watched Denain and the Rhealdonians charging in from the other side. He rose his spear and cried out a cry of war that was quickly taken up by the men charging on behind him just before he plunged his spear into the heart of the beast, he misjudged the strength of the animal and was flung off his horse, not able to release the spear in time. He crashed to the dry grass underneath him, his wind knocked out and his vision blurry. A sound somewhere between a grunt and a roar aroused him and as he looked up a great gray shape with a spear protruding from his chest was descending upon him in its dying moments. Rough hands gripped his shoulders and pulled him away moments before the giant beast crashed to the ground spewing dust and grass as it fell. He turned around and saw himself facing Cealmrin who patted him on the shoulder. “Now we are even, My Lord.” There was more than a bit of teasing in his voice, but Denomark ignored it. “Thank you Cealmrin.” Was all he could blurt out before turning around and meeting a Maldourain in battle. The infantry has now also joined the mounted men, trying to force their way through the throng and to escape through the two rivers. Back to back Cealmrin and Denomark thought while horseman streamed past them and Maldourians streamed towards them. Fighting side by side, protecting each other, knowing you had no other way to live

broke down the tension between them and if not a bond, a understanding grew between them as they slayed their enemies, each others enemies. It was not long before Gruwaith joined them, then Farinos, Ydin, Gealin and still more joined. Rhealdonian and Arithian alike. Fighting together like the lion and the lamb joining forces. Both of them fought for their homes, for friends and family lost, for their lands and some boundaries broke and everyone was human. No Rhealdonian no Arithian fought on that field. Only men aligned in a single cause. Slowly the battle started to fade and its ferocity died down. Those Maldourians facing capture took solace in their own blades as their fighting brethren fell by their side. From each corner of their small world cries of victory and joy rang. When Denomark finally looked up once more the ground was littered with the dead and an open rift ran between his forces from Mudean and the Rhealdonian army. Far off sounds of men being chased down rang out, but no more battle. He looked up at the sky and saw that most of the day had passed and that the sun was mere hours from setting. A lone horseman broke from the ranks of Rhealdonians and rode toward Denomark slowly. Even from behind the helmet the startled expression on his face was plainly visible. He took of his decorated helm after he dismounted and held it by his side. Denains face was lined with worry and surprise and a deep sadness that one would associate with older men and he himself seemed withered and humiliated. “Denomark, is it you?” He walked forward slowly. “You have returned to save us?” “You are not your father, Denain, I would not let you or the people of Rhealdoné pay.” And then something in Denains eyes changed. His eyes grew kind and humble and if he was a man to do such things Denomark was sure tears would run down Denains cheeks. Utter silence followed in a moment were burnt bridges were repaired and wrongs forgiven as Denain went to his knee before Denomark, where

Rhealdoné went on its knee before Denomark and soon no man of Rhealdoné was left standing tall, except one. Flashes of that fateful night ruptured Denomarks mind as he met eyes with one man that did not bow: Armegahor. He did not know why, but something in the malice of the mans grin made him fearful and he could not help but wonder on whose side he was.

Chapter 9: Righting the wrongs. Denomark regretfully looked back over his shoulders as the doors to the hall were pulled shut. He did not relish being in the presence of Armegahor, especially in a place that held mostly uncomfortable memories for him. A strange feeling seemed to rule the city, a corroding, evil one, but it was faint and left no evidence of its presence. Yet it lingered and by coincidence that seemed to blatant to ignore it was stronger on Armegahor. From the moment he entered the doors he could feel his eyes upon him, like a ravenous beast stalking his potential prey. He tried to take notice, after all Armegahor would be hard pressed to kill him, but something in the mans eyes made him wary and reminded him all too much of that night upon the tower and every time he was near him he would have to strain to keep the memories at bay. Trying his best not to look uncomfortable he walked over to Denain who sat with a grim sadness in his fathers throne and Denomark was relieved to see that at least someone seemed to know how he felt. Denain was never one to speak first. Without being rude he would almost always wait to be spoken to. Sometimes it made him seem slow and unsure, but he had always been steadfast and born to lead. “Denain, you wished to speak to me?” Denain looked up from the floor quickly. “Yes, I know that we might not have thought the best of each other, but we are in your debt. My fathers rule had cost you dearly and still you have saved

us. I will uphold this debt and I hope through it I will gain your trust.” “Rhealdoné is saved. To me that is all that matters now.” Denomark assured himself once more that he had made the right choice. “As for me, I only wish to return to Rahnen and rebuild the village with my men and the others who lived there.” Denain looked puzzled. “I’ve heard that you are the Arch Duke of Mudean, surely you cannot just leave?” “I’ll pass my position over to Craivahn, he knows more of running a city than I do. But whatever my men decide to do I need you to promise you would accept it and let them be. I am not the only one who has suffered loss.” Looking at Denomark with wide, red eyes Denain seemed to struggle grasping the implications of Denomarks words and then nodded his head. “They are free to go.” Suddenly some anxiety seemed to fill his face and Denain looked over to Armegahor. “Armegahor, will you kindly invite Colnas and this Craivahn to the hall. I would like to speak to them.” His voice was unusually calm and kind. Armegahor nodded and ushered to men to him. “No, Armegahor, I would prefer you go in person, now.” Denomark looked questioningly from Armegahor to Denain. Armegahor seemed taken aback by the sudden harshness of Denains tone, but reluctantly complied and left the hall with a flourish of his cape. Denain only kept his malachite eyes fixed on Armegahors back without expression. Denain quickly rose from his seat and walked to Denomark, gripping firmly on the upper arm and pulling him aside. “I am not sure whom I can trust. Armegahor is not himself, it seems no one is.” His whisper was ragged and troubled. “We need to speak. Tonight at twelve! I’ll be waiting inside the guards door at the gate, he at least I know I can trust.” He paused for a moment breathing heavily. “I hoped that I could have gained your support in arms.”

“My Lord, is everything alright?” A grisly guard-voice asked from behind Denomark. “Tonight at twelve, guard house by the main gate.” He whispered one last time. “Yes, you may return to your place, Graim.” He briskly greeted Denomark by taking his arm and nodded purposefully at him. “When you go outside, look to the west, a sunset is not all you will find.” Then he smiled slyly, a smile which faded quickly. Denomark walked through the doors that were opened for him into a dusk filled with golden sunlight. From atop the stairs he looked to the west were the sun was cut in half by the horizon and its pillars of light shot through the atmosphere. He put his hand up to shield his eyes and when he looked down a knot of emotionally charged memories went loose inside him and he could feel hot tears sting his eyes like a lovers pinch. He felt winded as the full force of the bittersweet revelation seemed to physically hit him in the chest. The people of Rahnen, standing together, already swarming with joy as the men of Denomarks company moved between them. Their clothes were dirty and ruined, their faces marred by grime, but they pointed and smiled as they saw Denomark and he could not help but choke on the cramp of tears sliding down his throat. Husbands stood with their arm around their wives shoulders, children pulled at their mothers’ dresses and for a fleeting second he could visualise them as they were months ago when life did not seem so dark. And in this moment he could fool himself that his parents, unscathed and eagerly awaiting their child would be standing among them, smiling at him. Others wept with grief as the news of a death was reported to them. Without waiting another moment he ran down the steps and into a gang of small children’s arms whom all seemed to fight their way in to embrace him. He found himself smiling like he never has before, unpretentious and warm. He greeted them on his knees with open arms. The men he embraced also and the woman

kissed him on his cheeks as they complimented his garments with admiring eyes. And then he saw her. Slowly, as if time itself abandoned its unrelenting pace in honour of the moment he walked past all the smiling faces towards Leayna. His heart ached at the sight of her empty cheeks and unkempt appearance and he knew something in her has changed as well, something he had also been through. Still they could not dim his love for her, nor the mere love he had of seeing her. She looked up from the child whom clung to her dress and he could see her eyes glaze over with moisture. Softly freeing herself from the little girl she trotted the three steps between them and jumped into his arms. He could feel the warm moisture of her breath on his neck as she sobbed against him and he ran his hand along her back, without one word a lifetimes conversation took part between them. Suddenly she pulled back, but held on to both his hands. She smiled. “I’ve missed you. We all have.” She said, not holding back the moisture forming in her eyes. Denomark smiled at Leayna then looked down to see the girl holding on to Leayna’s dress once more and bent down in front of the girl, looking her softly in the eyes. “It’s ok, darling, you can trust him. Denomark reached out slowly and waited for the girl to let go of the dress once more and then gently picked her up, holding her against his hip. “Not half as much as we missed you.” He smiled at the girl. “I think in a way we all miss Rahnen as much as we missed one another.” Denomark was struck by the truth of her simple statement. Rahnen was more than a place, it was an ideal. Before this war Rhealdoné was also more than a space of land on a map, marked by borders and in some ways it still was, but it was a broken and damaged ideal. Just as he opened his mouth to speak a rough, shaking hand touched his shoulder and he turned slowly around into the distraught and defeated faces of Bertons parents.

Carefully he put the girl down and nudged her gently towards Leayna, who cradled her. “Denomark, where is Berton? Where is our son?” Denomark looked at him with his mouth open, not able to push the words beyond the clot in his throat that hurt now more than anything. “Where is my son?” He said louder, a hint of anger following his words. Denomark began to stammer at which felt like an onslaught of all that has happened. “He’s dead. Berton is dead.” A wail escaped from Bertons’ mother and her husband threw his arms around her, trying to hush her crying while barely containing himself. Denomark swallowed thickly he could not help but speak. It seemed as if everyone pushed him to tell the truth. He knew in his heart Leayna was also in tears. “He burnt to death while we were defending Mudean. I am so sorry, I could not help him.” Another excruciating cry escaped the woman’s throat and Denomark felt indignity burn inside him. Bertons’ father turned ferociously. “You let my boy die! You let him die and you were as a brother to him!” He yelled as he pointed his worn finger at Denomark and he could do nothing but stammer “I”. The man lunged at him, only to be grabbed by the shoulders, he struggled to get by, but he was old and weak. Denomark could do nothing but stand and watch. Only when Leayna took him by the arm and begged him to come away with her did he move. He moved but did not think or feel or know. *** In the dark passageway the globe of power that Xearon Hûr held before him created the illusion that his white robe gave of its own illumination. Pensively Gambill watched his shoulders move from front to rear in slow movements as he walked forward. He could not guess how long they have been in this bastion of dark and madness. Using the limited knowledge they possessed of this dark and otherly world within their own and some useful skills they have managed to break into the citadel unnoticed, crossing the

barren landscape that surrounded it silently. In the beginning he was not sure if the screams of pain and rattling of chains in the distance was not a product of the suffocating dark. Suddenly Xearon Hûr came to a halt and Gambill knew he was reaching out with his mind. He sprung back to life with a gasp and soon after torch upon torch lit up on a single row in each wall, stretching into the oblivion. Gambill could now also other passages extending from this one and wondered if he would have seen them before if not for these mysterious torches. “It seems as though the Dark Lord has lit our path.” Xearon Hûr exclaimed ironically. “Surely we will not follow it, master?” Eolgrin asked incredulously as Xearon started forward, his arms now at his side. “And why not, Eolgrin? Was it not our mission to find this Dark Lord? In this maze I would be hard pressed to take this gift for granted.” Gambill kept his peace. The Hûrons’ have always been resolute and stubborn as much as they were mysterious. They were men who received a greater gift of power and were born with enlightenment. Years long would they study magic and study the earth and seek were and when their type began, but their history remained a secret. Many men mistook their self acknowledgement of their skill and power as arrogance and yet they were honoured with the namesake Hûr, riches and a high standing in CealmLeamdrim. “It is more than likely a trap.” “Oh do not mistake yourself, Eolgrin, it most surely is a trap.” As of he thought this sufficient information he started down the passage once more, not waiting for the thump of boots to know Gambill and Eolgrin were following. At first they did not notice the shrieks and rattling of metal, but as it drew closer Gambill felt his hands become sweaty and his heart thump harder in his chest. Something was in the dark and it was nearing them from all sides. Even when the warped sense of distance made it feel as if a mere

wall separated them from swarms of evil creatures did Xearon Hûr not bother to quicken his stride. “Xearon, we are not alone.” Xearon looked around. His white hair hung down straight behind his back to just above his waste, his brow hung down beside his eyes and his long moustache hung down in braids with small wooden emblems around it. “I know this. We keep on going our path.” Gambill looked back to Eolgrin whose hand was clasped significantly on the hilt of his sword. Xearon nodded at him and Eolgrin withdrew his blade slightly from the hilt, pausing and then unsheathing it fully without a sound. Gambill took this as a sign to himself as well and gripped his stave tighter. They did not move on for long when the clatter of pursuit became almost thunderous as it echoed against the cold, black walls. The sound of a tightening bow brang them to a halt and as the string snapped back into place Xearon turned and yelled: “Get down!” A shimmering blue filled the passage and the arrow was disintegrated into dust, the blue power continued on its path and enveloped the archer in flames that cremated it in seconds. Dying shrieks were heard by furagks further down as the blue power continued on, lighting up the corridor. “Now we run!” And with speed impressive for a man so old he led them along the lighted passage. Gambill threw spells at the furagks that came towards them from side corridors and Eolgrin ran through those unlucky enough to near the small party while Xearon did not relent his focus on the path beyond. Stopping immediately as he saw the figure before him come to a halt Gambill felt Eolgrin rush into him, almost hurling him to the ground. “What is it?” Gambill whispered, hearing his echo reverberate, no more torches challenged the dark, yet he could feel they were in a larger structure than the tunnel they have followed. Xearon whispered to himself and then lifted his white stave and lit up the cavernous round room with pure white light that extended from its tip.

“I do not know.” Xearon said passively, he turned in a full circle, surveying the walls and roof until Gambill tore his eyes from the passage they have come and looked around as well. Whoever had followed them was heard no more. The wall was decorated by deeply cut in engravings. At first he caught some movement within them as the light seemed to ripple slightly on the engravings insides. His stomach churned when Eolgrin confirmed its contents. “Blood.” Eolgrin spattered out disbelievingly. “Yes,” Xearon did not sound troubled, but intrigued. “blood.” “Where did it come from?” Gambill asked in shock and horror. “From those that will die.” “Will? Have they then not died...” Gambill could not finish, the passages leading to the room crawled into life once more as their pursuers shrieked and howled for blood and Gambill thought the trap had spun. The ground beneath them seemed to jump to life, heaving and roaring and then bursting upwards, throwing them to the ground. Through eyes teary with wind he glimpsed the pitch black roof rushing down to meet them and then darkness creped into him and his mind turned black as the roof. His eyes fluttered many times before he awoke, showing him visions of Xearon high up, with dark, cripple fingers pointing into the sky against a sky that seemed a sickly green, talking to a sinister voice beyond his vision. “I have trained all my life to use the power. I do not fear you.” The source of the sinister voice broke out in a hoarse laughter. “Oh, soon you shall my dear Hûron. Soon you will know the full extent of my power.” Gambill felt Eolgrins large hand curl around his arm and grip down slightly. “Come on, old one. Now is no time to be on your back.” Gambill shook his head once more and allowed Eolgrin to pull him up on shaky legs on which he steadied soon enough. Rigidly

Xearon loosened his white cape and let it flutter to the ground and assume his fighting stance with both his hands raised horizontally. “Do not make me shame you. Leave this earth quietly and without pain and give up Hûron.” The Dark Lord warned him, but Gambill could sense him being pensive, he was surprised that beyond the harsh, ragged state of the voice something manlike showed. Gambill looked at Eolgrin and thought it wise to hold him back by his arm. The snarl on his face made a sudden charge a great possibility. “My name is Xearon Hûr.” A flurry of movement saw the Dark Lord being thrown forward in surprise and then a ball of blue light hit him full in his helmeted face, sending him sprawling to the ground. The figure gripped its face and rolled on the ebony floor while screaming in pain. Soon enough the screaming turned into a bloodcurdling laugh and the dark lord picked himself up effortlessly. “You cannot kill me, Hûron.” He says, no sign of his cruel laugh audible. “It is skill that that wins a war, not sheer power.” Gambill could feel something, like the wisp of a hand reach into his consciousness, seeking his power, he glanced sidelong to Xearon who showed no sign of his intent and slowly Gambill let the door to his power open and let it trickle into the expecting hand. “You clearly do not know the extent of my power!” The Dark Lords voice grew irritable with Xearons inability to flinch or quiver. “You speak much for one who is to cowardice to have a personal hand in his own war.” Even from twenty yards away Gambill could hear the dark lords heavy breath and only then did he realise the thunder that had started all around. The dark lord shrieked and thrust his arms forward and long, ragged bolts of thunder extended his reach from the clouds and clashed down amidst the three figures whom did not feel one trickle of its awesome power.

“As I said, Dark Lord, you will not win this war through mere power.” All the while Gambill let more and more of his power drop into Xearons hand as his nervousness grew. Even the night sky seemed to obey the chaos in the soul of the dark lord. And amidst natures twisted wrath a duel began between the two most powerful men known to live in Esgroth-Marith as Eolgrin stood by and watched, forgotten for the time being. Soon beads of sweat started to form on Xearons face and his long hair was not its straight and peaceful self. A last ditch thrust of his hand sent the dark lord to his knees as he was struck invisibly in the gut. Xearon panted as his face was turned down to the ground. With each breath the Dark Lord stood higher and then came closer, chuckling roughly once more his hand filled with a cloud of wispy darkness that seemed to devour the light around it. “Your world is forsaken, as you are. So pitiful, so weak. You humans stand alone and die alone, because you are weak of mind, stubborn and day by day my victory is assured more and more as I see your people grow weaker. It should only be fit for my campaign to begin with your death, Hûron. Take comfort in the fact that your people will not have false hope for the future.” The dark lord cast the darkness in the palm of his hand and Hûrons fate was sealed, but with speed belying his age Gambill stood between the dark power and Xearon and split its power, sending it disappearing into the dark night sky. “He is not alone.” Gambill said and was joined by Eolgrin at his side. Xearon now also stood by their side and nodded at Gambill. His chest was still heaving wildly and his breath was still ragged. As one they cast their power and the dark lord staggered back, but all hope was short lived. Fingers of the same blackness circled their power and enveloped it and the Dark Lord held it above his head as a man would hold a trophy, his back arched backwards and his knees bent.

“Does my skill impress you yet, Hûron?” The dark lord spat. “Yes, now you see. Know that more suffering will take place because of your insolence and arrogance. More will die and more will be tortured to the brink of death, but never meet its sweet void. You dare to anger me! You who could not face me alone.” And then a sound that Gambill thought he would never. A sigh of utter horror and disbelief as Xearon, the greatest man alive lost hope. Gambill prepared to defend himself as the Dark Lord grunted and threw the combined power towards them. He felt a ragged old hand run up his stave and to his own old hand. A white light enveloped him and Eolgrin and he could feel himself fade. He looked with horror at Xearon, whom only smiled and he yelled hopelessly at a void that had formed between them. Darkness creeped into his vision and black smoky fingers crawled across Xearons smiling face and then Gambill was gone in a flash of light, the warmness of Xearons hand still on his. *** Gambill struggled not to fall as he stumbled forward through the void they had come onto the soft, green grass. In the end he fell on all fours out of pure exhaustion and sorrow, the longer grass stroking his face. They were in a field that stretched out into all directions in a carpet of green grass, flowers on long, thing stems rose randomly above the grass in colours of yellow and white. As tears warmed his eyes and wet his cheeks he could hear Eolgrin curse behind him and pulling in a deep breath afterwards. Gambills old body seemed to shudder and shake with the flower in the cool breeze that blew inland from the south. So much had been lost and now with Xearon gone their losses had doubled only to gain knowledge they already had. Who would train the boy to his full potential now? Xearon was the only Hûron left in EsgrothMarith he could trust and normal wizards like himself did simply not possess the knowledge or the skill in power. As he looked down to his old hands a glimpse of brown string caught his eye and he became aware of an uncomfortable pressure on his hand. Curiously he turned over his hand and revealed to his eyes a

Horrinfelkt, strange emblems with unknown powers of which only three are known to exist. Xearons last mystery. Gambill stood up, not taking his eyes from it, but clutched it tightly in his hand as he looked up at the woods to the west. “We’re somewhere on the southern part of Esrorm.” Eolgrin stated, his voice was grave and passive. An unwritten law they had formed over the years of their companionship to not speak of loss it would hamper them strengthened Gambill somewhat. “The village of Ermhon will be somewhere past this stretch of woods.” And with that said Eolgrin started west towards the crossing of the woods border and a dirt road running from east to west. Taking one last moment to look east Gambill witnessed the brewing of a great storm. Thunder slammed the sky and rattled the earth as clouds consumed the horizon: Evil itself showing appreciation for its newest victory. “We will no doubt need horses and food and maybe a place for the night?” Only the last request was in its essence a question, even Eolgrins strength had begun to fade in their state of tiredness. “Horses and food no doubt. As for sleep, that only comes after we have reached Denomark.” Gambill walked into the road and started along it, going past Eolgrin without looking when his companion stood still. “Denomark? Gambill, I think we have more important business. The...” “They will have to wait. It is of the utmost importance that we train Denomark and train him well.” Gambill paused and looked back at Eolgrin whom still stood were he was, ten paces back. “You yourself saw what we must face.” With that he turned around and started to the wood once more. As they entered the woods Gambill could feel the soft, moist air press against him and the sweetish scent of the fertile woods enter his nostrils. Fed by the post winter rains the woods inherited a magical touch. The grass was soft and full, the trees so grown with leaves branches were rarely seen and other plants formed a green barrier so that

nothing could be seen beyond twenty yards. “You cannot transport us by magic? It looks like a long way.” “It is indeed. Sadly I cannot, I used more power than normal. Even though our battle didn’t last long. That Dark Lords power had a leeching aspect to it. The more I used to fight back the more he sucked out of me.” “I felt fear for the first time today, true fear.” *** The village of Ermhon was a quaint, but idyllic village on the outskirt of a horseshoe shaped dip that also marked the western border of the woods. It was made of square wood and stone houses, mostly with two storeys’, wooden roofs and some type of garden. Chickens clucked and cows’ bells mimicked them in the distance. The people that lived in the village resembled Eolgrin strongly; regal features, strong bodies and broad shoulders and most had the same pitch black hair. As they passed many familiar heads looked up from their daily tasks and greeted them, one old man sitting at his porch called over a boy of about twelve, whispered in his ear and sent him running of down the road in front of Gambill and Eolgrin. When they passed he raised his hand and nodded graciously. The dirt road they walked on ran straight through the village towards a small dam at the base of the slope and then curved to the north along its shore were the dirt was replaced with wooden planks forming walkway with a simple wooden railing that ran along it. A steady warmth cropped up within his heart at seeing the cosy, simple, two storey home of Ermhon himself rise before him at the other end of the walkway. Gambill saw the boy whom was sent of earlier by the old man run off into the field towards some playing children from the back of the house. When they have ventured halfway through the thirty yard walkway Ermhon himself appeared at the doorway, his arms by his side in a gesture of open friendship and a smile on his stubbled face. Without being overweight the man had rounder features than normal for

Esgrothians; his nose curved and ended with a puffy ball and round lobes, his cheekbones were softened by what might have been puffy cheeks on the normal human and his forehead curved in the shape of an outstretched ‘s’ to his thick brows. In the old principle of ‘so near yet so far’ Gambill could feel his knees want to give way with every step from tiredness so he tried his best to remove the thought of coffee and rusks from his mind until he sat down. Gambill grunted as Ermhon patted him on the shoulder in greeting and was grateful for Eolgrins ready hand that grabbed him by the shoulder to keep his knees from buckling. “Gambill! It has been too long! Your beard is almost as long as you are now!” He nodded to Eolgrin over Gambills shoulder and received an “Ermhon” in return. “You must excuse my surprise, but I haven’t expected you for at least five more days. I see Xearon has moved on. Would have liked to see him, but I suppose...” “Ermhon, let’s continue inside, we need some urgent rest and we don’t have much time to stay.” Eolgrin cut him off and immediately Ermhon eyed them suspiciously and knew something was not right. “Where is Xearon?” Gambill sighed, “Inside,” and watched Ermhons face grow pale. *** With the woman, children and elderly of Rahnen Denomark and his men had crossed the distance between Duranhail and their old village in three days, going at a steady, but relaxed pace. On the first day they all mourned together, buried those who died of sickness in Duranhail and talked no more. On the second day a meeting was called, the damage surveyed and plans made for the rebuilding of the village. On the third the rubble was cleared and provisions gathered for the fourth day’s start of building. By the sixth everyone was going at a steady pace and Denomark found how easy it was to act normal when nothing inside seemed to be

the same. It was on the tenth day and the sun shone unanimously out of a sea blue sky. Most of the men were working without their shirts to help keep them cool in the early summer heat. Wiping his brow he looked up from his work of roughly chopping a support from the stem of a large oak which lay bare before him. The flowers they had planted on the graves of the dead inhabitants when he had buried his parents had bloomed gloriously into a golden ring that stretched around the village borders, but his eyes wondered beyond them to a tree with a thick stem of an easy five feet. Facing the village the stem had grown outwards, leaving somewhat of a alcove. In this alcove sat Leayna. Her legs were laid out before her as she sat back against the tree, comfortably snuggled into the alcove, watching the working men. She was wearing a plain, white silk dress with a low, triangular neckline that moved lazily against her in the breeze. Her ripples of golden hair were fastened behind her neck. She looked beautiful. He watched her absently finger a little white flower in her delicate hands and was glad she was not looking at him; he just wanted to look at her. Slowly he started walking towards her. She looked at him, shading her eyes, smiling as he approached. Without a word being said he laid himself down on the soft grass with his head resting horizontally on her lap. Almost automatically he lifted his head, she lowered hers and they kissed sweetly, all alone in their own world. As he finally lowered his head he felt the presence of the little white flower she had sneaked into his hair. “You look so pretty with a flower in your hair, you should do it more often...” Denomark plucked his own flower from the ground beside his legs and gently eased it into her hair, smiling at his work. “Never as pretty as you. With or without the flower.” Immediately, yet so slow it felt an eternity she pulled him up once more and their lips touched for the second time and were held together for a precious long time. The back of her fingers swept along his cheek and the effects of it down his spine.

“I hope this, now, lasts forever.” She said absently, staring at the horizon, Denomark let his face fall sideways so that his cheek met her soft leg and his eyes dropped to the golden ring and the men working within and he knew it would not, but he could not bring himself to say it. *** Gambill turned on his horse and watched the bewildered Ermhon wave goodbye one very last time from his back door and then looked infront of him and rode on, slowly swaying on his horse. “Were not far from the wall.” Eolgrin muttered distractedly. “Yes, just a little closer.” Gambill said. The talk with Ermhon had aroused many sad feelings that he hoped not to endure in his life ever again. His usually nimble mind felt raw and tired and the only way of escaping his fears and sorrows apparent to him was to ride, so he did. It took Eolgrin only a split second to realise his intensions and spur his horse on as fast as possible as well. And so the two lonely horsemen made their as the green, grassy fields of Esrorm were pulled from under them like a rug. As the cliff-wall rose before them Gambill released his hand from his horses reign, put it out and let Eolgrin latch onto it. He drew his power into them and felt the rush of energy build up along with his battle cry. In a flash of blue akin to lightning they vanished from the field. Gambill only became aware of his success when he felt the grip of Eolgrin slowly fade and let blood run into his numb fingers. Behind them a stone wall stood, stretching from horizon to horizon without any other sign of civilisation. Engelmars wall. And below it the cliff fell all the way down to the grassy fields they have come from. “So, Eolgrin, which way?” Eolgrin lifted his hand in the direction past Gambill. “Their.”

“Let us make our way. We have not had a good day and I can do with a little hope.” Secretly Gambill smiled and took the Horrinfelkt so that it laid in his palm. He knew its gift now. Power. *** The rain patted against the window in what seemed to be an overeager anticipation and Denomark could feel it in the night. His legs and arms yearned to move and to commit some unknown deed. He could feel it trying to lift him from his seat, bring his sword to his hand and rally his men. And yet every time he saw Leayna stare back at him longingly from the kitchen he felt it being dissuaded. But still it came back. His foot started rapping the wooden floor like a shiver. Images of the past month flashed ravishingly in his mind and something else bothered him. One of those feelings that lie dormant in the back of your mind. It stayed their, he could feel its weight, but it would not budge. He knew something was coming. A knew knocking filled the night air, one too heavy for drops of rain and his head flew up. He sat for a moment and eyed the door carefully, his fingers dancing on the table. “Should I get it?” Leayna asked him from the kitchen. “No, I will.” But still he sat there till the third and fourth volley of knocks and then his resolution vanished and he sprang up, rushing to the door and pulling it open. In the rain stood two familiar figures: A smiling Gambill and a grave Eolgrin; and he could feel his heart jump and fall in the same time. “Inside?” Gamibll asked and Denomark stood to the doors side automatically, letting them in. He saw Leayna standing by the kitchen door, her face fully numb and void of expression. Gambill smiled wholesomely at her. “Ahh Leayna! I’m most happy to say that all my expectations of your beauty have been too low.” And then he bowed deeply. She inclined her head formally. “Leayna this is Gambill and Eolgrin. Two very good friends of mine.”

She looked at him as if the words were a stinging insult. “I’ll give you some time alone.” She said before disappearing around the corner. “What brings you here? Denomark asked as they all sat down. His heart ached at seeing Leayna’s reactions and he did not try to hide it. “We came for you, Denomark. It seems we have run out of all our luck. The furagks to the north are mobilising from their tower fort of Sarugan. The elves and the Guruwan are fighting a war they have no hopes of winning to keep the southern lands and their own safe. The furagk stronghold to the east and historical home of the dark lords is beset by one once more. One far stronger than any before. The king of Arith-Moore, Sareth, is under his command. Dulair-Mon is overrun. Denain is being forced to give Mudean to Armegahor in fear of a rebellion. We...” Denomark cut him off. “Gambill, your news is grave, but why have you come for me?” I have given everything I have gained back to Denain and Colnas. From now on I am a normal man of Rhealdoné.” “No, you are not. You know as much as I that what happened on that fatefull not on that tower is no thing of the past. By some means you have gained and insurmountable amount of the power. The only real bastion of power on our side of the war is you.” “I cannot use it.” “I will teach you to and Eolgrin will help you train with every weapon known to man. In only little more than a month you have also gained enough respect in Rhealdoné and Arith-Moore to raise an army.” Denomark looked down at his hands and flexed them. Again he felt that pang in his heart that yearn to wield his blade. “I will not use that power. Last time it did too much evil to be trusted.”

“Last time you did not have the strength or the knowledge to control it. Denomark, do you not see? You have been given a gift. One so great that it can sway the tide. And as always a great gift came with a great loss, but it wasn’t greater than the gift itself! You are the only one who can face...” Gambilll stopped in mid sentence. “You want me to face this dark lord?” “Yes, but you will not be alone.” “Will I ever see my home again?” “I cannot tell. But the world needs you Denomark. One thing is for sure: If you do not come, nothing will last much longer, not even this.” The last three words hit him in a chest so hard his hand grabbed the table. “I will come.” He sighed heavily. “I will come and I will fight, but I do not want anyone of Rahnen coming with me. Have you came unnoticed?” “Yes.” “Then we will leave the same way. I do not have any armour, I returned it to Craivahn.” “Your sword and your shield is enough.” Denomark stood up silently and walked away from the table. As softly as possible he moved into his bedroom, not wanting to face Leayna for the moment being. He went to his knew before a chest that stood against the wall opposite their bed, opened the lid slowly and reached in taking out his sword and his shield. He put his shield down so that it leant against the chest and ran his hand over the side of his blade, feeling the cool yet unyielding metal pour some of its strength into him. He heard the door close behind him and turned around attentively. Leayna must have stood outside their backdoor the whole time, which means she must have also heard every word. Her face was drawn taught in a resilience to fight back the tears that had already given her eyes a

gleam. Putting his sword next to his shield he walked over to her and took her in his arms. He could feel her soft body quiver against his and felt the same sword he had just caresses stab at his heart. “I love you.” Was the only thing he could say without talking long enough for his own emotions to burst through. “You will come back to me.” He heard her whisper. She sounded calmer than he had expected, but some deep hurt hid behind her words and he knew it. He kissed her one last time. Their lips pressed firmly against each others in a final promise of everlasting love. Then his hand slipped slowly from her waist and his other released itself from her golden hair. Every step he took away from her felt more awkward and unsteady, as if he was a three dimensional puzzle with ill fitting pieces, ready to collapse. He reached down into the chest, removing his torso belt and putting it over his shoulder and around his waist. He sheathed his sword slowly into its shoulder sheath and then mounted his shield on his back aswell. When he reached the door to the kitchen he took one last look at her. Even in her saddest moments she looked aweinspiring. He slowly slid his hand over the doorframe and then turned and walked out. “Denomark!” He turned around quickly at her plea. “When you go, do it fast enough so that I do not have to watch?” He nodded his head in a silent acceptance and walked out of the house. His heart sagged when he saw them standing before him; Behind Gambill stood Ydin; his own and Denomarks horse in hand, Gruwaith, Foren, Hamor, Honin, Hindol and Dorin. He was surprised to see Furdon and Rovan whom both were against him and also Dolanon whom he thought would never wish to see another day of battle in his life. Even behind them stood all the elves and Guruwan he had met at Mudean. “We did not come as silently as we thought.” Gambill shrugged. “And do not think of leaving without us. Eventhough we completely slip your mind we’d follow you to the ends of the

earth.” Ydin said and brought his horse forward to him. He greeted Fyrton before mounting him, watching all the men from Rhealdoné follow suit as well as Gambill and Eolgrin. By now his hair was hanging in front of his face and water was dripping rapidly from the longer strands and when he talked water spluttered of his lips. “Gorfair, your people have their one war. One that they are struggling with to survive. You wish not to return to them?” “No, their victory lies in your hands. I will make sure that you live long enough to bring it to them.” Denomark nodded his head at Gorfair. He looked around at the men assembled around him. “We return to Mudean. Lets ride!” A shameless cry went up from the men around him and they wheeled around into the road and rode off into the darkness and the pouring rain with thunder heralding their return to the war of their time. Unbeknownst to him as he stopped on the hill south of Rahnen where he had stood once before and where Leayna had sat on her horse, looking back at the burning and pillaged village he also looked on it and saw only his new home and the ring of golden flowers. In the window a pale shadow of a shadow revealed itself to him and he could not help but smile knowing that this time he had something to return to as the blurred face of his love stared willingly back at him.