Archives: Wiki Pages

*

This story contains the text of “The Lich Emerges”, with a significant amount of additional information. To read just “The Lich Emerges”, follow the link below.

The Lich Emerges

*

Venator looked out at the departing Longfang guards. The outpost at Onsallas was officially under the protection of his Vandregonian unit, the Myrmidons. Venator felt oddly out of place. As the first ever Ulven warrior to join a human army, he seemed to many the perfect choice to command the first multi-racial unit to ever be allowed to garrison the Longfang stockade. From a political standpoint that may have been true, but in his heart of hearts, Venator felt pangs of guilt and sorrow. He wished that William was here.

Among his own people, there were few who knew Venator’s story. Those who did would almost certainly shun him if he were recognized as the “Oathbreaker”. Venator had been a different person, once upon a time, both literally and figuratively. He had been born the son of a selfish and arrogant chieftain, who feared the witch’s predictions that his firstborn son would surpass him in his glory. Venator’s father had bestowed upon his son the title of “Oathkeeper” at birth, and given him away to another pack as part of a political negotiation. The boy was trained and indoctrinated from childhood to serve his foster community as a guardian and warder. Worse, even, than being given away by his own parents, was the fact that his father refused to give him a name, and simply called the poor boy “Oathkeeper”. The child’s resentment, bitterness, and hatred grew as fast as his skill in combat. His uncontrolled rage terrified the peaceful farming community to which he was assigned, for he saw his post and his duty as a prisoner sees his sentence.

He grew up selfish and terrible, just like his father. One day, the Mordok burned his village and killed his wards. He might have been able to stop it. He might have earned great glory. He might have died heroically, but what was the point? What use has the Great Wolf for a warrior with no name?

The young warrior returned to the village of his birth. He confronted his father and demanded to know his true name, now that he was no longer “Oathkeeper”. When the Chieftain refused and tried to have his son arrested, the young man challenged him to an honor duel on the condition that his true name be revealed should he win. That duel was the first time that the young warrior was overtaken by the rage of the Great Wolf. He berserked and brutally beat his father to within an inch of his life, unable to stop himself even after his name had been revealed. His mother tried to intervene and, in his blood frenzy, he stabbed her. Her wound proved fatal, and Venator was forced to flee the village of his birth.

Venator Dreadfang left that all behind him. As far as he was concerned, he had never had a family anyway. He embarked on the path of the Kyrkogrim, but unlike many of the dishonored who go to that pack to seek redemption, Venator cared only to seek his glory and his death.

He traveled all across Mardrun, challenging and defeating all that he came across be they Ulven, Human, or Syndar, every victory surely ringing the ears of the Great Wolf and fanning the flames of his resentment and revenge. Eventually, though, the fires of hatred and anger that had driven him made him weary, for they had burned within his chest until there was nothing left to burn. He had nothing to fight for, and his heart became cold. Venator fell into a deep depression, and began to question whether his victories had any meaning. How much did the Great Wolf really care about personal duels? Was Venator really a warrior, or simply a duelist; an athlete?

When Venator Dreadfang encountered Sir William of Vandregon, he challenged him to a duel. Venator was more skilled than even the charismatic knight, and yet he could not defeat him. Venator’s heart was cold, and he fought like a machine. Though precise, his rage had mostly abandoned him, as had his passion for the fight. Though he rained blow upon blow on Sir William, battering him and wounding him grievously, the knight refused to yield, for the fire within Sir William’s chest burned hotter and brighter than had ever that of his challenger. Sir William gained strength and resolve from the presence of his comrades and friends. He seemed to get stronger, rather than wearier, as the fight went on and his men raised the colors of Vandregon’s heraldry upon sticks, and sang songs from their homeland.

Venator didn’t have any friends. He felt the hatred and resentment grow within him. He no longer just wanted to embarrass this knight, he wanted to kill him. As the two clashed, Venator felt the rage rising inside of him until he neared the flash point of the berserker. Try as he might, however, the sparks would not catch, for there was nothing left in his heart to burn, not even kindling. The frenzy never came.

The two combatants pushed away from each other, panting with exhaustion. Someone threw a waterskin to William, who caught it with one hand and sipped it carefully, keeping his eyes on Venator.

“You’ve got him, William!” shouted one of the Soldiers, “He may have the fangs of a wolf, but you’ve the heart of a sheepdog!”

Venator was parched and dizzy. There was no one to throw him a waterskin. There was no one to cheer him on. There was no one to sing his song, or howl his name. Venator’s vision flickered. In his mind, he could see the empty forest, and the empty road. There was no Wolf waiting for him upon that road.

“Tis not the right road.” he muttered, suddenly feeling weak.

He almost dropped his axe.

“What’s wrong?” taunted one of the Vandregonians, “Don’t have the stomach for it?”

“Nay.” said Venator, “Tis my heart. Not my stomach. My heart.”

Venator realized then, that he had found a true warrior whom he could not defeat. By the code of the Kyrkogrim, he was obligated to become protege to that master until he could surpass him. On that day, Venator Dreadfang became the first Ulven to ever join the Army of Vandregon. It was also the first day he embarked on the path of a true warrior. In the coming months and years, Sir William taught him what it meant to fight for brotherhood, patriotism, and friendship. He transformed a selfish boy into a great and noble warrior, and instilled in him the selfless ideals of chivalry that great men live by. Venator loved Sir William as much as he had hated his blood father, and for the first time ever, he had a family. His heart burned for that family. It burned for all the right reasons.

Venator Dreadfang would die for any one of his Myrmidon, and the fact that he knew they would do the same for him made him quite possibly the single most dangerous fighter in the Army of Vandregon.

Now, Venator was Sir William’s most trusted Lieutenant, and here he was on a dangerous and delicate mission on the frontier, far from his mentor’s guidance. The Watchwolf Ambassador, Raskolf, was here as well, to observe the operation and help keep the peace, but the command of the Vandregonian Garrison, as well as the responsibility for their actions, rested squarely on Venator’s shoulders.

The first day had consisted mainly of setting up camp and performing patrols with some of the adventurers who were more familiar with the area so that the Myrmidon could get a feel for the terrain and the trails. Between Echo Nightriver, Magrat Farwalker, and Raskolf Vakr, the Vandregonians were able to get themselves oriented to their area of responsibility rather quickly.

Even Raskolf’s little daughter, Elise, was knowledgeable of the area, and proved to be helpful as a guide. Venator watched the interaction between the child of seven winters and her doting father. He smiled sadly, especially when the sole separated from the little girl’s boot, and her father, the Ambassador, “Voice of the Watchwolves”, Warder and Champion of the Clan High Priestess, and former Warpack leader, stripped off his armor and sat down in the dirt back at the outpost to mend it with a sewing kit, later on.

Venator was glad that Raskolf was there to handle any diplomatic manners that came up. He was especially glad that upon his arrival at the outpost earlier that morning, Raskolf had laid everything out for him. His first impression of the Watchwolf Ambassador was that of a gruff career Soldier. Venator’s men had been in the process of setting up camp, and the Longfangs hadn’t even left their posts yet, but here this grumbling, growling old Ulven veteran had come storming up to the men of Vandregon demanding to see their ranking officer as if the troops had done something wrong. When Venator stepped forward, the Ambassador had sized him up and then given a hearty forearm clasp without changing his demeanor at all.

“My name is Raskolf Vakr,” he had said, “I am the Voice of the Watchwolves and I speak with the authority of the Clan. If there are any issues that arise between your men and the local Ulven, you will defer to me and support my every decision. Are we understood?”

“Yes, Ambassador.”

“Venator Dreadfang,” he continued, “You are responsible for the security and safety of this outpost and the area surrounding it. That includes the roads, which have been plagued recently by highwaymen. The entire garrison is under your command. Sir William is a good friend of mine, and he has assured me that you are up to this. The eyes and ears of the Watchwolves will be upon you, as will my own, and I will be reporting to him.”

A tall man in a red tabard bearing the white lion rampant joined the two. He was heavily armored, and carried a pack that was bursting with books and scrolls.

“This is Cedrick, the Lion.” said Raskolf, “He is here to serve as your advisor regarding all matters pertaining to the hungry ghosts. One of the reasons that the Longfangs agreed to letting Vandregon move troops to their territory is because of your army’s experience fighting the undead. Since you, yourself, however, have no experience doing so, Cedrick will help you. He is here to share his wisdom with you. Listen to him. Undead have been spotted in the area very recently.”

The Ulven Ambassador had certainly given a rather gruff first impression, and yet now here he was, drying his daughter’s socks by the fire and sewing the sole back onto her boot while he spoiled her with a treat of hot cider and cheese curds he’d purchased from the provisioner.

The little girl finished her snack, and suddenly had the need to burn off some energy, barefoot or not. Fortunately, the Syndar healer’s dog was happy to oblige, and the two began racing around the walls of the stockade. Venator watched her play for a while. The sun was high in the sky, and there was not a cloud in sight, but it was a bitter cold day for the time of year.

After lunch, Venator decided to rotate his guards and take another patrol out. The Ambassador stayed back this time, but Cedrik joined the Myrmidon, along with a few other adventurers. The patrol roved out to the East and then cut South. They crossed the old bridge and followed the lowlands around the marsh. The Longfangs had reported seeing undead in this area, so the patrol kept a sharp lookout. Echo Nightriver and Elise Vakr scouted a short distance ahead, checking the ground for stability and prodding the mud with sticks to test for quicksand. The two had volunteered for the task because they were both small and light. They must have appeared easy pickings. Elise was testing some unstable earth with her feet, something her father would have never let her volunteer for had he been along, while Echo stood lookout with her bow. The wind changed direction, and the two girls suddenly caught a strange scent in the air. It reminded Echo of either funeral incense, or that awful stinky oil that Syndar wore.

The two turned to rejoin the patrol, but a human woman with bright red hair stepped out of the bushes to block their path. The woman grinned wickedly and drew two short swords from her belt. There was a sudden rustling in the tall grass to either side of the girls, but they didn’t wait to see what else was about to ambush them. Echo charged straight at the woman, simultaneously and reflexively firing an arrow deep into the bandit’s abdomen at close range. Elise was hot on her heels. The bandit shrieked and doubled over, clutching at her midsection, and dropping her swords. Echo nearly ran the woman over in her escape from the killzone, and Elise’s sword flashed out and hamstrung the stuporous bandit for good measure as she ran past. The rest of the bandits stomped and splashed through the muck, shouting at the two Ulven girls as they struggled to keep up. Echo and Elise led them on, winding through unstable terrain and losing at least one of the bandits in quicksand. Smiling to each other, the girls ducked and dodged their way back to the patrol. Snarling and mud-splattered, the three remaining bandits crashed through the six-foot tall swamp grass and reeds, stumbling face first into the waiting arms of the heavily armed and armored Vandregonian infantry patrol. The bandits tried to flee, but didn’t make it far. A quick search of their bodies did nothing to identify them. The three men carried with them loot, clothing, coins, and weapons from all manner of different cultures. One of them had a bottle of very expensive perfume from Tielorrien. Another carried bundles of freshly cut herbs which Elise recognized as the raw components of certain healing compounds her mother favored.

As the the patrol checked the bodies, Venator had his men form a perimeter in case there were more bandits, and he carefully marked their location on his map. As he was putting his map away, one of his sentries sounded the alarm that there was movement down in the swamp. Venator’s Myrmidons crouched low in the tall grass, and Venator moved to see what the sentry had spied. He couldn’t believe it. As he pulled the grass aside to see, he found himself staring out at another tabard of red and gray. It was a Soldier of Vandregon. The man was filthy, beat up, ragged, and unarmed, but he wore the colors of Vandregon, and carried on his shoulders another man who was either grievously wounded or dead, dressed in the manner of a Ranger of Vandregon.

“Don’t shoot!” the Soldier panted, “I’m a Cleric from the Army of Vandregon! I’ve got a wounded man here!”

Venator and two other Myrmidon rushed forward to help him as he stumbled and nearly slipped into a pool of water lilies.

The wounded Ranger groaned as the Vandregonians rolled him over and began removing his filthy garments to expose his injuries. Elise joined them with her little basket of bandages, and Cedrick readied his prayer beads for healing magic.

“I can’t believe it!” panted the mud-covered Cleric, falling to his knees and reaching his arms to the sunny sky, “Half a continent away from New Hope, lost in the swamp, hounded by the forces of evil, and I find the Army of Vandregon! Truly the favor of our maker shines upon us this day!”

The Cleric bowed his head in prayer and shuddered as the horrors of his ordeals played out in his head. He was physically exhausted, cold, wet, muddy, and bloody, but such discomfort paled in comparison to the emotion in his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” asked Venator, “My unit was the only one authorized to enter Longfang territory.”

“My name is Vladimir.” he said, clenching his eyes and his fists. “I am here on orders from Father Calder, at the temple in New Hope. We were to reinforce the Order of Arnath.”

Vladimir took a moment to get his composure.

“I am the sole survivor out of a convoy of fifteen. We were attacked by zombies two nights ago.”

“Sole survivor?” said Venator, “Don’t be so quick to write off your friend, here.”

“He was not part of my convoy. I found him out here in the swamp, the day after I was attacked. There was another man with him, but he ran away from us to lure a horde of zombies off of our trail.”

The young Cleric’s voice cracked and he punched the soggy earth.

“Some of the zombies were my old friends.”

Vladimir was a large fellow, obviously possessing the strength to match his frame. His features, however, were youthful, and despite the terror of his ordeal, there was a certain sense of wonder and innocent pride in his tale

Elise had done her best to tend to the wounded Ranger, but he was very sick in addition to his injuries. She dabbed some cooling salve upon his fever blistered lips and sighed to herself. She wasn’t sure he would make it, and she wished her mother was there with her. Cedrik the Lion knew some basic healing magic, but he was nowhere near the healer that Anjan Ravensmark was. As he worked his magic, the little girl rolled her eyes.

“You human Clerics are slow.” she said, “My mother would have had him awake and able to talk within a few minutes.”

Cedrik concentrated on what he was doing and ignored the seven-year-old heathen’s comment.

“It’s probably because your gods are weak.” she said.

“My gods are not weak!” snapped Cedrik, breaking his concentration and terminating his spell, “I’m just more of a fighter than a healer. I’m a Lion.”

“Uh-huh. Whatever you say, mister lion. My mother was one of the best fighters on Mardrun before she became a healer. She was a Tundra Wolf.”

Cedrik gritted his teeth. He was beginning to understand what Brother Captain Aeden had meant about these people.

“Are you quite finished, little girl?” he snarled, “You’ve broken my concentration and caused me to waste precious mana.”

“Is that all it takes to ruin one of your spells? You know…”

“Let me guess? Your mother wouldn’t have lost her concentration? Yeah? Is that what you were going to say? Well, I believe it. You know why? Because she has to put up with you.”

Elise wrinkled her nose at him and frowned.

“This man is in bad shape, Venator.” said Echo Nightriver, “We need to get him back to the outpost.”

“We would have to split up, then.” said Cedrik, shaking his head, “We need to find the other one that was with him before nightfall.”

Venator carefully considered his options. He really wished that Sir William was there.

“No.” He said, “We will not split up. If the group of undead in the area was big enough to take out a fifteen man convoy, then they are too dangerous for us to face divided.”

“They are even bigger, now.” said Vladimir, shaking his head, “My fallen friends have swelled their ranks.”

“Then it is decided.” said Venator, “We will return to the Onsallas outpost and get this man to the Syndar healer. The other survivor will just have to use his wits to survive until we can find him.”

“In the meantime,” said Cedrik, “we need to focus on preparing the outpost for an attack. If the undead are amassing a force of such size, we could be in for one wild night.”

*

Back at the outpost, Venator gave his troops a chance to eat, fill their waterskins, and change their socks while he questioned Vladimir. The Ranger they had rescued was very sick. He had been bitten by a zombie during his battle with the Lich’s forces. The Syndar healer said that she would be able to treat the infection and keep him from turning, but it would require a great amount of her resources, and she simply wouldn’t have enough of the red herb she called phoenix tail left to treat anyone else with injuries later on.

Raskolf and Elise left to retrieve healing supplies from the Longfang village outside of the swamp, and to update the Longfangs as to what had been discovered. Venator was in charge and he had no one to fall back on. He figured he should have just enough time to make one more patrol of the area and search for the missing companion of the Ranger before the sun horse descended. He really wished that Sir William was there.

The final patrol did not locate anyone, but they did find some herbs that the Syndar healer could use. Venator got everyone back before night had ascended. As they approached the outpost, the bittersweet sound of music from Faedrun emanated from behind the walls. The Syndar healer, her traveling companion, and a third Syndar were singing. The shiny skinned Syndar bard had arrived in the patrol’s absence. She had ruddy yet almost metallic skin, the color of beaten copper, and plucked a small stringed instrument that seemed to put out more sound than it should have been able to. Raskolf and Elise still were not back, and Venator wasn’t sure if they would try to make the trip through the swamp in the dark. He couldn’t count on them being back until morning.

“In the meantime,” said Cedrik, “we need to focus on preparing the outpost for an attack. If the undead are amassing a force of such size, we could be in for one wild night.”

*

Venator let his returning patrol have a moment to recover and eat a hearty supper prepared by the human provisioner, Sorcia, before he started coming up with guard rotations. The outpost only had one gate to guard, which created a convenient choke point for the defenders. It was also out in a very open area of the lowlands, so anyone posted on the archery platform had an excellent field of vision on all avenues of approach. Still, defending a fortress wasn’t exactly something that Venator considered himself an expert on. Other Ulven may have been embarrassed to ask a Human for advice, but Venator had been pupil to William for a long time, and felt no such shame.

“Cedrik,” he said, “I need to know how best to defend this place against the undead. I have never fought them before, but my men say that it is different from fighting any other enemy.”

“It is.” said Cedrik, “The undead have certain strengths and certain weaknesses that are unique to them. Their strength lies in the fact that they feel no pain, and cannot be killed. They are relentless in their attack, and will continue advancing, even if partially dismembered. They can eventually be put down if they take enough physical damage, but it takes forever. Their weakness is that they lack mobility, they are slow, and they are clumsy. They are also, for the most part, very stupid, and easy to distract due to their single mindedness. Being creatures of unholy mana, they are vulnerable to divine magic. There are cleric spells which can keep them at bay, but sadly these spells are limited in their duration, and if there is one thing that the dead are good at, it is being patient.”

“Very well.” said Venator, “Since there is no door to the stockade, I was thinking we should put our most heavily armored troops in the gateway to form a shield wall.”

“I agree.” said Cedrik, “but I also think we should place the clerics directly behind them. The clerics can create divine barriers out to ten feet if things get out of hand. The lesser undead will not be able to enter the area of effect, and it will push them back a little.”

“What about casualties?” asked Venator.

“We will need to have the more lightly armored people in the back, ready to grab a hold of any troops that fall in the shield line. Just like your Mordok, the zombies will try to drag the fallen out and away from the formation. I’ve seen the wounded nearly torn in half in tug-of-wars with the undead, so the skirmishers in the back will need to look sharp, and drag the casualties back behind the line before the undead can get a hold of them.”

Venator reflected on these things for a moment.

“Thank you for your help.” he said, clasping Cedrik’s forearm, “I will brief my troops, now.”

“Oh, and Venator.” said Cedrik as the Ulven turned to walk away, “Put me in the front line, please.”

“As you wish, Lion.”

*

It was very shortly after nightfall. The Onsallas outpost garrison tried to go about their typical tasks as if everything were normal, but in their hearts they all knew what the night would bring. Grinli, the bard, sang and played songs from the old world. The memories these melodies stirred evoked both feelings of regret and the sadness of mourning. What the troops didn’t know, though, was that though the bard’s music might be sad, it also carried with it the power to strip from them all fear. Within their chests, their hearts beat stronger than ever, and their frustrations and anger gradually shifted to courageous resolve. As the music died down, it was replaced by a death-rattle upon the cold autumn wind. From the darkness of the swamp came the moaning of many things that should not walk.

The defenders scrambled, and quickly lined up in formation, shields at the ready, awaiting the enemy charge. The charge never came. The defenders looked out into the blackness and squinted against the bitter and howling winds. It seemed like an eternity had passed. The moaning was all around them, and the rustle of the slowly shuffling abominations dragging themselves through the tall grass out in the darkness almost gave the impression that they faced an invisible foe. Sensing that their nerves may break, Grinli approached the rear of the formation and began to sing and play again. As the troops opened their ears to this unusual but pleasant distraction, the zombie horde limped into view.

The battle was a terrible one. The defenders were backed into a corner, and therefore could not use their mobility to their advantage, but they dare not try to engage such numbers in the open, or they would surely have been surrounded and dragged down. The zombies pressed the gateway, hard, swinging rusted weapons so blindly and clumsily that they were actually difficult to anticipate or parry. Fighting the zombies was less like facing an enemy, and more like trying to stop an overloaded wagon that was slowly rolling down hill. The lesser undead kept advancing, even after being impaled on spears, and when they did finally fall, they crawled and clutched at ankles. Whenever things got too out of control, though, the clerics were able to coordinate their divine barriers to temporarily push them back. Among the zombies was a single undead creature that seemed to stand out. Echo Nightriver directed the defenders attention to it, for it seemed to hang back and move with more purpose than the others. Working its way to the front of the horde, finally, it raised a bony finger at Cedrik. The Lion braced himself in case it was about to cast a spell, but instead it hissed and parted its jaws.

“Orrrrrrrrrderrrrrrrr.” it croaked.

“Target that one!” shouted Echo, “It might be a leader or something!”

Temporarily leaving the safety of the gateway, the adventurers assigned to skirmisher duty charged out and cut the creature down, finishing it off with a blessed weapon, and then quickly returned to the safety of the line. The zombies continued to press their attack, much to the dismay of the defenders.

“Well,” said Echo, “So much for that idea. I’d hoped that maybe killing their leader would have some kind of effect on them.”

“It’s not their leader.” growled Cedrik as he pushed back against the clawing horde of zombies, “It is just a puppet. They are all just puppets. Rotten meat puppets.”

“But that one had some intelligence!” said Venator, “It talked.”

“No!” said Cedrik, “It was just a puppet. Just like the others.”

Cedrik may have had the heart of a Lion, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell them the truth. He knew what that thing was, but he was trying so fiercely to deny it, that he couldn’t tell them. He couldn’t admit it to himself, because deep down inside, he’d already felt it. A spell had been cast, after all.

The careful planning and teamwork of the Myrmidon of Vandregon, the coordination of the cleric’s divine barriers, as well as the daring deeds of the adventurers at the outpost ultimately prevailed, for though the zombies threw wave after wave against the outpost, the gateway never fell, and eventually the undead withdrew.

Venator took accountability of his Myrmidon after the enemy had fallen back. The troops were in bad shape. Their armor was damaged, and many were wounded. To make matters worse, there was no blacksmith at the stockade, and all the clerics were severely depleted of mana from creating divine barriers during the battle. Cedrik immediately set up a work detail to burn the bodies of the zombies, though many of them were so dismembered that it was unlikely they would reanimate.

All they could do now was lick their wounds and pray that there was no second wave.

As the clerics and healers tended to the wounded as best they could, Venator himself took up a position as a guard, relieving one of his men and sending him back within the stockade to get some rest. It seemed to him to be the sort of thing that Sir William would have done. As the makeshift pyres cooled and winked out, the color of the night seemed to change. It was a cold one, and damp. Everything was blue, purple, or black in the pale light of Luna’s fullness. The flickering orange of the campfire was the only tone of warmth, and Venator was too far away to feel the heat. Like the smoldering tendrils of smoke which twisted upwards into the night sky and dampened the stars, Venator watched as his breath steamed up in front of his face. The wind picked up just a little, and he regretted not changing out of his sweaty clothes after the fight.

From within the stockade, the gentle strumming of a stringed instrument carried softly in the night air. One by one, the Soldiers of Vandregon recognized the tune, and began joining in, until even the lips of some of the wounded moved in chorus. It was a song from the Old World.

Kind friends and companions, come join me in rhyme
Come lift up your voices in chorus with mine
Let us drink and be merry, all grief to refrain
For we may and might never all meet here again

Here’s a health to the company and one to my lass
Let us drink and be merry all out of one glass
Let us drink and be merry, all grief to refrain
For we may and might never all meet here again

Here’s a health to the dear lass that I love so well
Her style and her beauty, sure none can excel
There’s a smile upon her countenance as she sits on my knee
Sure there’s no one in in this wide world as happy as we

Our ship lies at harbor, she’s ready to dock
I hope she’s safe landed without any shock
If ever we should meet again by land or by sea
I will always remember your kindness to me.

I WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER YOUR KINDNESS TO ME.

Venator’s vision blurred. The world seemed darker. At the same time, though, the moon shone brighter. Venator saw movement out of the corner of his eye. At first it was just a shadow, but then he recognized a silhouette. He recognized the gait of the man, the way he carried himself, and the sound of his boots. It was Sir William of Vandregon. Venator rose and joined him on the path. As he did so, the two of them began to march. Venator wasn’t sure where they were going, but he would follow his mentor anywhere. Suddenly, the two warriors became aware of movement off to the sides of the road. Ghostly shadows. Wisps of darkness. The grinding of teeth. The flicker of ethereal eyes through trees like the mists of time. It was the black pack of the Great Wolf.

“The Wolf Road!” cried Venator, “Sir William! This is the Wolf Road.”

A long, mournful howl pierced the silence.

“You have led us down the Wolf Road!” said Venator, turning to face his friend.

William did not answer him. Instead, the knight kept walking towards the howling.

“William, stop! Your kind cannot go to him! He will devour you.”

Venator found it difficult to keep up. Soon, he was running. Sir William was still just walking, but somehow seemed to get farther and farther away. Something in the trees began laughing at Venator. It was a horrible, raspy laugh somewhere between that of an old man who smoked too much, and the whine of a dog.

“But one of you has to go.” it hissed, “It is the key. There is only one full moon left.”

Venator jostled himself awake, his shame at nodding off on guard duty suddenly pushing the details of his dream to the back of his mind.

If ever we should meet again by land or by sea
I will always remember your kindness to me.

Venator Dreadfang, normally a very hard person to sneak up on, was startled when Jeremy of Vandregon’s hand suddenly clamped down on his shoulder.

“Venator.” he said, “Cedrick says the Ranger is awake. Go quickly. I’ll take your watch.”

Venator hurried back into the stockade. Cedrick and the Syndar healer were tending to him.

“He awoke very suddenly.” said Cedrik, “He just sat upright and asked about a sword. Now he is out again.”

The man shivered with fever as the Syndar healer dabbed his forehead with a rag. Her companion approached with a cup of hot water from the fire pit. The healer gave her friend some directions to fetch a jar of dried leaves from her luggage and crush them with the mortar and pestle. Within a few minutes, the ingredients had been tied into a cheesecloth and a special tea was brewing.

“This should calm his fits.” said the healer, testing the warmth of the brew with her fingers.

Venator and Cedrick helped pull the Ranger up to a sitting position and leaned him against some packs and bundles so he wouldn’t slump or choke on the tea. The Syndar healer pressed the cup to her patient’s lips and administered it carefully, making sure that the Ranger could swallow on his own.

“We should really change out the poultice over his bite wound, but I don’t have the materials to make a new one. The best I could do for now would be to cover it with a plain bandage until those Ulven return with fireroot, pineed sap, and golden bell leaves.”

“I expect them back in the morning.” said Venator. “Just a few more hours.”

“Aromar.” mumbled the Ranger, “Aromar. Are they safe?”

“Do we know his name?” asked Venator.

“Vladamir said he thought his name was Conner.”

“Ranger Conner,” said Venator, “my name is Venator, Myrmidon of the Army of Vandregon. You are safe and among friends. Can you hear me?”

Conner opened his eyes and struggled to focus.

“The Red and Gray.” he said to himself. “And a Lion of Arnath’s Fist.”

Conner tried to sit up, but he was too weak. The healer steadied him and settled him back against the padding and bundles.

“Where is Aromar?” asked Conner. “Is he here?”

“There is no one by that name here.” said Venator, “We found you unconscious in the swamp. Vladamir was carrying you.”

“We have to find him!” said Conner, “If he is lost, then it was all for naught. He was carrying the blade and the orb.”

“Settle down.” said Cedrick, “It will soon be daylight and we will look for survivors again.”

Conner shuddered and sighed. He tried to get up again, and fell back into the pile of luggage.

“Ranger,” said Cedrick, “listen to me. I am a Lion of the Order of Arnath’s fist. We will find what is lost, but you have to help us understand what we are looking for. You said something about a sword and an orb?”

“I don’t know, exactly.” slurred Conner, closing his eyes, “There are very few of us left on Faedrun. The whole continent is overrun.”

“You’re from Faedrun!?” exclaimed Cedrick.

“Even the mightiest fortresses have fallen,” mumbled the Ranger, “and the grand Army of the Alliance is shattered. We were given a box containing two sacred artifacts which hold great power. We were not supposed to know what was inside, in case our minds were scryed by the lieutenants of the Dark One. We sailed East on a small vessel, barely suitable for the high sea, in order to avoid detection. Our orders were to find the colony of New Hope and deliver the box there along with this message: All is lost. There is no longer life on Faedrun.”

Conner shivered and the healer set up some more tea. Cedrick looked to Jeremy and the healer. As one, they felt their hearts sink. It was Venator who broke the silence.

“Your message has been received, Soldier. Can you tell us about the box?”

“We would have never even known what was in the box, for we were loyal and true to our duty, but then we were attacked by pirates when we landed here. They killed all but two of us. The villains opened the box in front of us, set our vessel adrift, and took us prisoner. They scattered weapons and furs around the landing site to make it look like barbarians did it, but our attackers were Humans. It was months before we escaped. We managed to steal back the blade and the brass orb. They didn’t pursue us. We knew they wouldn’t. The natives in the area surrounding their harbor are hostile barbarians called Grimwards. That red-haired lady-pirate had told us as much, probably to discourage us from leaving.”

Conner snarled and spat.

“A pox on that she-devil and anyone related to her!”

The stockade fell silent.

“Conner,” said Cedrick, “I am going to get some of my books and come back when the light is better. We will try to identify these items of which you speak before we send out another search party this morning. In the meantime, rest. Dawn will break soon.”

“And I will be back with a map, too.” said Venator, “Try to get some sleep.”

Jeremy stopped Cedrick as he turned to walk away.

“Cedrick,” he whispered, “Do you think he tells the truth? Is there no longer life on Faedrun?”

“I don’t know.” replied the Lion of Arnath, “I don’t know.”

“He isn’t the first one to say so.” said Grinli, stepping into the firelight, “Many have said as much over the last several years, but still we cling to hope. I see no reason why this should be any different.”

“We don’t even know if he really is who he says he is.” said the healer.

“An unmanned ship drifted into New Hope earlier this year.” said Venator, “Sir William sent scouts from Vandregon to find their landing site further up the coast. The scouts ventured to the very limits of friendly territory. They reported that there had been a battle just inland of the beach. I believe Connor’s story, and I think that he was one of the survivors from that ship.”

The others exchanged concerned glances.

“None of that matters right now.” said Venator, “We have more immediate problems to worry about. Get some rest. It is sure to be a long day tomorrow.”

The sun had not yet completely broken the horizon when Raskolf and Elise returned with the herbs that the Syndar healer needed for Conner, as well as some basic provisions for Sorcia. Magrat was with them.

*

Patrols set out the next morning to find the Ranger’s comrade. What they found was not encouraging. It was a scene of terrible carnage. Sticky drying blood stained the tall marsh grasses, and flies swarmed all about the gruesome scene. Something had definitely been killed here, most likely by zombies. There was almost nothing left but bones and blood. All other tissue had been stripped away. Cedrick crouched down and examined the carnage. There were scraps of green cloth.

“I think we found poor Aromar.” he said, “This looks to me like the it came from a cloak much like Conner’s.”

Echo Nightriver prodded the tall grass with a stick, uncovering a boot caught in a wire snare. There was a clear path of freshly broken and trampled swamp grass leading up to it.

“He was running for his life and ran straight into this game trap.”

“He must have been exhausted and desperate if he fell prey to such a device. It is unlikely that a Ranger would stumble into such a crude trap, otherwise.” said Vladimir.

“Whoever was chasing him approached along these two trails. The gait is uneven, and something is being dragged; perhaps an injured leg?” said Echo.

“Undead, then, for sure.” nodded Vladimir.

“Something isn’t right.” said Magrat, “This knapsack has been un-buckled and emptied. Zombies lack the coordination to do that.”

“Maybe it was Mordok.” said Elise, staring wide-eyed at the tooth marked bones.

“Or,” said Venator, “those bandits that chased you and Echo yesterday are still in the area. This could have been their game trap. It’s possible that the Undead killed our Ranger and the bandits looted the remains earlier this morning when they checked their snares.”

“If that is the case,” said Magrat, “they cannot have gone far. We may still be able to track them.”

The patrol made its way down to a well traveled trail. Magrat and Echo were able to determine the heading of their quarry thanks to some nicely preserved footprints in the mud. The spacing was normal, so the person they were tracking had been walking at a regular pace. Based on the size of the print, and the fact that the toes pointed slightly out, they guessed that they were following a tall male, most likely human. There were other prints on the trail, too, now, but it was hard to determine how old they were as the morning dew had moistened even dried out tracks with fresh pliability.

The party followed the trail down to the bank of a gently flowing stream. There were no footprints in the muddy embankments to either side.

“Either they crossed here, or they walked up or downstream in the water.” said Echo.

“We’ll never find them now!” whined Elise.

“No.” said Magrat, “They didn’t go down into the water. There are no footprints on this side of the stream either. Look how soft the earth is.”

“Well,” said Cedrick, “where are they then?”

“They are here.” whispered Magrat. We are right on top of them.”

“Fan out in pairs.” said Venator, “Search every bush, brush pile, and tree.”

It was Elise and Echo who flushed the man out of his hiding place. He was carrying a spear in one hand and a bundle of red and green herbs in the other. The party quickly gave chase as he splashed out across a partially flooded field of short growth plants towards the stand of trees immediately opposite. In their enthusiasm, the adventurers failed to notice his comrade sneaking out from beneath the roots of the tree near the embankment and heading off in the opposite direction with a suspicious bundle in his arms.

The lightly equipped bandit nimbly outpaced the more heavily armored Vandregonians, and Cedrick as well, but Echo, Elise, and Magrat were able to better keep up. Echo and Elise chased the bandit down into a draw, but Magrat took a quick survey of the terrain and noted that the lower ground curved around and took the longer way to a clearing. She knew exactly where he was going to come out and where she could head him off.

As Elise and Echo pursued the man, Venator and Cedrick yelled at them not to get too close without the rest of the party. The two Ulven fell back a bit, but by the time the others had caught up, they had lost sight of their quarry. As the draw opened up into grassy wetlands, the adventurers had no idea where he had gone. Elise and Echo pouted.

Out in the cat-tails, Magrat was quite pleased with herself. The thrill of the hunt always took her back to her days on Faedrun, especially when she was successful. She was getting rusty, though. She hadn’t been aiming to kill him when he charged her. She had been aiming to take the fight out of him so she could question him. No problem. She had just the thing for that. It was a spell from the old world. Magrat looked around and listened. She wasn’t supposed to use it here. The Ulven didn’t like it. The others were still pretty far away, though. She could hear Venator and Echo bickering about something in the distance. As long as she was quick about it, no one would ever know. Whoever said that dead men tell no tales obviously had no knowledge of the divine magic.

Echo had finally stopped pouting and started tracking when Magrat popped up from the vegetation and approached the rest of the party.

“He did not have the sword or the orb. His brother has them and headed in the opposite direction when we gave this one chase. They don’t know what they have, but they planned to sell the items in New Aldoria.”

“Where is the prisoner?” asked Venator.

“He died from my arrow.” she said.

“See to the body, Vladimir.” said Cedrick, eyeing the Feral Syndar suspiciously, “We don’t want one more zombie walking this swamp.”

“Yes, sir.”

Vladimir and Jeremy pulled the corpse out of the mud by the boots as Venator watched.

“That’s strange.” thought the Myrmidon to himself, “Shot right in the heart. That would have killed him instantly.”

He looked over his shoulder at Magrat. She avoided eye contact.

Venator looked around at the rest of the party. He wasn’t really sure what to do. They looked disorganized and demoralized.

“What would Sir William do?” he asked himself.

“Alright, men.” he said, mimicking his mentor with the delivery, “Take five to check your gear and drink some water.”

He didn’t really know why, but Sir William of Vandregon used to always tell people to drink water. Now that he was in command for the first time, Venator secretly wondered if it was just something that a leader said when they needed some time to think and get things organized. Just like Sir William, Venator made a point of making sure that everyone actually did drink some water. Doing so somehow gave him purpose and made him realize what he needed to do. He gave the party a few minutes to rest.

“Alright. Now that everyone has had a break, lets gear back up. Magrat says she knows where this bandit is headed, and she is going to track him. Echo and Elise will assist. Echo has some tracking experience, and Elise has sharp eyes. The rest of us will follow behind at a safe enough distance that we don’t make too much noise, but so that we are close enough to intervene if there is trouble. Cedrick will set the pace. Let’s move out.”

The party complied without hesitation. Venator bit his lower lip as he observed them falling into formation. Maybe he was finally getting the hang of this.

*

An hour’s march to the West of the stockade, the Battle Brothers of the Order had set up a forward camp near the Onsallas Village. They did not want to intrude too deeply into the Ulven territory, so they had made their own camp.

“Brother Kanos!” shouted a young man, “Brother Kanos!”

Several humans raised their heads or looked around at the sound of the alarmed voice.

“Yes? What is it?” replied Kanos.

Brother Kanos was a broad shouldered man, wearing a basic tunic and lion emblazoned tabard of the Order of Arnath’s Fist. He set down the box of supplies he had been moving and ran towards the messenger.

“Brother Kanos! The Eagles bring news, the Lich has been sighted. It is here, in the swamp, and it is close. They are tailing it now.” yelled the young man.

“Finally!” boomed Kanos, “This hunt comes to a close. Brothers! Prepare for battle, we move out immediately.”

Kanos ran towards his tent and began to don his armor. The small camp exploded into action as Battle Brothers and the volunteer militia of the Order prepared for battle.

A younger man jogged towards the tent, his healer’s robe swishing around him as he went.

“Kanos,” he said, “why do we move out so quickly? We should send Eagles to call in the other Battle Brothers and allies in the nearby settlements. Cedrick would not want to miss out on this chance now that we are so close.”

It was customary in the Order to address each other by the title Brother before their name, but in this case it was not needed. Kanos was the older and more experienced brother amongst three siblings. Cedrick was the middle brother and Mahlik the youngest. The fact that blood bound them together gave Mahlik a bit of leeway outside of the traditional customs of the Order, such as properly addressing one’s superiors or giving them tactical advice.

“Brother Mahlik, we move immediately. This has been the first confirmed sighting since the spring and the Lich is on the move. This is the best opportunity we have to ending it for good. I won’t lose it by sitting back and letting it slip through my fingers.” said Kanos as a novice helped him strap on his platemail bracers.

He had already put on his gambeson and chainmail and would soon be covered head to toe in full metal armor.

“Brother Kanos, don’t you think it wise to bring all of our battle brothers together for this in case we need them? We have yet to get in contact with Aeden. The Masters sent us out here to find him too.” replied Mahlik.

“Enough, Brother.” said Kanos, “Your concerns are valid, but I have made my decision. Without other greater undead or a gravestone powering it, the Lich will be weak enough that we can end the plague now on Mardrun before it has a chance to even truly begin. Send a message to Cedrick and let him know that I will meet you both back here tomorrow evening. This ends tonight.”

Kanos finished buckling on his platemail breastplate and grabbed his great helm from the stand in his tent. Even without his armor, Kanos was a mountain of a man and in full platemail he truly dwarfed most of his fellow battle clerics.

“Wait, brother, I am going with you!” protested Mahlik. “I am not going to stay in camp while you hunt down the Lich.”

“Brother, you know your place is here.” he said, hefting his tower shield. “You are new to the studies and this fight will be dangerous, even if the Lich is weakened. Oversee the camp and prepare for our return. We will likely have wounded in need of your skills.”

“But…”

“That is an order, Brother Mahlik.”

*

Back in the Dirge swamp, the adventurers were hot on the tail of the other bandit. He was giving them a heck of a chase, though, taking full advantage of his lighter kit and his knowledge of the area. The more heavily armored Vandregonians were starting to fall behind. He was almost in the clear. All he had to do was cross the bridge and cut the ropes behind him and he would be home free. By the time they worked their way across, he’d be to the open pond and paddling his brother’s boat out of sight. He ran parallel to the stream, nearer and nearer to the bridge with every step, while the red and gray fell further and further behind. He grinned to himself as he jogged along the muddy bank. As he gazed out across the field across the way, however, something was wrong. There were Ulven on the other side! He couldn’t cross. The bridge was too exposed. Veering off to the left, he desperately sought the concealment of the brambles and hoped he hadn’t been spotted. He didn’t know where to go. Panic gripped him, then, as his only plan of escape crumbled before his eyes. He was too exhausted to think rationally, and his chest burned in the chilly autumn air. He took cover in a bush and tried to size up his situation. He could see the footmen of Vandregon in the distance to the South, and he could barely see the Ulven further off on the other side of the river to the Northwest. He pulled his hair and tried to let his thoughts catch up with him. His thoughts never caught up with him, but the green Syndar and the two Ulven girls he had forgotten about did. Finding himself surrounded, the bandit drew his short sword and desperately charged the smallest of the girls, figuring that she would be the easiest to get past. He was wrong. Elise Vakr, daughter of Raskolf and Anjan, moved like lightning, side stepping his clumsy charge, and hamstringing him with her blade as he stumbled by. Clutching his leg, the man begged for mercy, but then lunged to grab Elise when she knelt to get her healing supplies out. Arrows from both Magrat and Echo whizzed by her and dropped him flat on his back where he wheezed his last breath.

The men of Vandregon and the Ulven Longfang Hunting party passed within yelling distance of each other on opposite sides of the stream, but neither ever knew.

As Venator and Cedrick caught up to the trackers, they were greeted by Magrat. Echo and Elise had already unwrapped the bundle. It contained an ornate sword with an unusual pommel shaped like a lion, as well as a large brass orb which had a certain warmth to it, despite the chill of autumn that permeated all other things metal this time of year.

From his studies the night before, Cedrick recognized immediately what the items were.

The orb was an activator, or key. It attuned a magic item to an individual and allowed them to unlock its power. The sword was a sacred artifact from the May’Kar Dominion. It was a Paladin Blade.

“What is it?” asked Venator.

“It is a holy weapon from a lost kingdom of the Old World, it is the bane of the Undead, and it is the key to our salvation in the face of the Lich.”

Venator frowned.

“The key, you say?”

“Yes.” said Cedrick, “Both literally and figuratively. It is the key.”

A chill ran down Venator’s spine.

Bundling the items back into the blanket roll, Venator hoisted them over his shoulder.

“Come on.” he said, “We’ve a long road ahead of us.”

“You want me to carry that?” offered one of the footmen.

“No.” said Venator, “I will carry it.”

*

Raskolf was waiting for the adventurers back at the stockade with Conner. Venator approached the wounded Ranger’s cot and handed the bundle to him. Conner hugged the sword and the key close to his chest and sighed.

“Thank the gods.” he said, “But where is…”

Venator shook his head.

“I’m sorry, friend. Aromar is dead.”

Vladimir approached his fellow Vandregonian and offered to pray with him, but Conner asked to be left alone.

Raskolf pulled Venator and Vladimir aside. A small hunting party of Longfangs had arrived just prior to their return. The Longfangs had news, and it wasn’t good. The Lich had established a gravestone.

“What does it do?” asked Venator.

“The gravestone leeches the life energy from everything around it and stores dark mana for the Lich to channel.” said Cedrik, “With such a blasphemous totem in the area, the amount of mana that the Lich can draw upon is nearly limitless.”

“I’m afraid that there is more bad news from the Longfangs.” said Raskolf, “The zombies you fought last night were but a small vanguard of the Undead Army assembled by the Lich. It grows stronger every day. The only thing keeping it from exploding out of control is the fact that my people have always burned the dead, rather than bury them, so there are no graveyards in these lands for them to draw from.”

“This is ominous news indeed.” said Venator, “What about the blade, Lion? You said that it was the key to our salvation.”

“It very well may be.” said Cedrik.

“Well,” said Raskolf, “How does it work?”

“That’s the problem.” said Cedrick, “I don’t know. I don’t know how to activate it, nor do I know how to channel that kind of power safely. The amount of mana that this blade is reputed to be able to pull from the lifestream all at once is astronomical. Only the Paladins of the May’Kar dominion possessed the knowledge and discipline to master such a powerful divine conduit without destabilizing their own essence.”

“Speak Common, cleric.” grumbled Venator.

“He means that channeling upon the power of that artifact would be like getting hit by lightning.” said Vladimir, “It would likely kill the wielder instantly.”

“I see.” said Venator, “Can we use it at all?”

“I’m sorry,” said Cedrick, “I am more of a warrior than a scholar. I am identifying it solely from a sketch in a book. I don’t even know how to activate it.”

“Are there any who still do?” asked Vladimir.

“The May’Kar may be long gone, but the independent Syndar enclave of the Phoenix still exist.” said Cedrick, “Their two cultures shared much with each other before the fall of the Dominion and the exodus of the Phoenix. If anyone would know how, perhaps they would.”

“Chow is on!” shouted Sorcia, “Come and get it while it’s hot!”

The garrison at Onsallas hurried off to get what they could before the Longfangs ate all the meat out of the stew and devoured all the butterhorns.

Cedrick pulled out his parchment and charcoal, and sat down to eat a bowl of stew and have a well deserved mug of cider. He was beginning to draft a letter in his head, telling his brothers about his discoveries in the Dirge swamp. The presence of the gravestone was dire news indeed. As he pulled off his boots to pour out the swamp water, Sorcia approached him with a sealed piece of parchment.

“Letter from the Hawk service.” she said, “Postage paid by sender.”

“Thank you.” said Cedrick.

Meanwhile, there was a commotion over by the healer’s campsite. The Syndar had been accused of stealing and hiding the artifacts from the Ranger after he had dozed off on their cot, and then trying to ransom them back to the adventurers. Steel had been drawn, and threats made, but Raskolf, the Ulven Ambassador, had defused the situation.

Cedrick watched from a distance and shook his head as he ate his lunch. Dipping his bread in the stew, he pushed an entire roll into his mouth and broke the wax seal on his letter. A few seconds passed and he stopped chewing.

“No, no no!” protested Cedrick, nearly choking on his bread as he read the message sent from the Order’s encampment.

The look of horror on his face was enough to rattle anyone around him. He read the words written by his younger brother, Mahlik, that the Battle Brothers were marching against the Lich at that very moment. Cedrick understood the decision. Kanos was making the best judgement call based on the information he had, but there was one very critical piece that was missing. It had just been discovered by the Pack Longfang hunters of the Onsallas village. The Lich was not weakened from months of being on the run. The Lich had killed enough people to make a small army, and harnessed enough dark mana to create a gravestone. The gravestone fed the Lich all the dark mana it needed to be at full strength, and Kanos was marching on it with a small group of battle brothers. There was nothing Cedrick could do to help. It was too late. The Order was already on the move.

“Unless,” thought Cedrick, “we can interrupt the source of its power.”

His Brother’s maneuver could create an opportunity for them. The Lich would respond to the attack and move away from the gravestone. It was dangerous but he knew that he could help his brother by attacking the gravestone. Cedrick grabbed the recently recovered May’Kar Paladin’s artifacts and ran off to meet with the Vandregon Soldiers of the garrison and the group of adventurers that had helped retrieve the sacred blade.

*

“Hold your line, Brothers!” roared Kanos as the wave of undead slammed into the Order’s shield wall.

Kanos was in the middle of the line with two other Lions at his side. The flanks of the wall were made up of more lightly armored Starkhaven militia. The far flank was held by another fully armored Lion so that the discipline of the line would hold even if they took losses. The zombies pressed in on the line, their stiffly curled hands clawing broken fingernails across the tower shields of the Order. They groaned and pressed, and reached over the shields to grab at the humans, but the men of Starkhaven maintained their line and held their ground. After the initial wave had hit and lost momentum, weapons flashed out as swords and hammers crashed down on the undead. Again and again, the steel weapons of the Order struck out to chip and grind away at the dark energy that kept each corpse together.

Kanos expected the Lich to have zombies guarding him but he didn’t expect he would have quite this many. The shield wall containing the lions and militia were being pressed hard by horde of zombies about two times their size. They were doing well holding the line and even managed to drop a handful of the zombies already. Kanos knew that most of them would rise again, but knocking them down was a sign of progress. Repeatedly, the lion-etched warhammer rained down on the bodies in front of his shield, smashing aside the zombies and shattering dried bits of flesh from their dessicated bodies. Kanos glanced to his right and saw two militia members get grappled, the sheer number of undead dragging them to the ground. One zombie had already sank its teeth into the shoulder and neck of a lightly armored volunteer as he cried out in pain. Kanos knew it was time.

“Brother Geshin, now!” yelled Kanos as he hammered a zombie in the face and heaved another back with his shield.

The Lion to Kanos’ left dropped back and cast his shield aside to mutter a divine prayer. Brother Geshin finished the prayer by shooting his arms out perpendicular to his body and casting a divine barrier. The sudden aura of divine energy pushed the undead on the shield wall back. The zombies currently grappling the two fallen militia men reeled in shock as holy energy wracked their forms and they were brutally cut to pieces by the other men of the shield wall. As they fell writhing to the ground, the Lions of the Order finished them with blessed weapons and dispelled the dark energy holding the corpses together. The bloodied militia men clenched their teeth in pain as they staggered back to resume their positions in the shield wall. With the divine barrier giving them some respite, the Lions began to bless their weapons again or rejuvenate their comrades with divine energy. The fight was long from over but the Order was prepared for this. The Lions stepped forward and began to strike at the undead from the safety of the barrier.

“Brothers, I can maintain the barrier for a bit long-GURK!” started Brother Geshin, before his words were cut short and ended in a gurgled cry.

Kanos spun around to see Brother Geshin fall to his knees. Geshin’s arms faltered as blood gushed out of the smoking hole in the side of his breastplate. He wheezed, and coughed a voiceless and bloody cry as he dropped the barrier that had been protecting the group. Brother Kanos watched as Geshin collapsed lifelessly to the ground, clutching at the empty sky. Behind the fallen Lion stood the Lich, clad in tattered black, its hand still extended from casting the death bolt that smote Brother Geshin. Flanking the Lich were several undead bodyguards. These armored undead held weapons and shields, and moved with intelligence and speed surpassing the common zombies of the horde. Knowing they had stepped into a trap was bad enough, but after witnessing the sheer power of the Lich and his greater undead guards, Kanos knew that something was wrong. The Lich was not in a weakened state. It must have created a gravestone in the swamp. Mahlik was right. Kanos should have listened to him.

“Behind us!” roared Kanos as he shifted his tower shield. The armored Lion holding the left flank stepped in towards the Lich and cast a divine spell.

“Divine ba…” was all he managed to say before the Lich flicked a wrist out and rammed the cleric in the chest with a magical push.

The Lion flew backwards, away from the line, and crashed into the zombies on the other side. In seconds they were on him. Several bodies piled on top of the Lion and the sheer weight pinned him to the ground. Teeth broke and rotten fingernails tore upon his plate-mail. The heavy armor would keep him alive for a while but it was only a matter of time before the ravening horde found the chinks in his armor. The cleric was unarmed, having lost his weapon and shield when he was pushed back.

The Lich stepped in towards the lines. Kanos charged, slamming his warhammer into the creature several times before he too was blasted with a kinetic push that sent him flying backwards, rolling and bouncing as he went. Kanos crashed into the zombie horde, his massive figure sending them flying like bowling pins. In moments other zombies descended upon him like they did the previous Lion, and Kanos was in a desperate struggle. He couldn’t see anything except for some part of the inside of his great helm other than the visor. He could hear rotting nails screeching on his shield and armor and the grating and wet cracking of broken teeth on the platemail gorget protecting his neck. Roaring in rage, the Lion warrior shoved several zombies aside and began to blindly attack with his hammer from the ground. Every swing landed on his opponents but there were just too many of them.

Just then, one of the militia members charged in and tried to clear the zombies away. He was brave, but his action would cost him his life. Rotten and withered arms reached out and grabbed him, pulling him closer into the mass of undead on top of Kanos. The lightly armored militia man was dragged down, screaming for help, until he fell on top of Kanos’ tower shield. The zombies tore into the man, clawing and biting and tearing his flesh. Within moments the man was torn to shreds, his entrails and blood pouring down onto Kanos and his armor all at once, like someone had dumped out a bucket at a slaughterhouse. While the undead feasted on the man’s body on top of Kanos, The Lion continued to struggle to find a way out from the tangled horde. He was able to turn to his side and get one arm and one leg under him. With every ounce of strength he had, Kanos roared and power lifted up, sending several zombies flying through the air and crashing into the swamp around him. He lost his tower shield somewhere under the mass of bodies, but there was no time to retrieve it.

Covered in swamp muck and gore, Kanos fixed his helm and finally got a glimpse of how the fight was going. The Lion taken to the ground had stopped struggling and had either suffocated or been torn to shreds, his body still covered in a mass of undead. Brother Geshin stared into the sky with dead eyes. A handful of militia were still standing, bloodied and fighting back to back, while others struggled on the ground with their attackers. Several more lay on the ground motionless. Brother Dayson was struggling, trying to fight one of the Lich’s guards and block its attacks. He would have been doing well if it were not for the zombie that had grappled his back and was tearing into his exposed shoulder where his armor had been broken open. Judging by his slow movements, Brother Dayson would soon fall. The final Lion was maintaining a divine barrier, giving the last couple militia time to regroup. It was working until the Lich stepped forward and blasted a hand sized fist through the Lion’s thigh with a bolt of death and black energy. The Lion went down in a scream of pain and the undead wasted no time shambling into attacking range.

They were losing, fast, and everything that led up to this moment fueled Kanos’ rage. He walked forward with a growl and bellowed a prayer to Arnath before calling forth the flow of mana.

“I am his shield and his strength! I banish you with divine wrath!” Kanos yelled as he pressed his palms out towards the nearest zombie in his way.

The air rippled with energy as a blast of pure divine power burst out and slammed into the zombie, ripping the dark energy from its body and sending it tumbled into a broken mass of flesh some fifteen feet away. He stepped past the body and walked quickly towards Brother Dayson who finally collapsed under the wounds sustained by the lich guard’s rusty blade. A zombie stepped in Kanos’ way but a full on punch to the temple with a plate gauntlet sent the zombie crashing to the ground and Kanos never broke stride.

“I am the light in the darkness! I banish you with divine wrath!” Kanos yelled again as he pressed his palms out towards the back of the guard.

It never even saw him as the second divine blast cracked its spine and ripped apart its body. The broken lich guard sailed through the air over Brother Dayson’s body and crumpled when it landed. With the guard fallen, there was nothing standing between Kanos and his intended target… the Lich. Even at full strength, a Lich would be severely damaged by the pure and raw energy of his god’s divine wrath, and Kanos had enough mana and hatred to pummel it again and hopefully finish the job. As Kanos stopped close enough for the spell to work he began to call upon the flow of mana. The Lich turned to face him but it was too late. Kanos was too close.

“I am a Lion of Arnath’s Fist! I banish you from this realm with divine wrath!” Kanos yelled as he pushed the energy straight into the Lich.

The blast slammed into its chest and it reeled back several steps, shrieking as the dark energy keeping it animated was almost torn completely from its body. It was not enough to destroy it outright, but the blast wounded it badly. Knowing it would take more, Kanos wasted no time in channeling forth more mana.

“Not here, not again, Lich! For my fallen Battle Brothers! I banish you from this realm with divine wrath!” roared Kanos as he dug deep into his faith and harnessed the raw power of his god’s wrath.

His rage at losing Brothers to the lich helped harness the energy, and Kanos hated the Lich with the core fibers of his being. In the split second it took Kanos to extend his arms towards the Lich, though, a lich guard rushed in and placed its own body in between the Lich and Kanos. Instead of releasing his god’s wrath into the Lich again, the lich guard’s body took the blast at point blank range. The attack instantly shattered the corpse, destroying it outright and sending it tumbling away. Kanos stumbled in surprise at what happened and then regained his composure to call upon more mana.

“You will not escape judgement! I banish you with div…” was all Kanos could get out as a prismatic blast of energy struck him head on and cut him short.

The Lich had stunned him with a simple, rudimentary arcane spell and Kanos stumbled backwards clutching his head. For what seemed like an eternity, the only thing that Kanos could comprehend was piercing light and the muffled sounds of all that was around him. The sound of the militia being torn limb from limb, the gnashing teeth on fresh bloody meat, the sword screeching through the plate armor of Brother Dayson as he was finished off, and the slowed beating of Kanos’s own heart under the effects of the spell. During the final dying breaths of a brave few, ten seconds can seem like forever.

When his senses returned to normal, Kanos opened his eyes to the extended palm of the Lich at his chest. Time returned to normal speed. A kinetic blast of energy rammed him in the gut and sent him flying backwards into the dirt. He landed with a thud and his great helm was knocked clean off his head. With a hacking cough, Kanos regained his breath and tried to stand. The Lich walked closer to him and summoned forth blue tinted energy in its hands. Flicking its wrists forward, it assaulted the cleric with bolts of energy that struck him as hard as any forged blade. The furious rain of bolts dented and bent his armor and rent his flesh until finally one cracked his breasplate and tore into his stomach. Blood oozed out of the cleric’s armor and he knew the wound was deep.

“Cedrick… Mahlik… I am sorry. I should have listened…” choked Kanos as he looked at the pool of his own blood forming at his feet.

He was mortally wounded and there was only one thing left to do.

“I pray that you somehow know that I died a good death. I am Arnath’s Fist!” roared Kanos as he filled himself with intense rage and charged at the Lich, completely ignoring his grievous wounds.

His death was imminent, but he would not meet it while on his knees.

*

The adventurers and the men of Vandregon moved briskly down the trail to where the gravestone had been spotted by the hunters.

“I fail to understand why you want to bring archers along to fight the undead.” said Venator, “You said yourself that arrows do them no harm.”

“They don’t,” said Cedrick, “but they distract them and get their attention. The most important part of a battle plan is maneuverability. The undead may be mighty, but they are slow moving and even slower witted.”

“I think I understand.” said Raskolf, “If we can control where they go, then we should take full advantage of that. Tell me about this gravestone.”

“It is a magical construct designed to store large amounts of dark mana and negative energy. The area immediately surrounding it will be so blighted that to merely set foot upon that unholy ground will cause terrible burns and an agonizing death to anyone who gets close.”

“How can we destroy it if we can’t get near it?”

“Our divine barrier spells can protect us, but that is a stationary spell. We cannot move once it is cast.” said Vladimir.

“You will have to leapfrog the spells to get us into range, then.” said Raskolf, “We have three clerics between you, Magrat, and Cedrick. The divine barrier will also keep the undead guards at bay. Everyone will need to cluster together in the center of the spells radius.”

“We won’t all fit.” said Magrat.

“We don’t need to.” said Raskolf, “I want the archers to go just outside of the blighted area and try to draw the zombie guards away with their arrows. You will be with us, though, of course. We need your divine magic more than we need your archery.”

“The problem is,” said Cedrick, “That we will waste quite a bit of mana just getting to the gravestone.”

“We might not have enough to complete the necessary ritual to destroy the gravestone.” said Magrat. It is going to be close.”

“I don’t see that we have a better plan at the moment.”

“Once the ritual is complete,” said Cedrick, “the blight will be lifted from the area, but it is likely that we will no longer have any mana to maintain our barriers. If there are still undead in the area, we will be vulnerable to them.”

“That is why the more heavily armed warriors will be inside the circle with you.” said Raskolf, “We will protect you with shields and spears.”

The gravestone was in the middle of a large clearing, surrounded by undead guards. The Human and Ulven archers moved out along the flanks first, and seemed to be able to draw a good number of the zombies away from the gravestone with their arrows. The clerics wasted no time leapfrogging the core group towards their objective. They were about halfway to the stone when a terrible scream pierced the air. Elise peered out from behind her father’s shield and looked on in horror as one of the archers on the right flank panicked and accidently let herself get chased into the blighted area. The woman died a horrible shrieking death as her flesh boiled from her bones and blackened the corrupted earth.

Her death rattle sent a shiver down Vladimir’s spine and the memory of his caravan being attacked by the undead nearly broke his concentration.”

“Keep your eyes on the target, cleric! We must keep moving!” yelled Raskolf, “Don’t let yourselves get distracted, people.”

As the core group closed with the gravestone, they met little resistance. Occasionally, a zombie would throw itself against the outside of the divine barrier, swinging a weapon wildly through the outer radius, but the little circular shield wall held, and protected the casters from the clumsy blows. The divine barrier prevented the undead from setting foot close enough to be a real threat. The closer the adventurers got to the gravestone, however, the more undead they encountered, and the harder it got to move. The amount of force that the undead were placing on the divine barriers with their relentless press began to drain more and more mana from the clerics, who became increasingly tired. Eventually, the archers on the flanks could do little to keep the attention of their enemies, and the undead all began to converge on the core group. As they finally reached the gravestone, the horde of undead was relentless in their attack, slamming their bodies into the invisible barrier again and again and swinging rusted weapons into the shields of the warriors inside it. Raskolf’s spear flashed out again and again in to the horde, and Venator parried their blows as fast as he could, but the zombies seemed to be reaching further and further into the barrier every second. As warriors began to fall within the circle, Elise worked as fast as she could to bandage their wounds and send them back into the fight. They couldn’t hold out forever. The ritual was taking too long, and the cleric’s defenders were slowly being ground down.

“You people are the slowest clerics I have ever seen.” snarled Raskolf, “If my mate, Anjan, was here, she’d have destroyed this thing in about two minutes and then banished all these abominations with rays of sunlight or bolts of lightning by now.”

“Now I know where the little one gets it from.” thought Cedrick to himself, trying not to be distracted by the Ulven commentary.

“It’s cause their gods are weak, father.” said Elise, parrying a wild swing with her little buckler.

“You’d better hope not!” shouted Cedrick as he channeled divine energy into the gravestone, “Because right now, my faith is what is…”

Cedrick trailed off as he realized for the first time, that Magrat, the feral Syndar was the one performing the ritual alongside him and it began to sink in. Back on Faedrun, the Order and Magrat’s Lost Syndar tribe had been bitter enemies, and their difference in faith was but one of the reasons they went to war. Yet here they were, channeling divine magic together to fight a true evil.

“Vladamir!” shouted Venator, “Look out!”

One of the warriors protecting them took a solid blow from a zombie that lunged partially into the barrier and slammed into his shield, causing the fighter to stumble back into the cleric, who was sent tumbling by the force of the impact. Vladimir tried to maintain his protective spell as he was knocked over, but the divine barrier faltered for just a moment and shifted, allowing a single zombie to grab a hold of Cedrick and drag him feet first towards the blighted area. Filthy, broken fingernails clutched at the Lion and his legs suddenly erupted in pain as though they were being cooked from the inside out and sparks of black and purple energy danced across his armor. Cedrick screamed in anguish. Seeing all hope of completing their mission crumbling before his eyes, Venator reached down deep, found the spirit of the wolf within him, and let it take hold. He frenzied.

Before the zombies could drag Cedrick any further out of the faltering barrier, the berserk Ulven warrior crashed into them and sent them tumbling. Cedrick took advantage of the distraction to try to get up, but his legs didn’t work. Instead, he put his arms out and gave the last of his mana to casting a divine barrier. Strong hands clamped down on his shoulders and under his armpits as the other warriors pulled him back into the center of the group.

Meanwhile, Venator’s body appeared to burn with purple fire from the blight as he stormed through the ranks of undead, hacking off limbs and trampling them as he raged. Elise marveled as his eyes glowed with the raw energy of nature and all things wild and somehow the fire of the blight did not consume him.

“What’s happening?” cried Elise.

“The berserk rage is a divine gift from the Great Wolf!” shouted Raskolf, “It is somehow protecting him, but it will not last for long!

“Vladimir!” said Cedrick, “Finish the ritual with Magrat! It is almost done! I will hold the barrier!”

Vladimir wasted no time taking Cedrick’s place.

Elise watched in horror as the berserk fury left Venator and he collapsed in a heap. As the light faded and he closed his eyes, the blight began to singe his clothing and burn his hair.

“No!” she screamed, “No!”

The ritual was almost done, but as Raskolf looked out for the flanking archers, he saw a small groups of zombies feasting upon something in the tall grass. Then he spotted Vandregonian archers in the woodline just to the North of the blighted area. They were holding short swords, so they must have run out of arrows.

Cedrick was beginning to get very dizzy, and his vision was becoming spotty.

Vladimir and Magrat read the last line of the ritual from Cedrick’s parchment scroll, and the gravestone suddenly cracked asunder, spilling white-hot energy from its rune covered surface, and erupting dark mana into the heavens in a searing lance of purple and black light.

The blight was dispelled, and the two clerics collapsed, unconscious, in front of the ruined stone.

They weren’t out of the woods yet, however. They were still surrounded by zombies with wounded and unconscious party members on their hands.

“Raskolf,” croaked Cedrick, “Get them out of here. I’ll hold the barrier and keep them distracted.
“I’m not leaving you.”

“Then you will have to come back for me. There aren’t enough of you to carry all of us.”

“I will stay with him father,” said Elise, “And tend to his legs. We will be safe inside the divine barrier.”

“Very well.” said Raskolf, “We will carry the wounded out towards the archers. Once we have handed them off, we will return for you, Cedrick, and retrieve Venator’s body as well.”

The adventurers left the protection of the divine barrier, working together to carry the load and moving as quickly as they could to evacuate their wounded and unconscious compatriots. Some of the zombies started to give chase, but lost interest and instead returned to stalk the two people inside the divine barrier. One of the zombies seemed to turn its attention to Venator’s body.

As Cedrick stared out in horror, he realized that Venator wasn’t dead. The badly burned berserker began to move, then tried to get up, and weakly stumbled about on his knees, groping the earth in front of him as if he couldn’t see.

“He’s blind and dazed from the blight!” said Cedrick.

Elise tried to call him towards the barrier, but he didn’t seem to hear her.

If they didn’t do something, the Ulven warrior would be eaten alive.

“Elise!” said Cedrick, “I need you to run out and get Venator.”

“You mean bring him back into the barrier, right?” said Elise.

“Yes.”

“Ok.” she said, “Here I go.”

Nothing happened. She didn’t move.

“Well!?” said Cedrick, “Go!”

“I’m scared!” cried the little Ulven girl.

Elise had grown up fighting Mordok, and been raised in a warrior culture, yet the undead terrified her more than any of the monsters she had ever faced before. Perhaps it was because these zombies just didn’t die, no matter how much you threw at them, nor did they feel any pain, nor did they tire. Their single-mindedness and relentlessness was so unnatural that it terrified her.

Cedrick struggled as his arms threatened to fall, the sheer weight of maintaining so many divine barriers proving to be too much.

“Elise, it’s ok, they can’t hurt us if my arms are up. The barrier will hold them back. Trust me, they can’t get you, you are too fast. Go over and help Venator get back here where it is safe.” said Cedrick through gritted teeth.

The Ulven girl was clearly terrified now that her father wasn’t looking over her shoulder. Venator was stumbling further away from them every second, and the zombies were switching their attention to him. Cedrick had to think of something, fast.

“I guess weak gods spawn weak children.” said Cedrick.

“What?” squeaked Elise.

“All this talk about how strong and proud your people are and how great your gods are, but here you are, cowering under the protection of a foreign god, about to let a great Ulven hero die a horrible death right in front of you.”

“Stop it!” shouted Elise.

“Maybe your people will write one of those dreadful drinking songs about this.”

“Shut up!” shouted Elise. “I’m not a coward!”

The little Ulven girl sheathed her sword, picked up her buckler, and charged straight out at Venator, easily dodging the slow and clumsy zombies as she ran.

Cedrick watched in relief as she took Venator by the hand and tried to lead him back.

But something was wrong. In his confusion, Venator was pulling her in the wrong direction, and further away from the barrier. The zombies were closing in. Cedrick’s mind raced. Had he just sent that little girl to her death? He had to think of something.

Cedrick looked down at his mangled legs, wounded from the corruption of the gravestone, and remembered the Revenant’s curse from the night before. He knew then, that he was not getting out of there alive. He could still do something to help, however.

“Elise!” he yelled, “Don’t come back this way, just take him as far away from here in whatever direction you can!”

Elise looked back in horror as Cedrick dropped his arms and dispelled his divine barrier.

“Hey! Over here! Come on! Face me!” yelled Cedrick.

The zombies turned to the noise. With fresh meat helpless and within reach, the undead surrounding Cedrick moved in for the kill, and the ones pursuing Elise and Venator abandoned their chase to go after the Lion, instead.

As Raskolf and the others dragged the wounded farther into the swamp, they heard Brother Cedrick yelling a prayer to his god in defiance as the zombie horde descended upon him. Raskolf handed over his casualty and ran back towards the sound as fast as he could. He was relieved to see Elise and Venator safely stumbling away from the carnage that was unfolding by the ruined gravestone, and he ran to intercept them.

“Run straight back to the others.” he said to Elise and Venator, who was starting to become coherent, though his vision was still blurry.

Raskolf wasted no time. He charged straight back towards the gory scene near the gravestone and shouted defiantly at the zombies, banging his sword against his shield.

*

The Lich snarled in disgust at the fallen men of Starkhaven. The big Lion had been more powerful than the Master of Necromancy had expected. He had actually managed to hurt the Lich pretty badly. Fortunately, he wasn’t terribly clever, and the Lich was able to defeat him with the most simple and rudimentary of Arcane spells. “Stunning” someone was much faster to cast then a “Divine Banishment”. Though the Lion of Arnath’s Fist had been packing some serious firepower, the Lich was faster on the draw, and had therefore won their showdown.

The Master of Necromancy was feeling pretty good about out-foxing these foolish mortals, and now his Army would grow even larger.

Everything was going according to plan.

Suddenly, something was wrong. The Lich could feel it.

“No.” it hissed, “NO!”

In the distance, a purple and black lance of negative energy and dark mana cut across the horizon and caused the clouds to fork with purple lightning. The unholy creature shuddered as the channels linking it to some of its creatures began to falter, and entire squads of zombies suddenly lost their purpose and began mindlessly milling about on the battlefield, eating each other, or trying to get out of the sun.

“So,” thought the Lich, clenching its claws with a dusty crackle, “It is I who have been out-foxed.”

The Master of Necromancy drew its hood over it’s skull. From deep within the darkened recesses, it’s eyes burned like red stars.

This was but one battle, and there were more to come.

*

Raskolf circled back again, drawing off the slowly shambling zombies and patiently moving them across the field and away from the body of Cedrick, like a wolf baiting another creature away from a kill.

Sprinting past them before they could even turn, he had almost reached the abandoned body of Cedrick the Lion when he spotted a girl lying in the tall grass, bloodied and unmoving. It was Elise’s friend, Echo Nightriver. She was still alive, but barely. Hoisting her slender frame up on his shoulder, she whimpered as he continued running and the impact of his every step jostled her body. They reached the place where Cedrick had fallen.

There wasn’t much left. Raskolf retrieved the artifacts, but the body was no longer in a solid enough state for him to carry, even if he hadn’t already found Echo.

“We will return for you, Brother Cedrick.“ he said, “Thank you for your noble sacrifice. Thank you for saving my daughter.”

Raskolf didn’t believe in taking things from the dead, but that taboo was one of the things that had gotten them into trouble when the Lich first appeared on Mardrun. He wasn’t going to keep the blade or the orb, either. He just needed to return them to the Humans.

*

The moon was still full that night.

Magrat stared silently down upon the man she had known for only a few days. His body was torn and sprawled, the white lion on his chest spattered with blood.

That it should come to this. The Longfang had become a second home to her, but they could never replace her tribe, her family. That this human should be her closest link to her people, it would be hilarious if it wasn’t so damn depressing.

Though she was exhausted from the breaking of the Gravestone and and the healing of the Ulven girl, she had work to do, and could not rest.

As silently as she could, she gathered the dead human and his belongings and laid him on a hasty but servicable pyre.

She bowed her head over him, and chanted quietly, invocking the spirits of the land and his ancestors to guide him on his final journey. She prayed for the man whose order had been her people’s enemies for far longer than she had been alive.

“Spirits grant this man honor,

Guide his feet as he journey’s home,

Tell him we honor him,

For an honoured enemy

Is as good as an honoured friend”

She took up her ritual knife and took some of him, taking some of his strength and power into herself.

She took his lion’s tabard, torn and bloody, before setting the pyre ablaze. It might attract the mordok or any zombie’s remaining in the area, but Cedrick would not return, and was laid to rest.

It would take the messenger a few days to find the nearest Order group. The package contained Cedrick’s tabard, and a message, carefully written with the help of some of the more formally educated at the Outpost. At the bottom of the message was a small note:

“We honored him as we did in the past, and set him on his pyre.” Signed was a sigil of the Lost, and she hoped that there would still be a veteran among their number who remembered how the Lost honoured their dead. A grave insult and a grave honor all at once.

***

It had been four days.

“Brother Mahlik? ” asked one of the Order’s camp followers from the tent opening.

“Yes?” said Mahlik from the small portable desk in his tent.

Mahlik had taken to studying scrolls and texts to busy his mind and he had a number of them opened and held down by rocks. He was reading by candlelight since it was well into the evening. His brothers should be back by now. He knew it even if he refused to admit it.

“The others are worried that if the Mordok attack, now, we will not be able to stop them. We are near Onsallas, but not close enough to be protected by our Ulven allies.” said the worker uncomfortably.

Mahlik knew that he should not have waited this long and that to stay any longer was endangering everyone left in the camp. He could not shake the feeling that if he gave in and stopped waiting for their return that it would finally make it real. To give up and leave would admit that his brothers were dead.

“You’re right. We have waited long enough. Start taking down the camp. We will move to the outpost in the morning and link up with allies or other Order members there.” said Mahlik.

The worker nodded and left. Mahlik set down the scroll he was pretending to read and stared blankly into the flickering light of the candles, lost in his inner thoughts.

Spring: Year 261

Inside the Hall of Haygreth Grimward, a young Daughter of Gaia worked desperately to heal the warriors of her clan. A girl of only sixteen summers, her blood encrusted hands shook and her stomach turned, but she managed to maintain her composure in the face of such horrors. Though tears ran down her cheeks and her heart pounded within her chest, still she kept death at bay with her magic.

A truce had been called, to gather the dead and tend the wounded. As she worked, the girl saw two warriors pull a boy out from underneath an overturned table. One of the warriors slung the skinny body over his shoulder like a side of meat, its youthful features permanently frozen in a mask of fear, pain, and death. He looked to be about the same age as the girl, herself.

“There are more wounded being brought in.” said the High Priestess, “Now that they have cleared that body, go flip that table back so we can lay someone upon it.”

The novice healer nodded silently, her jaw still agape at the sight of the dead boy. As she struggled with all her might to flip the heavy banquet table by herself, she was startled to find that the upside down table had concealed a pile of human entrails. She gasped, and nearly dropped the table on her own feet. Having just learned to read entrails, she was horrified not by the gut pile itself, but rather what it spelled out.

“What are you staring at?” snapped the old crone, as she crutched over to see.

“Nothing.” muttered the girl, kicking the entrails into a jumbled mess, “Nothing at all, High Priestess.

“Well get that table cleaned off, and do it quickly! They’re bringing in your cousin. She’s been terribly wounded in an honor duel.”

---

Eight Months Later:

Wargah Grimward and her younger cousin, Alvi, watched from the shadows. What the two Ulven were doing was certainly treason. There was no one else to turn to, though. Haygreth Grimward, Wargah’s father, hadn’t been the same since he had made his declaration of war. He’d been locking himself away and the only person he really seemed to have time for was the old Blackwing High Priestess. On the few occasions where Wargah had been able to speak with him he seemed not only distant, but almost confused. He had the weary, unsteady look of a warrior who had seen too much, and always seemed to be focusing on something behind the person he was talking to. He had given much of his authority to Khulgar Graytide, and to Corvo Blackwing, the High Priestess’s son.

Wargah Grimward had lost her status as a pack leader to Corvo. Following the honor duel against that Watchwolf, she had been branded with runes of shame and cowardice. Even her closest friends shunned her. She was secretly afraid that her father’s condition was her fault, but after her cousin had revealed the terrible secret read in that Longfang boy’s entrails, she doubted it was that simple.

“Well,” she said to her cousin, Alvi, “I’m going to approach them. They might kill me. If they do, try to stay hidden.”

Wargah raised her hood to protect her head from the cold of night. After the ritualistic shaving and branding following that honor duel, her hair was beginning to come in again, but she still found that her head was always cold. Wargah rose to her full height and moved out into the path of the travelers.

“Look sharp!” rasped Ylsa, “There is someone on the path ahead of us.”

The column began to reform as its Captains called it to a halt. The Longfangs and Watchwolves at the front of the formation began interlocking shields, while the men of Vandregon broke into two groups facing either flank.

“It could be an ambush.” growled the leader, “William, Venator. Get off the trail. Clear the danger area by at least five-hundred paces to the West, then set up a perimeter. Protect the clerics and the Phoenix. Right Flank, March!”

Wargah Grimward stared at the unblinking wall in front of her. Not a single shield or spear wavered in the slightest. They could have been statues, but for the billowing and flapping of their cloaks and furs in the winter wind, and the occasional jet of steamy breath in the moonlight.

Alvi watched from the shadows, and tried not to make any noise as she cried. She was certain that she was about to see her cousin die. There were already Longfang scouts sneaking up behind her. In fact…

“Don’t move a muscle, girl.” Whispered Ylsa to Alvi, running the flat of her short sword across the terrified Grimward’s chin, “And don’t make a sound.”

Alvi tried to throw up as quietly as she could.

On the trail, Wargah’s teeth chattered as she struggled to steel her resolve. She hoped her voice wouldn’t break.

“I’m from Clan Grimward, and I have come alone. I have a message for your leader.”

“Alone, huh?” shouted Ylsa, dragging Alvi to her feet by her hood and causing the poor girl to shriek and squeal in terror as she clawed at the drawstring that tightened on her neck, “Then I suppose you don’t know this girl?”

Wargah heard the creak of a cold bow being drawn off to her left. She froze. This couldn’t get any worse.

“If you have a message from Clan Grimward then you can tell it to me.” growled a familiar voice as a figure pushed its way to the front of the shield wall, “I am Raskolf Vakr, the Voice of the Watchwolves.”

It had just gotten worse.

“Identify yourself, Grimward messenger!” he snarled.

Wargah swallowed hard, clenched her fists for a moment, and took a deep breath.

“Wargah.” she said, “Wargah Grimward, daughter of Clanleader Haygreth Grimward.”

Raskolf shuddered and cracked his knuckles in the cold air as Wargah threw back her hood.

“I came here to warn you.” she said, forgetting completely what she had rehearsed in her head when she pictured herself meeting with anyone but him, “I came here to warn you that you are being hunted as we speak, and to deliver this young Daughter of Gaia novice to you. She has seen things which confirm the portents your High Priestess spoke of.”

“Ylsa!” said Raskolf, “Bring that prisoner to the rear of the formation. Is there anyone else out there?”

“No, Raskolf. Just these two. No signs of anyone traveling with them.”

“Excellent work.”

Alvi was rudely deposited at the feet of a large, heavily armored warrior. He bared his teeth. His fangs were unusually long. Alvi’s mind raced. The big Longfang leaned down over her cowering form and wrinkled his nose. He started sniffing her and narrowed his eyes. Standing back to his full height, he unclasped his fur cloak and set it down. Other warriors had gathered around and were watching. The big man began gesturing with his hands at his chest, as if he were panto-miming the removal of a garment. Alvi froze, and her heart skipped a beat. The warrior began growling and making inhuman sounds as he gestured furiously, motioning as if tugging at his chest. Alvi completely lost all composure and began sobbing hysterically. She wondered how many of them would take a turn at her body before it was over, and whether or not they would kill her when they were done. Powerful hands clamped down on her shoulders and un-clasped her cloak, slowly pulling it away. Alvi clenched her eyes and shivered. There was suddenly a heavy weight on her shoulders, and she was very warm. She heard heavy footsteps walking away and realized that she was wearing the Longfang’s fur cloak.

A heavyset warrior with a scraggly beard glanced over his shoulder at her.

“What’s your name?” asked Yawn.

“Alvi.” she stuttered, tears running down her face.

“You look like Veera.” he said.

A stone’s throw away, Harlok Longfang knelt down, opened his waterskin, and started scrubbing the vomit off of Alvi’s cloak and onto a moss-covered rock. It had been so long, that he’d forgotten what his sister looked like. At least, he’d forgotten what she looked like before the Mordok had got through with her. He’d never be able to forget that image. Now, as he knelt and scrubbed the Grimward’s cloak, the corners of his mouth turned up into a smile. A pleasant memory suddenly returned to him, and he closed his eyes. Across from him, crouching in the river, was his big sister Veera, smiling and splashing him as they did their mother’s laundry together. Beneath his helmet, Harlok’s eyes watered just the slightest bit, but no one saw. Besides, it wasn’t a tear. It was just a drop of water from the stream.

Raskolf had broken away from the formation to meet Wargah in the middle of the trail. There were at least three arrows drawn on her. She tried to be brave, but was discovering just how much harder that was without her pack flanking her. She couldn’t believe the rage in the Watchwolf’s eyes, and was beginning to wonder exactly what his relationship was to that woman she’d killed.

“You’ve given me no reason to trust you, Wargah. My mission is too important to be sidetracked with your trickery.”

“Ambassador,” she said, swallowing her pride and kneeling in submission, “I swear to you that I am telling the truth. I swear on the honor of…”

Raskolf struck her with the back of his hand so hard that she stumbled onto her back.

“You dare speak of honor after the treachery that you have done?” Raskolf drew his sword, “Look at you! Even your own kind cannot trust you, and they have branded you to warn the rest of the world not to trust you!”

“Go ahead!” she cried, pulling back her cloak to expose her neck, “Go ahead and do it! It is within your right to put me out of my misery. I have nothing to hide! I have been dishonored! I have had everything taken from me, even my pack! I am already broken and here I lie, defeated! You know what that is like, Raskolf.”

Wargah saw nothing but blackness, flashes of red, and then, as her vision came back, branches reaching up into the spinning starry sky. There was something wrong with her jaw. It didn’t even hurt, it was just wrong. It felt almost as if it wasn’t there at all. She couldn’t move the lower half of her face at all. Her neck and chest were hot and wet.

“Don’t ever compare yourself to me, you wretched creature!” shouted Raskolf, “You are a coward! You didn’t lose your honor! You never had any!”

Wargah tried to respond with something, but her face didn’t work and all that came out were pitiful and wet noises. Raskolf had kicked her so hard that he had broken her jaw.

“Rhodi!” shouted Raskolf, “Come here. Give me your hammer!”

“Brother,” said Rhodi, “you need to calm down.”

“Just give me your hammer!”

“No, Raskolf. We don’t kill messengers.”

“I’m not going to kill her!” yelled Raskolf, “I’m going to break her legs and send her slithering back to her father like the viper she is!”

Raskolf tried to grab the hammer from his brother, but was unable to wrench it from the blacksmith’s grasp.

“Are you done, brother?” growled Rhodi, “Your daughter is watching.”

Elise had squirmed up to the front of the shield wall and was peeking out. Her eyes were huge and wet.

“Anjan has faith in you, Raskolf.” growled Rhodi, “So did Imglyf. You are an Ambassador now, whether you like it or not. Life will never be as simple as it was when we were Soldiers. You are the Voice of the Watchwolves. What of those words you spoke in the Longhouse of Grimward? Did you not really believe them? Were you just saying them?”

Raskolf looked toward the shield wall. The eyes of the Watchwolves were upon him, as were those of the Nightrivers and the Longfangs. Humans and Syndar had moved up to witness the brutal scene between Raskolf and Wargah.

William and Venator of Vandregon broke ranks and approached Raskolf.

“Raskolf,” Venator said, “revenge can never satisfy. It is a thirst that makes fools of us. For much of my life I searched for my father, eager to pour his blood like wine from a cask. That thirst consumed my heart, like the desire of a drunkard, and caused me to leave naught but pain and regret in my wake.”

“Are you calling me a drunk?” Raskolf growled.

“I’m saying that you are not in control of yourself right now. You need to sober up, or step down.” Venator snorted.

The two Ulven locked eyes in a stare-down.

“And then who is going to lead this mission?” Raskolf asked, baring his fangs.

“I will!” exclaimed William, stepping between the two and pushing them apart, his voice lowered to a whisper, “I will, if need be. Raskolf, Father Aegeus believed in this. Look around you. Look at how far we have come. We have gathered an Army. It is an Army of Ulven, Syndar, and Humans. Who would have believed it possible? We have done it. You have done it. You were integral to it.”

Raskolf suddenly looked away. He felt ashamed.

“Father Aegeus told me something before he left for the peace summit, Raskolf. He told me that when called to lead, not everyone would have the stomach for it. You do. You’ve proven it before. We never would have gotten this far without you. Father Aegeus believed that we could have peace with the Grimwards. If not today, Raskolf, then perhaps someday yet. We cannot let our emotions get the best of us. Our mission tonight is too important. Once the Lich is out of the way, and the undead threat purged from these lands, then we can focus on the war with Clan Grimward, and ending it. One way, or another.”

It was silent for a few moments, save the wind in the trees, and the rustling of dried leaves in early winter.

“You speak the truth, my friends.” Raskolf sighed, “I am sorry. Once again, I have failed to recognize my duty before my pride, and my hatred.”

Raskolf noticed that Elise had crept up on them. She was about halfway between them and the formation. Her hand was to her ear as though she was straining to eavesdrop on their quiet conversation now that Raskolf was done yelling at Rhodi. Raskolf ignored her.

“Raskolf,” whispered William, “we all have our moments of doubt. Believe me. I know. But a wise man told me that no matter how hopeless it seemed, men like us must not crumble. Being a military leader is not so different from being a man of the cloth. Our men must have faith in us, Raskolf Vakr, Voice of the Watchwolves.”

“What are you talking about, father?” squeaked Elise.

Raskolf looked into the eyes of William, then Venator. Rhodi placed a hand upon Raskolf’s shoulder and nodded knowingly.

“We’re just coming up with a plan, Elise.” said Raskolf, “We have to split our forces now, and figure out what to do with the prisoners. Go back by Drifa.”

“Yes, father.”

“What now, Raskolf?” asked Venator.

“I will address the troops, and we will come up with a plan.”

Raskolf turned to face the troops.

“Rhodi,” he said, “Put the prisoner in custody of the Longfangs. Let her accomplice tend to her injury. Then call the army to attention in a block formation, order of march on the trail, but facing the East.”

As Rhodi called all elements back into formation, Raskolf thanked William and Venator, then sent them to rejoin the men of Vandregon. In less than a minute, the entire Army was back in formation and ready to march. Rhodi bellowed a facing movement, and the entire army turned to the East as their element leaders and Captains echoed the command. Guidons were brought to attention, and Raskolf began to walk the length of the formation.

“I meant what I said in the Longhouse of Haygreth Grimward.” he shouted, “I tried to stop the future from coming to pass. I tried to beat the portents. But now, despite our efforts, the Undead are here. And now, despite our efforts, we are at war with the Grimward clan. We face conflict on two fronts. I thought that I had failed you. Perhaps some might say that I have. But now that I look at this assemblage, I realize that our cause has not failed. I see you all standing here, shoulder to shoulder; Ulven, Human, and Syndar. I see Ulven in the ranks of Vandregon! I see a Syndar in an Ulven pack. Even if I have failed you, it matters not. The fate of this land never rested upon my shoulders to begin with! It rests upon yours, as you stand together as brothers and sisters. This coalition may be our last hope to defeat the Lich and his Army. As I look upon you, I no longer see Ulven, or Syndar, or Humans. I see the Army of the Free Peoples of the Eastern Continent. That is the beacon. That is the shining and guiding light in this, our darkest hour! Let us make it into our greatest triumph! The most hopeless battles make for the best songs, anyhow. Warriors of Mardrun, are you with me!?”

A hearty cheer went up from amongst the assemblage. Rhodi leaned on his hammer and smiled. He called the troops to attention, and reformed the blocks so that they were facing the direction of march. As the noise died down, Raskolf signaled for the Captains of all the factions to approach him.

“We have word from these prisoners that a war-pack from Clan Grimward is hunting this army as we speak. I’ll take my Watchwolves of Luna and the Longfangs with me to confront them. We will do whatever we can to stall them. Once you’ve destroyed the Lich, retreat North into Watchwolf territory. Drifa and Elise will show you the way. No matter what happens to us, don’t look back, and don’t try to find us. Accomplish your mission, and then fall back into friendly territory.”

The seasoned veterans of Vandregon, Nightriver, the Order of Arnath, and House Phoenix shared knowing glances and then took turns clasping forearms.

“Within the hour, we purge the undead from these lands!” shouted William, “It ends tonight!”

A cheer rang out over the assemblage.

“Yes.” whispered Venator to himself, “It all ends tonight.”

Greki and Ozvolt searched the village of Ulslog, on the Red Squirrel River. The two Graytide warriors had been sent in as scouts. The rest of the Warpack had formed a perimeter around the small fishing hamlet.

“It sure is getting dark early, isn’t it friend?” said Ozvolt.

“Aye.” said Greki.

The village was strangely quiet, and totally dark. Not a single fire or lantern burned, save the torches carried by the two warriors, and the only sound was the crunch of their boots upon the cold earth. Normally, they would have been greeted by guards, or perhaps even laughing children if the sun wasn’t too low in the sky. Lycon and Corvo had sent the two scouts ahead when the warpack approached the village and realized that all the chimneys were smokeless.

“Not even a dog to bark at us, friend.” muttered Ozvolt.

“Aye.”

The two warriors continued their search of the village. There was not a soul to be found. The huts and outlying buildings all seemed to be intact. Food had been left on tables, and items of wealth left out in the open.

“If this was a raid, my friend, the traitors would have taken the food and treasure.” said Ozvolt.

“Aye.”

Eventually they made their way to the longhouse of the village Chieftain. Unlike the other buildings, the great hall had been severely damaged, as though besieged. The great doors were smashed to pieces and had been pushed into the entryway. Ozvolt looked to Greki.

“Watch my back, friend.” he whispered.

“Aye.” said Greki.

Ozvolt drew one of his throwing axes and placed it in his left hand, behind his shield. With his right hand, he extended the torch into the doorway and stepped quietly over the wreckage of wood and iron. Shadow danced and leapt about the room as if evil spirits were diving for cover from the torchlight. Solid oaken tables looked to have been piled up against the front doors as a barricade, but had been pushed back by some terrible strength, leaving ruts in the floor. The tangle of overturned furniture made movement difficult, and the two warriors tripped and stumbled as if the very shadows themselves clutched at their ankles.

“I don’t like this.” whispered Ozvolt, “If we get much farther in, I fear we will become entrapped in this maze of furniture.”

“Aye.” said Greki.

The great hall opened up once the two warriors were clear of the barricades. As the light of their torches illuminated the hall, the warriors decided very quickly that they had seen enough, and stumbled back the way they had come as fast as they could.

“We have to report this to Lycon!” panted Ozvolt.

“Aye!” said Greki.

—

Lycon Graytide and Corvo Blackwing had moved to higher ground, and now looked down into the valley below. They had sent scouts in to search the village and confirm it, but both were pretty sure that something very bad had happened there. Not a single chimney smoked, and every window was dark. Lycon Graytide, the one-armed veteran, may have been past his prime, but no one would ever say that to his face. He was strong despite his disability, and quick to anger. After the loss of his arm, he had resigned his leadership of the Graytides to Khulgar, but he was still a fierce and respected elder.

Khulgar was difficult to train. It had taken years before the veteran felt that anything he’d taught the headstrong warrior was sticking. Corvo Blackwing, however, was different. He soaked up information like a sponge. Not only that, but he possessed a certain vigilance that Lycon had never been able to instill in Khulgar. He had an analytical mind too, that Lycon wished to groom. It wasn‘t something that Lycon had ever possessed, himself, but he recognized it and hoped to exercise it.

“Maybe the village was attacked, and they had to abandon it. What do you think, Corvo?” said Lycon.

“It would seem an obvious conclusion, but at the same time, it doesn’t make sense.” said Corvo, “The gates are open. If they were under attack, wouldn’t they have closed their walls?”

“Not if they ran away. Maybe there was no time. It could have been a surprise attack.”

“True, Lycon,” said Corvo, “It could have been a surprise attack. In any case, though, I don’t think anyone escaped.”

“Why is that?” asked Lycon.

“Their canoes are all still sitting on the riverbank.”

Lycon cleared his throat and fidgeted. He had missed that.

“I was trying to be optimistic.” he grunted, “My mate grew up in this village.”

“Do you like your in-laws?” asked Corvo.

“Not really.” sighed Lycon.

“Well,” said Corvo, “even if there is no room for optimism, you can still look on the bright side.”

“I beg your pardon!?” exclaimed Lycon.

“You won’t have to visit them anymore.”

“Don’t be so irreverent, Corvo.” said Lycon, “This is serious.”

“Of course. Of course. Forgive me, Lycon.”

It was quiet for a moment, save the cawing of crows. Lycon couldn’t really fault Corvo’s attempts at levity. At least he had a sense of humor, unlike Khulgar.

“My woman is never going to let me hear the end of this.” groaned Lycon.

“Why?” asked Corvo, “It isn’t your fault.”

“Yes it is. I should have known it was happening and stopped it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. That’s impossible.”

“Doesn’t matter.” said Lycon, “I’ll still get blamed for it, and she’ll never let me forget how I didn’t save her parents.”

“I don’t understand.” said Corvo.

“You wouldn’t. You’re single.”

Mentor and protege smirked at each other and then started laughing out loud.

“Well, Lycon,” said Corvo, “I hope to change that, soon.”

“Oh, right.” laughed Lycon, “Haygreth’s niece, Velma.”

“Her name is Alvi,” said Corvo, “and I think I have her attention, although I must confess that I am a little dis-heartened that she didn’t see me off when we left. I couldn’t find her anywhere, either.”

“I’m sure you’ll get her attention, even if it means that your mother has to brew a love potion for you!”

“Shhh!” snickered Corvo, “Don’t tell anyone.”

The two chuckled a bit before falling silent.

“In all seriousness though, Elder Lycon,” he said un-stoppering his water-skin, “will you really get blamed for this?”

“If I do I’ll just blame Khulgar.”

Corvo’s eyes widened as he choked on his water. Lycon howled with laughter and slapped him on his back, making the coughing fit even worse.

“What in the name of Gaia’s saggy tits are two laughing at?” snarled Khulgar Graytide as he stormed up the hill.

“Nothing, mother.” grinned Lycon, who was probably the only person who dared to ever make fun of the Packleader to his face.

“Well I’m glad that you think the loss of one of our villages is so damned funny.”

The wind picked up. There was a flurry of activity below as two figures sprinted out of the village and back towards the perimeter as fast as they could.

“Looks like we are about to get some answers, Lycon.” coughed Corvo.

“We’d better head back down.” said Lycon, squinting his eyes as he sniffed the early winter air.

The three warriors began making their way back down into the valley.

“Hey, Lycon,” asked Khulgar, “didn’t your in-laws live here?”

The other two warriors suddenly burst into obnoxious laughter.

Khulgar’s face twisted in confusion to their reaction. He growled unintelligibly and hurried ahead to greet the scouts, leaving Corvo to help the one-armed elder down the hill by himself.

—

Lycon and Corvo stared at the bloodied walls of the longhouse.

“What does it say?” grunted Lycon, who, like most Ulven, couldn’t read.

Corvo silently put the words together in his head.

“I don’t know.” he said, “I can’t read it.”

“Well,” said Lycon, “let’s call Khulgar in. Maybe he can give it a try.”

“No!” said Corvo, “No. Khulgar won’t be able to read it if I can’t. Don’t bother.”

“Very well.” said Lycon, “What do you propose we do, then?”

“We will come back later, with my mother. She will be able to read this. It is magic.”

Khulgar had just moved the rest of the troops into the village. It was dark now. He consulted the Daughter of Gaia and asked her to commune for answers. He then spoke with his best trackers and began analyzing the village.

It was clean. It wasn’t ransacked. The only building that was damaged was the Chieftain’s longhouse. The trackers reported that an army had passed right by the village, but did not appear to have entered. There were, however, signs of a mass exodus of the population, which left a lot of blood in their trail and then either joined, preceded, or followed the army outside of the valley. If the population had fled, they had done so on foot, rather than take their boats. A theory was forming in Khulgar’s mind. He was beginning to wonder if perhaps the humans had attacked from the river. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Packleader,” said the Daughter of Gaia, raising her chin high, but keeping her voice low, “the bones hint that it was an act of compassion that betrayed these people. I know nothing more, b-but I think the hungry ghosts have been here.”

There was something weird about the way she was talking. Her speech was strange, and disjointed. Khulgar raised an eyebrow. He’d known this young woman since she was a child.

“I d-don’t know why I…we think so,” she stuttered, “and I-I-I cannot be certain, but we just feel it.”

“Thank you.” said Khulgar, “Are you alright?”

“Y-yes.”

Khulgar hesitated for a moment. Growing up in a world where magic and reality intersected bred two types of people. Some embraced magic, others feared or distrusted it. Khulgar had always been one of the latter. He was about to turn away from the Daughter when she suddenly grabbed his arm. She had a strange and distant look in her eye. It unsettled him.

She started breathing heavily. Her breathing got faster and faster and she began crushing Khulgar’s arm with her grip. The Daughter’s neck bent and she arched her back. Khulgar tried to break away from her, but she held him fast. An unearthly rattling croaking sound boiled forth from her throat and gasping mouth, her chest heaved, and she fell to the ground in a full body seizure.

Grimward warriors scattered and ran for cover. Everyone had heard tales of spell-casters reaching critical mass and exploding. Old wives tales, of course, but then that phrase carries different meaning in a world of magic, where the dominant intelligent society is rather matriarchal in structure. The most powerful spell casters on Mardrun were, for the most part, old wives, themselves.

The Daughter didn’t explode this time, but she did bleed from the ears, nose, and mouth.

Khulgar had made up his mind. This was an evil place, and everyone who lived here was dead. He was just ordering his troops to put the place to the torch, when Lycon and Corvo intervened. Their argument would have lasted longer, but for the timely return of a small Grimward scouting pack.

A combined warpack of Longfangs and Watchwolves was just minutes away.

Khulgar’s pack was mobilized and heading down the trail in less than thirty seconds. They would have to burn it later.

—

When Ylsa, Dria, and Azra came sprinting back, they had company close behind. The three scouts rapidly made their way up the narrow pass and rejoined the ranks. A few of the more eager Grimwards made the mistake of trying to follow them through the narrow stone corridor, and suddenly found themselves face to face with the enemy in an enclosed space. Their panicked retreat back to their own ranks was funny to watch, but brought no laughter from the Watchwolves. Raskolf had positioned them in the best place he could find. There was a narrow avenue of approach, where the Grimwards would have trouble moving large numbers of troops at once, yet the defenders had a decent enough escape route along a ridge and down into a draw should they be forced to flee. Raskolf had figured that they would be outnumbered, though he didn’t know how badly. His scouts had reported an estimate to him upon their return. It was worse than three to one. Raskolf wasn’t surprised. He figured that this army was intended to engage the combined Ulven, Human, and Syndar force that he had just split. Raskolf made his way to the front of the formation to parley. If he couldn’t slow them down with words, the Watchwolves and Longfangs would be sure to make one heck of a speed bump. The thing with speed bumps, though, is that inevitably they get run over.

Khulgar berated his younger warriors as they stumbled down the narrow pass.

“Fools!” he bellowed, “They had you dead to rights. You’re only alive because they let you run!”

Lycon caught one by the collar and snarled in his face. Spinning the terrified novice around, his laughter boomed through the rocky terrain.

“The Great Wolf doesn’t remember those who died of stupidity!” he cackled.

Khulgar and Lycon pushed their way to the front. Three figures had left the enemy ranks and stood at the choke-point.

“It’s going to be a bloodbath getting them out of there.” grumbled Lycon.

“Not if we can flank them.” whispered Corvo.

“That isn’t going to work. We can’t get along side them or behind them. There is no room to maneuver.” said Khulgar.

“Of course there is.” said Corvo, “It’s just a really long walk.”

“We don’t have time.” growled Khulgar.

“Sure we do. They want to talk, see?”

Khulgar was about to protest further, but Corvo was already running back through the ranks.

“Don’t worry,” said Lycon, “You’ll be fine. I’ll go keep an eye on Corvo and make sure he doesn’t get lost.”

Khulgar curled his lip at the one-armed elder. The Graytide Packleader grabbed a couple of guards and set off to talk with the enemy.

“Now,” he thought to himself, “all I have to do is kill some time.”

“Here comes Khulgar Graytide.” said Rhodi.

“Great.” said Raskolf.

“Now,” thought Raskolf to himself, “all I have to do is kill some time.”

Raskolf stood in the middle, flanked by Rhodi and Stanrick. Stanrick was trying to fix his helmet. It had been damaged earlier when he made a comment about Harlok finally having someone to talk with now that Wargah was traveling with them.

“Lycon and that other warrior fell back and took some troops with them.” whispered Raskolf to Stanrick, “They must know another way to get up here. I want the Longfangs to take the prisoners and fall back before we get flanked.”

“Ambassador, the Longfangs aren’t going to abandon-”

“Just go, Stanrick. You aren’t my bodyguard anymore. A good number of the Watchwolves of Luna are here. If we die tonight, I need the Longfangs to not only deliver the prisoners, but to help protect our borders. I thought perhaps we could use those prisoners as leverage, but things are going to get ugly. I can feel it.”

“Then you should go, Ambassador, and the Longfangs will hold here.”

“Just go, damnit!” growled Raskolf, “It’s my turn to hold, and your turn to get the important people out of here.”

Khulgar was almost within earshot.

“Raskolf!” hissed Stanrick.

“Be gone from my sight!” shouted Raskolf as he wound up and backhanded Stanrick.

Osvolt and Greki, Khulgar’s bodyguards, moved their hands to their steel and stepped in front of him.

“Such a dastardly and treacherous plot I would have no part in, you cur!” they heard Raskolf shout at one of his guards.

Stanrick was confused. He was also blind, as his broken helmet had been spun about. He stumbled back towards the ranks.

“I’ll not have the likes of thee stand at my side under a flag of truce, and I’ll never trust you to stand behind me either! Khulgar has come to us to parley, and my Watchwolves will certainly respect that. I don’t need you, or your clanless pack!”

Khulgar stood, frozen in place behind his guards. Stanrick pulled off his helmet and threw it at Yawn. From within the ranks of the Watchwolves and Longfangs there was quite the commotion.

Raskolf and Khulgar approached each other.

“Khulgar Graytide.” said Raskolf.

“Raskolf Vakr.” said Khulgar.

The two silently stared at each other for a while.

“Sure is getting dark earlier.” said Osvolt to Rhodi.

“It is the will of the Sun and the Moon.” replied Rhodi, “My people keep track of that sort of thing.”

“Aye.” said Greki.

“The winter months favor the Moon,” said Rhodi, “and her favored children. The darkness gives us the advantage.”

No one said anything. Behind Raskolf and Rhodi, the Longfangs were beginning to fall out of the formation.

“Khulgar,” Raskolf finally said, “this is the point where you tell us that we are trespassing on your land and make some demands.”

“I thought that you weren’t supposed to lead warpacks anymore, Raskolf?” replied Khulgar.

“I’m not. I’m an ambassador now. I’m supposed to be making peace.”

“And yet,” said Khulgar, “here you stand in front of a warpack, slapping warriors and yelling insults at them.”

“That’s right.” said Rhodi, “I’m the brilliant military leader. I’m here to give you a fight. Care for a drink?”

Rhodi unstoppered a drink and took a swig before offering it to Greki. Greki accepted it despite Khulgar’s gestures to the contrary. His eyes widened and he coughed a few times.

“See,” said Rhodi, “right in the liver!”

“Aye.”

“Enough of this foolishness.” growled Khulgar, “I’m not here to play your games.”

“I’m not playing games, Khulgar.” said Raskolf, “I’m only in your territory because we followed the hungry ghosts here.”

“I’m not falling for your tricks again, Raskolf.”

“It isn’t a trick. Yes, we are here looking for a fight, but no, it is not with you.”

“Your silver tongue will get you nowhere with these ears, Raskolf. You have given me no reason to trust you. In the past I trusted you with not only my life, but my honor, and where has it gotten me? I delivered your words to these humans you love so much. They spit on me, slapped me, mocked me, and chased me from a place where I was forbidden to draw a weapon upon them to defend myself. I was publicly humiliated because I trusted you and your Priestess. They don’t want peace. To even try to make peace with those savages was folly. I should have known better. Treaties and papers cannot protect us. They didn’t protect my mate, they didn’t protect her clan, and they will not protect my people either. We shouldn’t even be playing their political games anyway. This is our land, not theirs.”

“Khulgar, I swear to you that I never meant for that to happen to you.”

“Oh, you didn’t? Just like you didn’t mean to lead the Tundra Wolves into that ambush? Just like you didn’t mean to start a civil war.”

“I didn’t start this war.” growled Raskolf.

“Sure you did.” sneered Khulgar, “Your words were the spark that lit the fire, and you made me deliver them, you coward. I even believed them myself, for a while. You’re just that damn good, I guess, Raskolf. Even after all the times we fought together, and all the times you’ve let me down, I still let you fool me into thinking that we would be on the same side when this war started. I don’t know how I could have been so blind, but now that my eyes can see, I’m glad that it’s all out in the open now. We are enemies.”

“We shouldn’t be fighting! We shouldn’t be enemies! I never wanted this.”

“You’re clever, Raskolf, but I knew that from fighting alongside you in the past. You are also a good liar, but you will never be as good a liar as those invaders who have tricked you into serving as a tool in the destruction of your own people. They’ve tricked you into starting a civil war, and once the dust settles, they will not have to deal with as many of us. The battle hasn’t even started yet, but whether my warriors fall against yours today matters not. Our blood is already on your hands unless I can do what you failed to do, and change the portents of a High Priestess.”

Raskolf shuddered and clenched his fists.

“I’m not here to make demands. I’m not here to ask you to leave. You may be clever, Raskolf, but you are backed into a corner and I outnumber you significantly, unless your allies can summon this Undead army of theirs to come and save you.”

Khulgar turned his back to Raskolf.

Ozvolt started backing down the hill after his Packleader. Greki lingered a moment and held out the bottle to Rhodi. Rhodi silently motioned for him to keep it. Greki nodded sadly and looked down at his feet. He took a deep breath and raised his chin as if he were about to say something to Rhodi, but was silenced before any words could leave his lips as Ozvolt yanked on his cloak, choking him and causing him to stumble backwards. He managed not to drop the bottle. As Khulgar headed back down toward his troops, he did not look back.

“Khulgar!” shouted Raskolf.

The Graytide Packleader stopped in his tracks, but said nothing. He still did not face Raskolf.

“Remember the battle at Crooked Jaw?”

“I’m disappointed in you Raskolf. Calling in a favor won’t save you, or your warriors. Have you no dignity?”

“That’s not what I’m asking. I just want you to promise that if we fall, you will burn our bodies properly. I am weary of marching and fighting. I don’t want to continue to do so after I have died. I don’t want to suffer the same fate that the people of Ulslog did.”

Khulgar did not answer him. He just walked away.

—

The Longfangs and their prisoners made good time breaking out of formation and were soon heading down into the draw. They weren’t worried about stealth. They were just trying to move as quickly as they could. There was a lot of confusion at first, because Stanrick hadn’t the time to explain what was going on. Now that they were on the move, he was getting out of breath from explaining it over and over to warriors who were irritated to be retreating in the face of Khulgar and his pack.

As the Longfangs headed noisily into the draw, grumbling and squabbling among themselves about how they could hold the pass better than the Watchwolves, they suddenly, as a group, realized that they were being watched. It wasn’t because of some super instinctive sixth sense or anything, though. It was because Nikolai, Azra, and Dria, who had been scouting ahead of the formation, were now running straight back into the formation as fast as they could, pursued by an angry swarm of arrows. The non-discriminatory missile fire almost perforated poor Alvi, but she was protected by Harlok’s shield.

Grimward warriors boiled up the draw. The Longfangs were badly outnumbered, and clustered close together beneath shields as Magrat and Yawn hurried to place protection spells on the lightly armored packmates.

“Looks like Raskolf was right!” shouted Stanrick to Harlok as arrows thunked against their shields like hail during an autumn storm, “They found another way up! What do we do now? We can’t get down!”

Harlok grunted, pointed up the way they’d come, and shrugged.

“No.” said Nikolai, “Raskolf wanted us to leave for a reason. We have a mission.”

“We can’t leave-” started Azra, nearly drowned out by the howling Grimwards and the spatter and splintering of arrows, “Dammit, Magrat! Shoot back at them or something! Maybe that will get their heads down, or slow them down. We can’t leave. Even if we did break through, we would be abandoning the Watchwolves flank now.”

“We need to create a diversion!” growled Dria through clenched teeth.

“I thought this was the diversion?” said Yawn.

“The Watchwolves are the diversion.” said Stanrick.

“Well, their diversion isn’t going to work unless we can create a diversion for that diversion!” said Dria.

“GRAH! HRIGGLE NYAR!” snarled Harlok, panto-miming violently and jamming a knife into the dirt and drawing little “x’s” in the mud with his fingers, “KRYUNGRS WRPKCS”

“What did he say?” asked Nikolai.

“He said that Khulgar’s group was a diversion too.” grunted Yawn as he strained against a boulder and tried to budge it with his back.

Magrat was using a young Longfang novice for cover. Everytime she popped up from behind him and his shield, she dropped a Grimward warrior with one of her arrows. She was focusing on the archers and anyone else who didn’t have a shield.

“You better figure out what we are doing!” she shouted as she knocked another arrow, “They will be right on top of us in a moment.”

The muddy winter earth made a loud sucking and popping sound as Yawn pushed every muscle in his legs and core to the limit. Seeing the boulder budge just the slightest, Harlok rushed to help him push, followed closely behind by one of the younger Longfang warriors. The boulder popped and slurped as it pulled away from the cold wet earth, but the three warriors couldn’t quite get it to break free. An arrow shrieked in suddenly, and struck Yawn in the ribs, causing him to double over in pain. As he did so, the boulder began to settle back into the cradle of the earth, pushing the others back.

“Stanrick!” shouted Nikolai, “We need a decision!”

Military commanders throughout history have been forced to make many impromptu life or death decisions. Stanrick wasn’t really used to this sort of thing, but he remembered something he had overheard Raskolf say to William, once.

In combat, leaders only ever actually have three options, no matter what the situation boils down to, or how complicated it may appear at first glance. The three options are either to advance, hold, or fall back. Which ever one is most likely to accomplish the mission is the best one.

As the arrows thudded around and into the Longfangs, Stanrick suddenly felt a moment of clarity. Time seemed to slow down, and a plan materialized in his mind. He didn’t even remember thinking of it. It was just there, and seemed to him as though he’d been working it out for some time, actually. Stanrick looked to the ridge behind them.

“Stanrick!” shouted Nikolai.

Yawn bellowed with rage and pain, forcing every muscle in his body to tighten all at once as he heaved against the boulder with the sudden blinding might of a legend from the sagas. He didn’t get to see the carnage it caused, though. He was unconscious before it was even halfway down the slope.

“Nikolai!” said Stanrick, “I have a plan.”

Years of combat had hardened the Longfangs into a veteran warpack who knew when it was time to just follow orders and not ask questions, and the last five minutes of combat had taught the novices when to follow the lead of the veterans. Now was one of those times. Stanrick grabbed the two prisoners, ran to the edge of the ridge, and looked down. It wasn’t really a cliff. It was more like a really steep slope that probably would be awful to climb. At least, that was what he kept telling himself over and over again in his head. The terrain below were wetlands that fed the Red Squirrel River. The village of Ulslog could be seen not far away.

Stanrick waited until the Grimwards were almost to the top of the draw. He ordered the shield wall to open ranks, exposing himself and the prisoners to the advancing horde.

Lycon Graytide and Corvo Blackwing led the charge up the draw. They were almost within closing distance of the Longfangs when the enemy formation suddenly opened ranks and split in half, exposing two Longfang warriors and two Ulven women with their hands bound.

Harlok and Lycon recognized each other at exactly the same moment. An uncontrolled wail escaped Corvo’s lips as he recognized Alvi.

“That’s right.” thought Stanrick to himself, “I’ve got something you want. Come get it.”

Stanrick looked Wargah in the eyes.

“You aren’t with child or anything, are you?” he asked her.

Wargah shook her head no. She gave him a puzzled look, then glancing over the edge of the ridge, repeated the same gesture, though more vigorously as it dawned on her.

Stanrick Longfang’s boot was already heading for her chest. Alvi’s eyes were wide with terror as she watched her cousin’s un-graceful and traumatic tumble down the ridge.

An excruciating scream echoed through the countryside and actually froze the advancing horde in its tracks.

“Well,” said Stanrick quietly after a few seconds, “now we know that the fall is survivable. Harlok, go.”

Harlok grabbed the flailing and shrieking form of his prisoner, tucked her petite form into his chest behind his shield, and jumped. Seconds later, Yawn’s unconscious bulk was rolled over the edge, closely followed by the rest of the Longfangs. The Grimwards stood in shocked silence for at least a minute before Corvo fell to his knees and howled in agony and rage. His pack gave him a wide berth as he screamed and tore the dead winter grass from the earth by the roots.

The fall had caused some of the warriors to black out, but for Yawn it had done the exact opposite. He was wide awake now and his heart was racing. Somehow, he had wound up at the bottom of a very steep ridge. His packmates were lying in heaps all around him. A few of them weren’t moving. Yawn jumped to his feet and started shaking his friends awake. Some of them looked to be pretty badly injured. The Longfangs had tried a variety of methods to their descent. Some had just jumped, some had tried to run down really fast, and some had tried to slide down the slope. Regardless of their ingenuity, no one had made it more than halfway before they began rolling and bouncing.

Up on the ridge, Grimward warriors had rushed to the edge of the ridge, and looked down upon the battered Longfangs. There was a lot of murmuring, laughing, and exaggerated gesticulations on the part of the higher ground.

“They’re still alive!” exclaimed one warrior.

“I’ll fix that.” remarked an archer, drawing back his bow and leaning over the edge.

He loosed exactly one arrow before Corvo Blackwing’s shield broke into his eye socket and caused a blowout injury to his shooting eye.

“You’ll hit Alvi, you imbecile!” shrieked Corvo.

“They are getting away, Corvo.” growled Lycon.

Corvo looked down upon the battered Longfangs. The enemy was slowly retreating through the wetlands and towards Ulslog. Some of them limped, some clutched at their sides, and a few were being carried unconscious by the others.

“They’ll be out of range soon.” said Lycon.

“No.” said Corvo, “We will catch them. At that pace, we can go safely back down the draw, around the ridge, and still overtake them.”

“Forget about them!” yelled one of the Grimwards, “Khulgar is counting on us.”

“Yes.” agreed another, “My brother is fighting the traitors as we speak, and counting on us to flank them!”

Corvo snarled, drew his sword, and began storming off back down the draw.

“We aren’t letting them get away. They have two of our people. Not long ago, was not one of those women your packleader, and is not the other one a future priestess? Now follow me!”

“Lycon!” pleaded the Grimwards, “Talk some sense into your protege!”

Lycon stood silently at the top of the ridge for a moment, staring down at the limping silhouette of Harlok Longfang. With his remaining arm he reached across his chest and felt the emptiness where his other arm used to be. His lip curled into a snarl.

—

Shields cracked together and the Graytides pushed with all their might against the Watchwolf formation. It was an uphill battle, however, quite literally. The Graytides were not only fighting the confined space of the choke point, but gravity itself. The interlocked shields of the Watchwolves created an impenetrable wall. Spears and long axes flashed out from over the wall, and down on top of the Graytides, who simply couldn’t defend themselves from two separate angles at once. It was a deadly, bloody grind, and the wounded were beginning to pile up. Khulgar knew that they would never make any progress like this. The enemy had too good a position to defend, and while Khulgar outnumbered them, it certainly wasn’t by enough to win by attrition.

“Where is Corvo?” he wondered.

Back on the ridge, some of the Grimwards were still pleading with Lycon to talk some sense into Corvo, while yet others had already started following the Blackwing down into the draw. Lycon tore his eyes from his hated Longfang enemy below and turned to face the warriors who now looked to him in their moment of doubt.

“Corvo is the leader.” Lycon growled, “We will follow his lead and not question him.”

“But what about Khulgar?!” shouted a bearded veteran, nearly as old as Lycon.

Neither Corvo nor Lycon gave an answer. Within a minute, only three warriors stood atop the draw. The three Grimwards looked to the path they should follow to relieve Khulgar, then down the draw to the trail their leaders were blazing. One by one, they made their decisions.

—

Corvo and Lycon moved quickly down the draw and around the base to the wetlands. The Longfangs were making much better time than they had expected, and were nearly to the village already. Though the mud and the muck slowed their progress a little, the Grimwards were in much better shape to be running, and began to close the gap. It was strenuous, however, and before long, many of the more heavily armored warriors were falling behind. Corvo and Lycon were at the front, plowing through the marshy terrain like machines built for the purpose. They hadn’t really communicated anything resembling a plan to anyone, and stared intently at their quarry as they trudged through the muck. The others did their best to keep up, despite the burning in their legs and the raggedness of their breath.

Magrat did her best to slow their advance with her archery. Corvo had a couple of her arrows sticking out of his shield, as a matter of fact. She had mainly been targeting him, since he was the closest. She hadn’t shot at the one armed Ulven, though. He looked older, and it didn’t really seem fair. He didn’t have a shield or anything, even though he was up at the front.

“Stop running and face me Harlok!” he shouted, followed by a string of curses as he lost a boot in the freezing muck of the wet earth. He hesitated for only a moment, then continued on without his footwear.

Harlok Longfang was angry. He didn’t want to run from Lycon. He wanted to turn and fight, but he couldn’t pass off the girl he was carrying to anyone else. She wouldn’t walk or run on her own, and there was no one else available to carry her who wasn’t wounded or helping someone else. Harlok trudged on and snarled in rage. It was all he could do. They were almost to the village of Ulslog. The elevation was gradually rising, and the earth was becoming more firm. Soon, the Grimwards would be free of the mud that had given the Longfangs a fair shot at escape, and they would be overtaken.

The Longfangs just made it inside the front gate of the stockade that butted up against the riverbank. The Grimwards were hot on their heels, less than a stone’s throw away, and gaining.

“Close the gates! Close the gates!” shouted Stanrick, “Magrat, try to pick off the closest ones! Hurry!”

The Longfangs all rushed to push the heavy gates closed while Magrat fired the last of her arrows through the shrinking gap. The gate closed just in time, and the Longfangs struggled to hold the doors shut against the push of the Grimwards as the bar was placed. On the other side, Corvo and Lycon howled and called the Longfangs cowards.

“Be brave, Alvi!” shouted Corvo through the fence, “I swear upon my honor that I will see you safely returned home!”

Alvi whimpered hysterically. She was lying on the ground in the fetal position, exactly where Harlok had dropped her when he rushed to hold the gates closed.

“What now, Stanrick?” asked Nikolai, “There aren’t enough of us to defend this place.”

Stanrick looked across the stockade to the river bank.

“That was never the plan.” he said. “Follow me.”

Harlok grabbed Alvi by the arm and began dragging her after Stanrick and the others. The sudden jolt caused her to stumble to her feet and elicited a piercing shriek from her throat. On the other side of the fence, Corvo panicked and began hurling his body against the stockade doors.

“Alvi!” he screamed, “Alvi!”

—

Khulgar had no choice but to fall back. His warriors were cut to pieces, and the steep, rocky path was black with blood in the moonlight. The Watchwolves did not pursue them, and he knew that they would not. The Graytides may have been battered, but they still had numbers, and Raskolf was no fool. Experience had taught Khulgar that now was the time to move, find a safe place, set up a perimeter, and triage his casualties. As much as he loathed to do so, he decided that the stockade at Ulslog was probably the safest place to be until he found out what had happened to his allies. Safest, at least, from a physical standpoint. His Daughter of Gaia was still acting strange. As the Graytides limped down the hill and to the open plain below, Khulgar dreaded what treachery or misfortune could have befallen his trusted comrades, and his hatred of the Watchwolves and Longfangs was doubled. It was a longer march to Ulslog than it should have been, and every shadow looked like an ambush.

As the village came into view, the Graytides saw torch light within the walls, and cautiously approached. The village was occupied by the Grimwards.

“Where in Gaia’s name were you when we needed you?!” screamed Khulgar, handing his shield to a novice and nearly pushing him over with the violence of the action, “Where’s Corvo? Where’s Lycon?”

No one answered.

Khulgar howled in rage and threw his helmet at a Grimward warrior.

“You!” he shouted, pointing to a bearded veteran, “What happened? Did you get lost?”

“No, Packleader.” growled the warrior, straightening his back, and raising his chin.

“Did you misunderstand the plan?”

“No, Packleader.” he replied.

“Then what in the name of the Great Wolf’s hindquarters were you doing?”

“The Longfangs came this way, Packleader.”

“The Longfangs came this way?” sneered Khulgar, “So what? You abandoned your mission and the brave warriors who were depending on you so you could follow the Longfangs? Tell me, Soldier, if the Longfangs jumped off a cliff, would you follow them?”

The warrior looked positively stupefied. The world fell completely silent, and it was too late in the season for there to even be crickets chirping.

“Well?” said Khulgar.

“It wasn’t up to me.” stammered the warrior, “Corvo made the decision, and Lycon backed him. We had no choice.”

The warrior’s eyes drifted up over Khulgar’s shoulder. There was a fire on top of the ridge. Then another, and another. The way the three fires burned showed that they were elevated, like funeral pyres.

“Well?” said Khulgar, “Where are they? Did you take them alive, or did you kill them?”

“They escaped, Packleader. They escaped in canoes, down the river. We couldn’t follow them. There was only one canoe left, and one paddle.”

Khulgar shook his head.

“Where is Lycon?” he said.

Khulgar, Osvolt, and Greki found Lycon Graytide standing on the bank of the river. The four warriors stood in silence for a moment as the river rushed by.

“What were you thinking, Elder?” growled Khulgar, “You abandoned us.”

Lycon did not turn to face him, and stared into the moving water.

“Corvo made the decision,” he replied, “not I.”

“That’s weak, Lycon. That’s weak.” said Khulgar, shaking his head, “You knew better. You should have stopped him. It was your job to babysit him.”

“He has to learn to take responsibility for his decisions.” growled Lycon.

“No.” said Khulgar, “You need to take responsibility for yours. You let him do this, and now you are trying to pass the blame to him. This was important, Lycon.”

“This was personal!” snarled the elder, turning to face Khulgar.

“Personal isn’t the same as important, Lycon.” shouted Khulgar, “Most people just think that it is. If you are one of those people, then the Pack is better off without your leadership!”

Khulgar spit at his former mentor’s feet and turned his back to him.

“It’s a good thing you aren’t in command anymore.”

“Don’t you turn your back on me, Khulgar!” bellowed Lycon, “I taught you everything you know!”

“I hope not, Lycon.” said Khulgar, “I hope not.”

As Khulgar walked away, Osvolt joined him, but Greki lingered behind. He stood at Lycon’s side for a moment and took a long swig from the bottle that Rhodi had given him. Then he handed the canoe paddle to the one armed warrior and walked away.

—

Up on the Ridge, the Watchwolves had just finished conducting final rites for the three Grimward Berserkers who had attacked their flank during the battle. As the fire consumed the makeshift pyres, the Watchwolves saluted their honored foes before slipping into the night.

—

Khulgar stormed up to the longhouse. The two guards posted outside looked as though they were about to try to stop him, but then made eye contact with each other, thought better about it, and got out of his way.

“Where are you, Corvo!?” he screamed, thrashing through the tangle of darkness and overturned furniture until the hall opened up.

Khulgar froze. Sickly yellow light danced and flickered over the desecrated walls.

“In the name of the Sacred Mother.” he muttered, “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

Belthazar

—
It’s been hours since the rainfall died away, but splatters of water still cascade down on you as you walk through the dense forest. It’s hard to see exactly where you are going. Though you are no longer in the mountains of your birth, the Hacklefurs leave their trace on the landscape. There are hollows and ditches everywhere, and it is impossible to pick out a straight and even path. There aren’t any settlements around, and it’s not likely a pack would go hunting so soon after the rain, so when you hear the sound of distant movement in the undergrowth, it takes you a moment to identify it. Grunts and harsh speech untangle themselves, and you realize it must be mordok. There are many different snarling voices, and it is clear they are not particularly trying to be quiet, which mordok only do when they are confidant and in large numbers. It is hard to tell which direction they are coming from, but where ever it is, they’ll be here soon.

———-

Belthazar stands still and unlatches his axe from its holder. In a fierce battle stance he cries out at the noises in undergrowth “Show your selves you cowards! Come and meet your fate.” After losing the last of his family at the hands of the disgusting creatures. Belthazar is ready if not excited to slay every last mordok who cross his path. Even though he hasn’t had much experience with actual combat, Belthazar is not going to back down from this chance to take a little frustration out. he holds his axe with a firm and solid grip as he slowly rotates to his right. “Come out! My axe is waiting to split your pathetic heads open!”

———-

The guttural speech halts for a moment, then burst out again, with obvious excitement. A mordok peeks it’s head out of one of the many ditches in the woods and it pauses when it sees you, but as it takes in your surroundings, and your lack of companions, a savage grin lights it’s face. It calls back and as the rest of the mordok hove into view, you might start to regret your hasty challenge. At your count, there are ten of them. One or two are scrawny, likely whelps, but the rest are full sized and are bristling with a rusty array of weaponry. They make no immediate move to attack, and you find this very strange. Instead, they look back to the last mordok coming out of the ditch. It is clearly the leader here, and from what you know, very likely a shaman of some kind. It wears no armor and is decorated with many bits of fur, feathers, and bones. From one of it’s hands trails a rope. Attached to the other end is a figure that is *very* clearly not mordok. It is hunched over and filthy, and you cannot tell if it is ulven or human. A warning flag goes up in your mind. The mordok do not take captives, any victims that fall into their hands meet a fate that is painful and horrifying as it is swift. The shaman examines you, meeting your eyes boldly. A savage intelligence gleams there, but before you can make sense of it, the mordok breaks eye contact and snaps an order to its underlings. The group of mordok growl gleefully, hefting their weapons and spreading out. It’s clear a fight is on your hands, but this fight is also very much one sided.

———-

You heft your axe in your hands, returning the mordok’s vicious snarls in kind. Running is not an option. There are too many of them, and your father’s death still burns deep inside you. You will not run, and you vow to take as many of them down as you can. Outnumbered as you are, the mordok still hesitate, none of them wanting to be the first and therefore, the most vulnerable.

The circle begins to close on you. You know this will mean your death, and you yell and charge one of the whelps. It skips back out of range of your wild swing, but your momentum carries you forward, bulling the creature over. It screeches and tumbles over, it’s muddy rags entangling it’s limbs. Before it can recover, you drive your axe into it’s throat. It’s dying cry burbles out around from the blood and the hole in it’s throat. The other whelp hisses in rage and rushes in after you, scoring a shallow gash along your arm. It isn’t dire, but you know the mordok favor poisons. The whelp continues to relentlessly attack, giving you no time to further contemplate your situation, except for the next incoming attack. You are grateful for the sturdiness of your axe, as the creature pounds recklessly at it. The gratitude is short lived, as one of the warriors bounds up, a spear in hand. It jabs viciously at you, and you are barely able to dodge. You run the up the spear-length, and take a sizable chunk out of the creatures torso. It squalls in pains, and reels away. The rest are on you before you can turn to finish it. There are simply too many. You and your axe are not fast enough to claw free from the group. A dagger nearly pins your hand to your weapon, making the hand useless. Snarling with fury, and sure that you are about to meet the Great Wolf, you throw yourself upon the nearest warrior, hacking and clawing for all your worth. A blow to the back of your head clouds your eyes and you stagger to the your knees. The beasts set up a victorious howl and swarm you, and you know that your death is upon you……..

But no blade steals your life, no teeth ravage your body. Instead, the creatures take advantage of your momentary confusion, and quickly bind your hands behind your back, kicking your axe out of reach. Only when you are secured does the shaman finally approach. The creatures crowd anxiously away from their leader. It grabs your chin and brings your face close to it’s own.
“Mal kul lat, glok-hai glob?” It hisses.

——–

Belthazar looks into the eyes of the Shaman. He thinks that with his hands tied there is no way for survival. but curious belthazar is wondering why this important figure in the mordok culture is taking the time to talk to him. Belthazar wants to spit at the mordok leader but decides that, if he wants to keep his head on his shoulders, he better not. the curiosity overwhelms belthazar and he decides that it cant get worse. he lowers his head to show his submissive side. “What do you want with me?” he asks with a sigh. he isn’t expecting an answer but he just wanted to try be fore they decide to kill him which is most likely what they are planning to do.

——–

The shaman seems surprised, then pleased by your capitulation. Very pleased.
“Lat thrakum, lorz glok? Garn, ashdautas vrasublatlat!”
Apparently, this is very funny to the assembled mordok. They cackle gleefully.
“Sindokgoth nargzabub za lorz glok!”
He quickly loops another length of rope around your neck, tightening it enough that you would be unable to slip out of it, but still able to breathe. He hauls on your leash, forcing you to your feet.
“Ukhizgu!” He starts off, dragging you and the other ragged prisoner after him. A small commotion sets up behind you, and the female mordok you wounded in the side staggers to the shaman. She is bleeding heavily and will not live long without treatment. You are quite satisfied with this thought. However, the shaman grumbles mightily, and hands your leads off to another warrior. He examines the wound closely, beginning to chant in a low and malevolent voice. His chant gains intensity as he takes up a handful of wet dirt from the forest floor. Suddenly, he jams it into the female’s wound. She grunts and wavers on her feet, but manages to stand as the shaman finishes smearing the wound with dirt. After a moment, she flexes and nods to the others. The shaman snatches up the lead ropes again, and drags you after.

They set a brisk pace, allowing for no rest. You are capable of keeping up the brutal pace, though after a few hours, your head begins to ache abominably, and your wounds, though superficial, begin to burn. Your fellow prisoner is not so lucky. It’s clear they have been in the keeping of the mordok for sometime, and they are weak and slow. Occasionally they will stumble and is dragged a few lengths in the wet leaves and mud. The mordok always laugh and jeer at the sight, but strangely, the mordok always wait until the ragged figure regains their feet, before continuing onward. Finally, as the sun is beginning to set, the other prisoner falls to the ground, and does not get up. The shaman snarls and aims a kick a them, but the being only continues to tremble on the ground. The shaman drags you and the other prisoner to a tree, and deftly secures you to it. The other mordok begin to set about putting up a crude camp, leaving you and your fellow victim to your own devices.

——–

Belthazar looks at the other victim. “hey are you ok?” “whats your name?” Belthazar looks down at his feet and starts to wonder bout what the mordok are planning for them. he thinks to himself “-what kind of mess have i gotten myself into now?-” Belthazar looks back towards the other being tied up next to him “my names Belthazar”. as the time passes belthazar grows restless and starts to think of escape plans but with the both of them in their condition it would pointless to even try. the only thing he can come up with, is to stay alive as long as possible.

——-

Your fellow turns to you, and for the first time, you get a good look at them. They are male, you realize now. Under their ragged hood, you can see the hint of pointed ears. Syndar then. But what really catches your attention are his eyes. They are not…sane. It takes a moment for them to focus on you. It is as if he was thousands of miles away. When they focus on you, it is with an intensity that makes you slightly uncomfortable. He continues to stare at you through your introduction, and does not offer his own name, or any words at all. As you grow restless, the syndar seems to echo your emotions. Suddenly, his focus on you again, and he begins to babble incoherently. You can’t really make out what he is saying. It sounds mostly fluid, maybe the syndar language? A few phrases are harsh and guttural, sounding almost like the mordok. The one word you can make out sounds like ‘beh-tak’. You hear a voice from the group of mordok, raised and angry. A rock flies by and strikes the tree you are both secured to. The syndar does not flinch but is immediately silenced. He looks cowed and afraid, and will not respond to anything after this.

The night passes and you both fall into an uneasy sleep. When you wake, you are feeling feverish and unwell. The hand that was damaged by the dagger is swollen, with angry red lines streaking down your arm. You remember the mordok propensity for poisoned weapons. But before you can dwell on it much longer, the shaman comes to both of you. He sets down two beaten water skins, and two portions of whatever they had been eating the night before. The syndar sets upon upon it, practically inhaling his rations. You are unsure about the identity and quality of the meat, but you have not eaten since the day before. The shaman eyes you.
“Lat brogbu.” He grunts.

——-

Belthazar looks down at the food and as he hears his stomach growl, he decides to eat. after the food was gone and the water drank, Belthazar leaned back up against the tree. ” I’m getting really tired of being treated like an animal by these disgusting beings” belthazar muttered under his breath. the chance of a successful escape is slim to none. belthazar slips back into his thoughts “what does this shaman want with me? why has he taken me prisoner instead of executing me on the spot?” not long after that last thought Belthazar dreams of sinking his axe straight into the shaman’s skull. he opens his eyes looks at his syndar ally. “if only he were a mage or a cleric, he could help me escape but in his current state he probably can’t tell up from down” so as far as belthazar can tell, he is going to be a pet for a little while unless a miracle happens.

The day turns out to be much like the previous. The mordok drive you relentlessly, allowing for no rest, no food, no water. The female you had previously wounded in the stomach takes special notice of you. Whenever you stumble, whenever you fall behind, she is there to kick you viciously back into line. Your hand wound begins to burn intensely, and the pain travels up your arm, throbbing.

The miles and tracks of forest begin to blur together. Fever sets in, and you are barely aware of the syndar suffering next to you, of what direction you are going. You think only of forcing yourself to take the next step, so that the kicks and savage blows do not come. From some depth you knew not even existed, fed with the feverish and blind hatred of these creatures, you manage to pull the strength to continue on.

But it cannot last. Eventually, as the sun begins to set, even your deep rage fails you. You stumble and fall. The female is there immediately, viciously kicking you, trying to force you to rise. You manage a noise, half-moan of defeat, half-snarl of of defiance. When you fail to stand, the female reaches for her club. For the second time in as many days, you think your death is upon you, as she raises her weapon. Suddenly, the shaman is there. He grabs the female’s wrists and bends it backwards viciously. She howls in agony, and drops her weapon. With his other hand, the shaman grabs her by the throat, bringing her close to his face.

“Lat azub lorz-glok, Sindokgoth azub lat!” He spits at her, and shoves her away in disdain. Kneeling down he grabs your wounded hand, examining it closely, callously prodding it, sending fresh jolts of pain through your body.

You are dimly aware of the shaman beginning a harsh chant over your body, and some animal instinct surfaces. Sheer terror and panic does what rage and anger could not, and you flail, trying to get away. The shaman coldly grabs you, and slams you back to the ground, not even pausing in his spell casting. Dazed, you watch as he finishes chanting, and grinds a handful of wet leaves into the open and festering wound on your hand.

The pain is nothing like you have ever known.

It is sharp and throbbing and aching all at once.

It drives all breath from your body, all thought from your mind.

It is as if any and every pain such a hand wound could ever feel, all condensed into a few seconds of pure intense agony.

The shock of it is the only thing that keeps you conscious. As your vision begins to black, it stops as quickly as it started.

You gasp for breath, and the fog clears away.

Your fever is gone, burned out, and the wound, is closed, and left behind is nothing but a raised scar, the pink of healthy and healed flesh.

Nausea hits you, and you turn over and vomit what little was left in your belly, and a small pile of a black, slimy substance. You look up at the shaman, in confusion and horror. Slowly the realization that you were subjected to vile mordok magic seeps into your mind, and making your gorge rise again. You dry heave, coughing.

Not giving you time to recover, the shaman drags you by your collar to another tree, where you are bound fully again. The syndar stares forlornly at you. Your vision begins to swim and exhaustion hits you like a tidal wave. As your eyes close, you see something else in the mad syndar’s eyes.

Pity.

——–

When you awake, it is dark and cold. You are alone by the tree, the syndar gone.

But not unheard.

From the circle of firelight, you can see the mordok gathered around, muttering and growling to themselves.

But above them, you can hear a man alternately shrieking in anguish and crying pitifully. The shaman is bellowing words. What they are, you do not know.

You do not know how long this goes on. Sometimes the syndar responds to the shaman, sometimes he only suffers. Eventually he falls silent, and the ranks of the mordok break. The shaman passes through, dragging the syndar by his hair. He drops the syndar in an unconscious heap, and then turns to stare at you.

You can read the meaning in the foul beast’s eyes.

You are next.

As the shaman reaches for your lead, you snap. The fear and anger course through your veins and you throw yourself wildly at the creature. You head butt, snarl and bite savagely as the mordok pack drags you off and into the circle of firelight. Still struggling wildly, your wrists and neck are bound to a stake in the ground. Every time you pull against the stake, the rope around your neck tightens, cutting off your air. The shaman watches you struggle impassively, until you tire. You stare at him, panting, as he walks over and sits on his knees in front of you. He begins speaking in the Mordok tongue, almost companionably. He speaks at you for a minute or two, as you stare, uncomprehending. He reaches for a knife, and casually draws it across the flesh of your arm. You snarl in pain, as he dips his finger into your blood. Grabbing your chin, he forces your head still as he draws on your forehead with your own blood. Still forcing you to look at him, he holds up his now bloody hand and barks out a word.

“Beh-tak.”

You growl and try to look away. He slaps you, forcing his hand into your face again.

“Beh-tak!”

This continues for some time, you resist, and refuse to understand what this beast is trying to communicate with you. His violence only escalates, the more you refuse him. Eventually he goes for his knife. Even though your arms are now scored and bloody, and you are in pain, you will not give in. After a while, the shaman sits back, and stares at your arms. You look too, and you grow afraid. The flesh is ragged, and you feel faint from blood loss. You watch as the shaman takes up a handful of ashes, and begins chanting. You brace yourself, though it doesn’t help.

All breath is driven from your body, and for a second, you can’t feel anything at all. Then the pain hits, and you double over. You watch as the ash mixes with your blood, and begins to form new skin over your wounds. The pain becomes too much though, and the world darkens. As you open your mouth to scream, it is over. You kneel, gasping for breath. The shaman grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him again. Though you speak no common words, you can guess at the meaning of its expression.

I can do this all night.He seems to say.

“Beh-tak.” He grunts again, holding up his bloodstained hand.

How long this continues, you do not know. Each time the shaman progressively wounds you, each time he heals you with extreme pain. Eventually, you are almost mindless with agony, retaining only one thing in your mind.

I will not submit anymore.

When you finally pass out, it is to the image of the shaman snarling the word at you in frustration, still holding out his bloody hand.

You wake up in the darkness, next to the tree, with your head cradled in the lap of the Syndar. He makes shushing noises at you, holding a cup of luke warm water to your lips. You drink gratefully, and manage to croak out a thank you. He shakes his head at you, saying something that sounded soothing and melodic, and leaves you curled up on the ground.

You lay there, passing in and out of consciousness. You force yourself to focus on the firelight, and on its reflections in the dirt. It takes a long time for your vision to stop wavering. To realize what a reflection meant. Slowly you raise your head. It is a rusted dagger, half buried in kicked up dirt and leaves. One of the mordok must have dropped it during your earlier struggle. You silently flip around, straining with your bound hands to snatch the dagger. You grab it and lean against the tree, desperately trying to saw at the ropes binding your hands. The Syndar observes your actions with interest. Your hands come free, and you quickly free your neck as well. The Syndar eagerly turns his hands to you, and you free them. He snatches the dagger and frees his last bindings as well. You wobble to your feet, and with a last glance at the fire and the sleeping mordok, you motion to the Syndar.

“Come on.” You whisper. The Syndar glances fearfully back, and then shakes his head. You stare at him, unbelieving. The Syndar curls up into a ball, mumbling. You lean in, and realize, for the first time, he is speaking in the trade tongue.

“You…don’t understand. She…SHE knows. She….sees…me. I…can’t. Can’tcan’tcan’t.” He looks up at you, with clarity in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

“Run.” He whispers hysterically. “Run!”

Before you realize what he is doing, before you can stop him, he sets the dagger to his throat, taking his life before your eyes. You stumble backward, watching in horror as the blood gushes, and the Syndar slumps, gurgling. You whirl and flee into the woods, away from the shaman, and the madness that darkened the Syndar’s dying eyes.

Cor Leonis Requiem

“Brother Kanos!” shouted a voice from the other side of the camp. Several humans raised their heads or looked around at the sound of the alarmed voice.

“Yes? What is it?” replied the deep voice of a large and muscular man.

Brother Kanos, wearing a basic tunic and lion emblazoned tabard of the Order of Arnath’s Fist, set down the box of supplies he had been moving. The Battle Brothers of the Order had set up a forward camp near the Onsallas Village. They did not want to intrude on the Ulven territory, so they made their own camp.

“Brother Kanos! The Eagles bring news, the Lich has been sighted. It is here, in the swamp, and it is close. They are tailing it now.” yelled a younger man in a basic tunic.

“Finally!” boomed Kanos, “This hunt comes to a close. Brothers! Prepare for battle, we move out now.”

Kanos walked towards his tent and began to don his armor. The small camp exploded into action as Battle Brothers and the volunteer militia of the Order prepared for battle.

A younger man jogged towards the tent, his healer’s robe swishing around him as he went.

“Kanos,” he said, “why do we move out so quickly? We should send Eagles to call in the other Battle Brothers in the nearby settlements. Cedrick would not want to miss out on this chance now that we are so close.”

It was customary in the Order to address each other by the title Brother before their name, but in this case it was not needed. Kanos was the older and more experienced brother amongst three siblings. Cedrick was the middle brother and Mahlik being the youngest. The fact that blood bound them together gave Mahlik a bit of leeway outside of the traditional customs of the Order, such as properly addressing one’s superiors or giving them tactical advice.

“Brother Mahlik, we move immediately. This has been the first confirmed sighting since the spring and the Lich is on the move. This is the best opportunity we have to ending it for good. I won’t lose it by sitting back and letting it slip through my fingers.” said Kanos as he strapped on platemail bracers.

He had already put on his gambeson and chainmail and would soon be covered head to toe in full metal armor.

“Brother Kanos, don’t you think it wise to bring all of our battle brothers together for this in case we need them? We have yet to get in contact with Aeden. The Masters sent us out here to find him too.” replied Mahlik.

“Enough, Brother.” said Kanos, “Your concerns are valid, but I have made my decision. Without other greater undead or a gravestone powering it, the Lich will be weak enough that we can end the plague now on Mardrun before it has a chance to even truly begin. Send a message to Cedrick and let him know that I will meet you both back here tomorrow evening. This ends tonight.”

Kanos finished buckling on his platemail breastplate and grabbed his great helm from the stand in his tent. Even without his armor, Kanos was a mountain of a man and in full platemail he dwarfed most of his fellow battle clerics.

“Wait, brother, I am going with you! I am not going to stay in camp while you hunt down the Lich.” protested Mahlik.

“Brother, you know your place is here.” he said, hefting his tower shield. “You are new to the studies and this fight will be dangerous, even if the Lich is weakened. Oversee the camp and prepare for our return. That is an order.”

*

“No, no no!” protested Cedrick as he read the message sent from the Order’s encampment.

The look of horror on his face was enough to rattle anyone around him. He read the words written by his younger brother, Mahlik, that the Battle Brothers were marching against the Lich at that very moment. Cedrick understood the decision. Kanos was making the best judgement call based on the information he had, but there was one very critical piece that was missing. It had just been discovered by the Pack Longfang hunters of the Onsallas village. The Lich was not weakened from months of being on the run. The Lich had killed enough people to make a small army, and harnessed enough dark mana to create a gravestone. The gravestone fed the Lich all the dark mana it needed to be at full strength, and Kanos was marching on it with a small group of battle brothers. There was nothing Cedrick could do to help. It was too late. The Order was already on the move.

“Unless,” thought Cedrick, “we can find the source of its power.”

His Brother’s maneuver could create an opportunity for them. The Lich would respond to the attack and move away from the gravestone. It was dangerous but he knew that he could help his brother by attacking the gravestone. Cedrick grabbed the recently recovered May’Kar Paladin’s artifacts and ran off to meet with the Vandregon Soldiers of the garrison and the group of adventurers that had helped retrieve the sacred blade.

*

“Hold your line, Brothers!” roared Kanos as the wave of undead slammed into the Order’s shield wall.

Kanos was in the middle of the line with two other Lions at his side. The flanks of the wall were made up of more lightly armored Starkhaven militia. The far flank was held by another fully armored Lion so that the discipline of the line would hold even if they took losses. The zombies pressed in on the line, their stiffly curled hands clawing broken fingernails across the tower shields of the Order. They groaned and pressed, and reached over the shields to grab at the humans, but the men of Starkhaven maintained their line and held their ground. After the initial wave had hit and lost momentum, weapons flashed out as swords and hammers crashed down on the undead. Again and again, the steel weapons of the Order struck out to chip and grind away at the dark energy that kept each corpse together.

Kanos expected the Lich to have zombies guarding him but he didn’t expect he would have quite this many. The shield wall containing the lions and militia were being pressed hard by horde of zombies about two times their size. They were doing well holding the line and even managed to drop a handful of the zombies already. Kanos knew that most of them would rise again, but knocking them down was a sign of progress. Repeatedly, the lion-etched warhammer rained down on the bodies in front of his shield, smashing aside the zombies and shattering dried bits of flesh from their dessicated bodies. Kanos glanced to his right and saw two militia members get grappled, the sheer number of undead dragging them to the ground. One zombie had already sank its teeth into the shoulder and neck of a lightly armored volunteer as he cried out in pain. Kanos knew it was time.

“Brother Geshin, now!” yelled Kanos as he hammered a zombie in the face and heaved another back with his shield.

The Lion to Kanos’ left dropped back and cast his shield aside to mutter a divine prayer. Brother Geshin finished the prayer by shooting his arms out perpendicular to his body and casting a divine barrier. The sudden aura of divine energy pushed the undead on the shield wall back. The zombies currently grappling the two fallen militia men reeled in shock as holy energy wracked their forms and they were brutally cut to pieces by the other men of the shield wall. As they fell writhing to the ground, the Lions of the Order finished them with blessed weapons and dispelled the dark energy holding the corpses together. The bloodied militia men clenched their teeth in pain as they staggered back to resume their positions in the shield wall. With the divine barrier giving them some respite, the Lions began to bless their weapons again or rejuvenate their comrades with divine energy. The fight was long from over but the Order was prepared for this. The Lions stepped forward and began to strike at the undead from the safety of the barrier.

“Brothers, I can maintain the barrier for a bit long-GURK!” started Brother Geshin, before his words were cut short and ended in a gurgled cry.

Kanos spun around to see Brother Geshin fall to his knees. Geshin’s arms faltered as blood gushed out of the smoking hole in the side of his breastplate. He wheezed, and coughed a voiceless and bloody cry as he dropped the barrier that had been protecting the group. Brother Kanos watched as Geshin collapsed lifelessly to the ground, clutching at the empty sky. Behind the fallen Lion stood the Lich, clad in tattered black, its hand still extended from casting the death bolt that smote Brother Geshin. Flanking the Lich were several undead bodyguards. These armored undead held weapons and shields, and moved with intelligence and speed surpassing the common zombies of the horde. Knowing they had stepped into a trap was bad enough, but after witnessing the sheer power of the Lich and his greater undead guards, Kanos knew that something was wrong. The Lich was not in a weakened state. It must have created a gravestone in the swamp. Mahlik was right. Kanos should have listened to him.

“Behind us!” roared Kanos as he shifted his tower shield. The armored Lion holding the left flank stepped in towards the Lich and cast a divine spell.

“Divine ba…” was all he managed to say before the Lich flicked a wrist out and rammed the cleric in the chest with a magical push.

The Lion flew backwards, away from the line, and crashed into the zombies on the other side. In seconds they were on him. Several bodies piled on top of the Lion and the sheer weight pinned him to the ground. Teeth broke and rotten fingernails tore upon his plate-mail. The heavy armor would keep him alive for a while but it was only a matter of time before the ravening horde found the chinks in his armor. The cleric was unarmed, having lost his weapon and shield when he was pushed back.

The Lich stepped in towards the lines. Kanos charged, slamming his warhammer into the creature several times before he too was blasted with a kinetic push that sent him flying backwards, rolling and bouncing as he went. Kanos crashed into the zombie horde, his massive figure sending them flying like bowling pins. In moments other zombies descended upon him like they did the previous Lion, and Kanos was in a desperate struggle. He couldn’t see anything except for some part of the inside of his great helm other than the visor. He could hear rotting nails screeching on his shield and armor and the grating and wet cracking of broken teeth on the platemail gorget protecting his neck. Roaring in rage, the Lion warrior shoved several zombies aside and began to blindly attack with his hammer from the ground. Every swing landed on his opponents but there were just too many of them.

Just then, one of the militia members charged in and tried to clear the zombies away. He was brave, but his action would cost him his life. Rotten and withered arms reached out and grabbed him, pulling him closer into the mass of undead on top of Kanos. The lightly armored militia man was dragged down, screaming for help, until he fell on top of Kanos’ tower shield. The zombies tore into the man, clawing and biting and tearing his flesh. Within moments the man was torn to shreds, his entrails and blood pouring down onto Kanos and his armor all at once, like someone had dumped out a bucket at a slaughterhouse. While the undead feasted on the man’s body on top of Kanos, The Lion continued to struggle to find a way out from the tangled horde. He was able to turn to his side and get one arm and one leg under him. With every ounce of strength he had, Kanos roared and power lifted up, sending several zombies flying through the air and crashing into the swamp around him. He lost his tower shield somewhere under the mass of bodies, but there was no time to retrieve it.

Covered in swamp muck and gore, Kanos fixed his helm and finally got a glimpse of how the fight was going. The Lion taken to the ground had stopped struggling and had either suffocated or been torn to shreds, his body still covered in a mass of undead. Brother Geshin stared into the sky with dead eyes. A handful of militia were still standing, bloodied and fighting back to back, while others struggled on the ground with their attackers. Several more lay on the ground motionless. Brother Dayson was struggling, trying to fight one of the Lich’s guards and block its attacks. He would have been doing well if it were not for the zombie that had grappled his back and was tearing into his exposed shoulder where his armor had been broken open. Judging by his slow movements, Brother Dayson would soon fall. The final Lion was maintaining a divine barrier, giving the last couple militia time to regroup. It was working until the Lich stepped forward and blasted a hand sized fist through the Lion’s thigh with a bolt of death and black energy. The Lion went down in a scream of pain and the undead wasted no time shambling into attacking range.

They were losing, fast, and everything that led up to this moment fueled Kanos’ rage. He walked forward with a growl and bellowed a prayer to Arnath before calling forth the flow of mana.

“I am his shield and his strength! I banish you with divine wrath!” Kanos yelled as he pressed his palms out towards the nearest zombie in his way.

The air rippled with energy as a blast of pure divine power burst out and slammed into the zombie, ripping the dark energy from its body and sending it tumbled into a broken mass of flesh some fifteen feet away. He stepped past the body and walked quickly towards Brother Dayson who finally collapsed under the wounds sustained by the lich guard’s rusty blade. A zombie stepped in Kanos’ way but a full on punch to the temple with a plate gauntlet sent the zombie crashing to the ground and Kanos never broke stride.

“I am the light in the darkness! I banish you with divine wrath!” Kanos yelled again as he pressed his palms out towards the back of the guard.

It never even saw him as the second divine blast cracked its spine and ripped apart its body. The broken lich guard sailed through the air over Brother Dayson’s body and crumpled when it landed. With the guard fallen, there was nothing standing between Kanos and his intended target… the Lich. Even at full strength, a Lich would be severely damaged by the pure and raw energy of his god’s divine wrath, and Kanos had enough mana and hatred to pummel it again and hopefully finish the job. As Kanos stopped close enough for the spell to work he began to call upon the flow of mana. The Lich turned to face him but it was too late. Kanos was too close.

“I am a Lion of Arnath’s Fist! I banish you from this realm with divine wrath!” Kanos yelled as he pushed the energy straight into the Lich.

The blast slammed into its chest and it reeled back several steps, shrieking as the dark energy keeping it animated was almost torn completely from its body. It was not enough to destroy it outright, but the blast wounded it badly. Knowing it would take more, Kanos wasted no time in channeling forth more mana.

“Not here, not again, Lich! For my fallen Battle Brothers! I banish you from this realm with divine wrath!” roared Kanos as he dug deep into his faith and harnessed the raw power of his god’s wrath.

His rage at losing Brothers to the lich helped harness the energy, and Kanos hated the lich with the core fibers of his being. In the split second it took Kanos to extend his arms towards the lich, though, a lich guard rushed in and placed its own body in between the Lich and Kanos. Instead of releasing his god’s wrath into the Lich again, the lich guard’s body took the blast at point blank range. The attack instantly shattered the corpse, destroying it outright and sent it tumbling away. Kanos stumbled in surprise at what happened and then regained his composure to call upon more mana.

“You will not escape judgement! I banish you with div…” was all Kanos could get out as a prismatic blast of energy struck him head on and cut him short.

The Lich had stunned him with a simple, rudimentary arcane spell and Kanos stumbled backwards clutching his head. For what seemed like an eternity, the only thing that Kanos could comprehend was piercing light and the muffled sounds of all that was around him. The sound of the militia being torn limb from limb, the gnashing teeth on fresh bloody meat, the sword screeching through the plate armor of Brother Dayson as he was finished off, and the slowed beating of Kanos’s own heart under the effects of the spell. During the final dying breaths of a brave few, ten seconds can seem like forever.

When his senses returned to normal, Kanos opened his eyes to the extended palm of the Lich at his chest. Time returned to normal speed. A kinetic blast of energy rammed him in the gut and sent him flying backwards into the dirt. He landed with a thud and his great helm was knocked clean off his head. With a hacking cough, Kanos regained his breath and tried to stand. The Lich walked closer to him and summoned forth blue tinted energy in its hands. Flicking its wrists forward, it assaulted the cleric with bolts of energy that struck him as hard as any forged blade. The furious rain of bolts dented and bent his armor and rent his flesh until finally one cracked his breasplate and tore into his stomach. Blood oozed out of the cleric’s armor and he knew the wound was deep.

“Cedrick… Mahlik… I am sorry. I should have listened…” choked Kanos as he looked at the pool of his own blood forming at his feet.

He was mortally wounded and there was only one thing left to do.

“I pray that you somehow know that I died a good death. I am Arnath’s Fist!” roared Kanos as he filled himself with intense rage and charged at the Lich, completely ignoring his grievous wounds.

His death was imminent, but he would not meet it while on his knees.

————————————————————————–

“It’s ok, Elise! I will hold them back, grab Venator and go!” struggled Cedrick as his arms threatened to fall, the sheer weight of maintaining so many divine barriers proving to be too much.

“But I’m scared!” cried the little Ulven girl. Elise was inside the divine barrier. She and Cedrick were the last two left near the gravestone. With the lich away, the soldiers of Vandregon and their Ulven allies were able to perform a ritual and destroy the gravestone. Venator had flown into a rage and charged the undead surrounding them to try to take as many down before the group had to flee.

“Elise, it’s ok, they can’t hurt you if my arms are up. The barrier will hold them back. Trust me, they can’t get you, go over and help Venator get back to the outpost.” said Cedrick through almost gritted teeth. The Ulven girl was terrified but complied and ran out to get the wounded Ulven. She was able to make it away from the zombies and moved through the swamp as fast as she could.

Cedrick maintained the barrier but knew he could not last much longer. The undead were around him but suddenly turned and noticed Raskolf of the Watchwolf Clan and several other wounded allies nearby. Dread realization sunk in when Cedrick saw that if the undead turned their attention on them as they fled, they would be outrun and torn apart. The zombies had to be stopped or distracted so the others could get away.

Cedrick looked down at his mangled legs, wounded from the corruption of the gravestone, and knew he was not getting out of here alive. It was this moment that he knew he could still do something to help… and lowered his arms and dropped the divine barrier.

“Hey! Over here! Come on! Face me!” yelled Cedrick as the zombies turned at the noise and the absence of the barrier that kept them away. With fresh meat closer and within reach, the undead surrounding Cedrick moved in for the kill.

As Raskolf and the others dragged the wounded farther into the swamp, the last thing they heard was Brother Cedrick yelling a prayer to his god in defiance as the zombie horde descended upon him.

——————————————————————–

It had been four days.

“Brother Mahlik? ” asked one of the Order camp’s workers from the tent opening.

“Yes?” said Mahlik from the small study in his tent. To pass the time, Mahlik had taken to studying scrolls and texts to busy his mind and he had a number of them opened and held down by rocks and was reading by candlelight since it was well into the evening. His brothers should be back by now. He knew it even if he refused to admit it.

“The others are worried that if the mordok attack, we will not be able to stop them. We are near Onsallas, but not close enough to be protected by our Ulven allies.” said the worker uncomfortably.

Mahlik knew that he should not have waited this long and that to stay any longer was endangering everyone in the camp. He could not shake the feeling that if he gave in and stopped waiting for their return that it would finally make it real. To give up and leave would admit that his brothers were most likely dead.

“You’re right. We have waited long enough. Start taking down the camp. We will move to the outpost in the morning and link up with allies or other Order members there.” said Mahlik heavily.

The worker nodded and left. Mahlik set the scroll down he was pretending to read and stared blankly into the flickering light of the candles, lost in his inner thoughts.

—————–

Magrat stared silently down upon the man she had known for only a few days. His body was torn and sprawled, the white lion on his chest spattered with blood.

That it should come to this. The Longfang had become a second home to her, but they could never replace her tribe, her family. That this human should be her closest link to her people, it would be hilarious if it wasn’t so damn depressing.

Though she was exhausted from the breaking of the Gravestone and and the healing of the ulven girl, she had work to do, and could not rest.

As silently as she could, she gathered the dead human and his belongings and laid him on a hasty but servicable pyre.

She bowed her head over him, and chanted quietly, invocking the spirits of the land and his ancestors to guide him on his final journey. She prayed for the man whose order had been her people’s enemies for far longer than she had been alive.

“Spirits grant this man honor,

Guide his feet as he journey’s home,

Tell him we honor him,

For an honoured enemy

Is as good as an honoured friend”

She took up her ritual knife and took some of him, taking some of his strength and power into herself.

She took his lion’s tabard, torn and bloody, before setting the pyre ablaze. It might attract the mordok or any zombie’s remaining in the area, but Cedrick would not return, and was laid to rest.

It would take the messenger a few days to find the nearest Order group. His package contained Cedriick’s tabard, and a message, carefully written with the help of some of the more formally educated at the Outpost. At the bottom of the message was a small note:

“We honored him as we did in the past, and set him on his pyre.” Signed was a sigil of the Lost, and she hoped that there would still be a vetran among their number who remembered how the Lost honoured their dead. A grave insult and a grave honor all at once.

Pack Goldmane
Aesalif Goldmane

---

I remember that first night I got drunk. I guess once my body started, it knew how to find it’s way to what little peace it could get. The drink finally gave me the energy to do what I had been considering for a long time. Turns out it only really takes resolve and some crazy to kill yourself. I knew the best way to do it as well, so nobody would be too disappointed in me.
I’m not really sure why they let me out on patrol that morning. I had been up all night, drinking all night. I must have looked like shit. I suppose they were just so relieved to finally see me up and about that they didn’t much care.
Being out on patrol was hard. I was twitchy and my pleasantly numbing state of inebriation was ebbing. When I finally found a mordok, I lit into it despite orders. I meant to get killed by that thing, you know. Either it was too weak, or there was some spark left in me that didn’t want to give up, not yet. I beat that thing. There was no finesse, no sword play. I hacked at it, my arms driven by rage, my eyes blinded with tears, and my mind consumed by an unnatural glee at the carnage I was creating.
When I finally came back to myself, I couldn’t recognize the pile of offal at my feet, and my packmates were staring at me. It wasn’t with respect neither.

I kept drinking, and I kept trying to get myself killed. I really don’t know how I managed to fail at that, I really wasn’t trying to save myself. I got fucked up, sure, but I healed up nicely. How perverse it was. Some of them tried to get me to stop drinking so much, but I couldn’t, not at that point. Wouldn’t. It was the only way I could sleep anymore, and it had become my crutch.
He tried to reason with me, but I just threw his words back in his face. The more I argued with him, the more poisonous my words got. With anybody. I’m pretty sure there was talk about throwing me out, especially since everyone afterward so vehemently denied it. I was half near a mad animal, savaging myself and anyone who tried to help me.
Everyone, except her. Gaia bless and damn her.
Somehow she pulled me out of the grave I was digging for myself. Believe me, I didn’t want to go. It was surprisingly comfy down there, and I didn’t have to dream. I kinda was like a project for her, by helping me, she was helping herself. We had both lost our families and mates, lost everything. I guess sharing our pain made it a bit easier to bear. I still murdered every filthy mordok I could get my hands on. I wasn’t trying to get myself killed anymore, just relieving some of the pent up emotions I had.

I think that’s why we never really realized what changes were happening around us. We were too wrapped up in our own tragedies to see the one unraveling in the world at large.
We argued about it a lot, late at night when we were alone. It didn’t seem right, it didn’t feel right. I would have been first in line to tear apart some colonists, believe me, but there are lines, you know? I couldn’t really figure out what to do, but when they started killing mothers and children? No fucking way. I won’t do that.

Both of us nearly died. She was almost killed in a duel, by that by that overly fanged macho mute who cost us our revenge for our families. I was nearly killed by our erstwhile packmates. They did a number on my leg, fucked it up real good. Funny how the one real injury I ever took was from former friends, not from me trying to die. Shit.

We shacked up with the western Watchwolves. They took care of us, got us back on our feet. It’s just that I couldn’t walk right anymore. Can’t really run, and no more fighting, that’s for sure.
She did good. Still angry, just like she always was. But she made friends, in her own way. Got some purpose, and she liked that. It suited her. She started going of more and more, missions and shit. I had to stay behind. I slow everyone down, you see. I was just a causality, a burden. I had to watch them going out time and again, while I grubbed in the fucking dirt. I couldn’t drink either, they wouldn’t let me. She had warned them, see. I really didn’t know what to do with myself. I couldn’t carve, not like I used to, before all this happened. My hands shook too much. Made it hard to do much of anything useful, really. It made me mad. Real mad. Sometimes i wasn’t sure if I was shaking because of my drinking problem, or because I was so damn pissed. I felt so damn useless, and pushed to the side. I didn’t want anyone’s help. For anything. I’d try until I’d near hurt myself again. i wanted to be independent, but it seems like I never will.
Didn’t near hurt as much as watching her grow away though.
She deserved it. After everything she had gone through, she deserved some happiness, some purpose. There was no need for her to get dragged down with me. I mean, what use does the Great Wolf have for a crippled, alcoholic, has been warrior like me? She tried to argue that, but we both knew it was true.

I feel really bad, walking out on her. I left behind my oath ring, so she’d know. So she could move on, and have that better life. I wasn’t going to get better, probably never will at this rate. I left behind everything. I want to say it’s like being reborn, but it’s not. Now I just get to be alone with my thoughts. Maybe I’ll get my wish, and some lucky mordok will catch me out. Maybe I’ll be doomed to limp on these dusty roads for years to come. With my luck, I’ll probably trip and break my good leg.
I’m don’t really know where I’m going to go, but that doesn’t really matter much anymore.

Harlok Longfang
Stanrick Longfang
Azra Steelfang
Imara

---

The setting sun had dropped below the trees on the hill overlooking the Ulven village of Onsallas. It was a warm but tolerable summer evening, but that didn’t help the run up the hill through the Pineed tree field any easier.

Fatigued from their previous bloody fight through the Clan Grimward lines, a group of warriors ran full speed up the hill. A pack of howling Clan Grimward warriors gave chase directly behind them and gave them plenty of motivation to keep running. Two ulven warriors, Harlok Longfang and Rogar Shadowfang, ran beside two humans, Imara and Solus and they rapidly approached the outer wall of the village. Venator had already made it to the village previously and stood with the Longfangs at the gate.

“Quick! Get inside!” shouted Stanrick Longfang from behind the village gate as a Pack Longfang hunter on the wall let loose an arrow, zipping it past Harlok’s shoulder. A painful grunt from behind the group confirmed that the arrow hit its intended target.

The group ran through the opening as Venator and Stanrick heaved the heavy wooden gate shut. They were too late and the two closest Grimward warriors shouldered the gate, threatening to push it back open. If the remaining Grimward caught up and battered the gate, they would not be able to close it in time. In the split second where the gate was being pushed on by both sides, a mumbled incantation of magic escaped the lips of Rill Longfang, who also stood near the gate. Standing to the side of Stanrick, she calmly stepped forward and spread her palms toward the closest Grimward warrior through the opening. A blast of magical energy hammered into the chest of the warrior, sending him flying back from the gate. Now outnumbering their attackers, Venator and Stanrick roared and pushed the gate back into place and closed. A wooden bar slid into place and locked the gate from the bloodthirsty Grimward warriors just outside the wall. The twang of bowstrings rang out as several Longfang hunters loosed arrows into the attackers.

For now, they were safe from the attack outside the village.

Catching their breath from the run, the group continued to move towards the center of the village with a purpose.

“Will someone tell me what is going on?” roared Stanrick as he followed the group. Rill and Venator followed closely behind. Yawn slowed to a walk, having just run to the gate to find out what the commotion was all about. They both looked shocked to see Imara and Solus, two humans, inside the village. They were the first humans to ever step foot inside the gate. Harlok led the way and stormed towards the communal longhouse, a seething mass of angry Ulven in armor and splattered with fresh Ulven blood.

“We were attacked… by Clan Grimward warriors… The outpost is under attack right now… we ran to warn the village.” panted Imara as she hurried to keep up with the group.

“You are a little late, human, we already know Clan Grimward is attacking us. We have barred the gates and our warriors are keeping them outside our walls” said Rill in a tone that betrayed her apprehension of knowing that humans were inside the village uninvited.

“I think Imara means the other threat to the village… the Clan Whiteoak warriors.” said Rogar from behind the group after having caught his breath.

“Clan Whiteoak? They are here as allies! They are no threat to us, they have pledged to aid Clan Nightriver and Pack Longfang against Clan Grimward.” said Rill.

Before Rill, Yawn, or Stanrick could ask further questions, the group walked up to the massive doors of the large Ulven longhouse. With all the confusion of the Grimward attack, Harlok knew that the warriors would be there figuring out what to do next. Without breaking stride, Harlok reared back and kicked the large wooden door hard enough to send it flying open and stepped into the entryway to the longhouse.

“… and that is why our warriors will help at the gates and protect the Runeseer…” finished an unknown Ulven in Whiteoak markings at the end of the table. He stopped at the thundering sound of the door being opened.

Rogar and Venator flanked Harlok and all three stood in the door with weapons drawn and at the ready. Imara, Solus, and the others were gathered around them as well.

“Harlok? What is going on?” said Azra Steelfang as she rose from the table. It looked as if she were discussing some battle plans with a Clan Whiteoak warrior. She seemed surprised to see two humans in the village and her body language betrayed a bit of cautious hesitation and confusion. She knew there was an immediate threat but didn’t know from where.

Solus, the human cleric that joined Imara in helping the Ulven protect their village, stood next to Harlok and Rogar and held up a piece of parchment.

“Proud Pack Longfang, my name is Solus and I am a cleric of the divine. I am human, I am not one of your kind, but I have joined sides with Pack Longfang to help them and Clan Nightriver against Clan Grimward. I hold in my hands a letter, proof that Chieftan Khulgar orchestrated an attack on the outpost and the village. It was written by the hand of Torlin Whiteoak. Clan Whiteoak intends to betray you and raze your village to the ground. Even now, Grimward warriors are attacking the outpost. Magrat, the green skinned Syndar that wears your markings, coordinates its defense against attack even as we speak.” said Solus as he held out the letter to the group.

“Watch your tongue, outsider! What you claim is insane! We have pledged our warriors to defend this village and to ally with Clan Nightriver!” roared a large and burly ulven warrior with the markings of Clan Whiteoak. A dozen other armored Whiteoak warriors instinctively shifted into better fighting positions in the room or discreetly moved sword hands closer to the grips of their sheathed weapons.

A dreadful realization of what was unfolding came across Stanrick, Yawn, and Rill. Imara and Solus stood next to Rogar and Venator, ready to help if needed. Harlok stood at the tip of the group, snarling with anger and staring with a feral gaze into the eyes of the Whiteoak Ulven that had just spoken.

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife as warriors from both sides waited. The Longfangs knew the claims were outrageous and hard to believe. No Clan in Ulven history had ever committed such a betrayal.

But these were not normal times for the Ulven.

It wasn’t the letter that told the truth to Azra. It wasn’t Harlok’s reaction to the Whiteoaks, knowing he would never jest about such grievous matters. It wasn’t the words spoken by Solus. It was the whiteoaks themselves. They stole glances at one another, as if trying to wait for some kind of signal. It was the eyes of the Whiteoak leader, how he tried to defend himself of such accusations with his words yet shifted his eyes counting the number of warriors in the room and who to attack first. It was how he shifted his body away from the table so his sword would draw clear. It was the look of someone caught in a dangerous lie and calculating how to come out of it alive.

Suddenly, the room burst into chaos. Swords cleared sheaths and were swung with deadly force. The Longfangs were prepared for this kind of tension, their years of training and bodyguard work made them expect situations to escalate into violence. But this was different, these were allies inside the homes of the Longfang village. A few Longfangs in the room were struck mortally during the initial seconds and the fight was on. Stanrick and Harlok roared a battle cry and charged shoulder to shoulder into the room. Azra’s blade cleared a fraction of a second after the Whiteoak’s but her blade landed first, gashing open a deep wound and clanging against his armor. Rogar and Venator ran in to support the other Longfangs in the room and cries of pain, fury, and oaths of vengeance rang out in the longhouse.

Solus and Imara stood in the doorway, not sure how to get involved or to help, when a Whiteoak warrior charged out of the battle and straight into Solus. It caught him off guard and knocked him aside, but not before his mace thudded hard against the warriors side with a crack. Imara stood her ground and took the abuse of his attacks on her shield, the recent months of training paying off. She landed a series of blows on her assailant with skill until he collapsed in the dirt outside of the Longhouse.

“Clan Whiteoak is attacking the village!” shouted Imara, trying to warn the other Longfangs at the gate and throughout the village. Usually quiet and reserved, Imara even surprised herself with her call to action. Suddenly, pockets of fighting broke out throughout the village as the Whiteoak warriors finally attacked.

The next few minutes were filled with brutal and bloody battles. Clan Whiteoak, knowing their treachery was discovered, had nowhere to run with the gates being barred. They fought like savages inside the walls of the village. A majority of the Whiteoak warriors lay dead or bleeding in the longhouse and in the village. Joining them were a number of Longfang warriors. When the gates did not open, the Clan Grimward warriors outside the wall broke off their attack. The village had been saved but it had come at a terrible price.

“You will all wait at the outpost and speak with the Runeseer. You are the first outsiders to walk inside these gates. A lot has happened tonight and I am sure she will have plenty of questions… and do not lie to her, she will know. ” said Rill quietly to Imara, Solus, Rogar, and Venator. She was trying to wash the blood off of her hands and her tunic. Rill knew that the next couple days would be busy and escorting the humans inside of the village and to meet with the Runeseer, one by one, will take time.

Bruised, bloodied and exhausted, the group began the somber task of assembling the dead. Although the selfless act of a handful of people trying to warn the village helped save many lives, there would be a number of funeral pyres tonight for the fallen Longfang.

The dying sun’s last rays highlighted the long grass of the Dirge Swamp, and the cicada’s drone played it’s theme. Magrat wondered just where, in it’s vast stretch, Yawn was at.
She wasn’t sure he was ready for it.
She wasn’t sure even she was ready.
The heat of these lowland summers was oppressive to her mountain-bred blood. She wondered if he had enough water, enough food.
She wondered if this would even work.

She had worked hard to earn her place. She went about her daily tasks with a zeal she had not displayed when she was back home.
If only this worked. She was confidant the Witches and Daughters could learn the divine magics. They had the healing, they just had to learn how to bless and to ward. But she could not leave her pack under-protected, and under-strength. The Undead were a new foe, unlike anything the ulven had ever to face. They would have to learn new ways of war, ways she was far too intimately aware of. She would give them this gift, this new way of war, but if she could, she would give them an even greater gift. A gift that no one could take away. A gift that could be given for generations.
Half of the ulven population could not protect themselves.
The males.

She kicked the dust up fitfully. The swamp had been quiet. The mordok were restless, but had not made any major movements. Perhaps the heat had gotten to them too. She hoped that they would not bother Yawn on his journey.
She didn’t understand, really, why males were not will-workers. Her own teacher had been male. She knew first hand, that one could be a mana weaver and still a fierce warrior. Old, remembered bruises attested to that. In fact, she well knew that the discipline a shaman had to cultivate became very useful upon the battlefield, and vice versa. Certainly she sometimes saw the Daughters and Witches out during combat training.

If her brand of magic could be learned by the males, she could open a whole new way for her pack. Those males that had the talent could learn to fight the undead, properly, for when their blades and shields inevitably failed them.
Some of the Longfang were confidant. They had never known an enemy that they couldn’t bludgeon to death. Perhaps that might work for the lesser undead, eventually. But the Lich, the Revenants, were different. Most required a concentrated group to be killed. That, or a sufficiently stupid and completely lucky paladin. She wasn’t sure how many of those the ulven could count on having.

Stanrick hadn’t really approved. But then again, Stanrick seemed to disprove of anything that smacked of ‘new’, unless it came packaged with breasts or tobacco. Yawn had been so eager. He had been a good student. Had she taught him enough? Did he understand how to properly spill his blood for his totem, so that the spirit would be bonded strongly, and he would not be weak from blood-loss? Would he remember how to call it forth even? Would he be able to recognize the tricksey spirits for what they were, when they tested him?

She traced the name of a dead ulven, carved into the posts of the watchtower. He had been dragged off by the mordok before she had arrived there. She had even gone with Harlok on a mission to retrieve his remains, starting her down the long road to acceptance by the Longfang. She felt a strange sort of kinship with the dead ulven for that. She sometimes made offerings to him, out of gratitude. She didn’t tell the other Longfangs that though. It was one of the many things about her people she wasn’t sure they’d understand.
Magrat sighed.
She desperately hoped she wouldn’t be carving Yawn’s name into the wood, and making offerings to him anytime soon.

Read more:http://lasthopelarp.proboards.com/index.cgi?action=display&board=stories&thread=16#ixzz2EVpIjaH4

Yawn Longfang

Yawn scoured the head of his mace feverishly. When he was done, he would oil it to keep it from rusting. It was broad daylight. For the first time ever, Yawn had not waited until the full moon to clean his mace. He didn’t want their blood on it. He didn’t want Magrat’s blood on his mace. The feeling, knowing it was there, made him sick. Rage filled his heart, along with a tinge of regret. It was the regret that he hadn’t caved in three heads instead of one. His elders had called the attack “ringing the bell”. Swordsmen called it the “helm splitter” or “pear splitter”, depending on who one talked to. It was the simplest and most vicious basic attack he knew.

Crush the sword hand, and while they scream, strike the helm. Keep striking until the helm and what lies beneath no longer functions. Most mace attacks worked like that. Target a limb, and exploit the pain it caused to attack the head, lungs, or throat. A heavy weapon like Yawn’s mace was designed to kill quickly and with a minimum number of hits. It was not as elegant or refined as sword play, but it took full advantage of the strength of the wielder. Yawn could put an incredible amount of power behind that mace. Now, however, his strong hands ached from the delicate, yet repetitive work of weapon maintenance. Secretly, his heart ached, too.
For the first time ever, Yawn had taken the life of another Ulven. He told himself that he didn’t care. He’d have killed another dozen to keep Magrat and his brother, Harlok, alive.

Yawn turned the head slowly as he worked. All the races, there, on a mace head: Mordok, Human, Ulven, and Syndar. Liches didn’t bleed, or, at least Yawn hadn’t been able to make it bleed, so the undead were not represented there, but he had fought them. Yawn stopped his work and looked down at the mace shaft. Two full faces of its handle were filled with scores.

“No, not Ulven.” He said to himself, “What had been Ulven. Mad remnants that had once been children of Gaia and the Great Wolf, but no longer.”
He started to work the scour over his score. To wipe it clean.
“These don’t mean anything. Not any more.” Yawn grunted as he applied more pressure and began grinding away his kill count.
The kills didn’t matter. The count didn’t matter. What he had killed for did. Who he had killed to protect did. What he had offered up to make the kills did. How he had grown afterwards did. The count was only a number; a symbol without a meaning, without a point, and without a purpose.
“A count only gets in the way.” he growled, “Focusing on what has been done, but clouding up what one needs to do next. I won’t carry the past with every strike of my mace. Not any more.”

He hadn’t just survived. He had grown as a warrior. He had been through the fire of trial by combat. No longer was he looked down upon as the meeker of two brothers. No one remarked on his absent fangs and eyes now, unless they were looking for a thrashing. No, his people were proud of him. But he was not content. Though he had found acceptance, he had not found the personal fulfillment he had hoped for.
Was it strange that now he had found acceptance as a warrior, killing was no longer enough for him? Killing was what he was trained for, true, and it had earned him glory and honor, but it did not complete him.
“Breaking things,” he thought to himself, “is easy. I am strong. Wood splinters. Metal Cracks. Bones shatter. Skulls split and leak, like eggs into a pan. No. The real challenge isn’t breaking things. The real challenge is fixing things.”

If only he could learn how to fix things. If only he could learn to heal. He rubbed his hand across the handle of the mace. The notches had almost disappeared to the eye, but could still be felt, like old scars. Yawn would trade every notch just to save one of his friends. As he leaned into his work, his shoulder screamed and twitched with pain. The wound had stitched, but the new tissue hadn’t meshed with the old yet, and the difference made the joint stiff and swollen. To make matters worse, the Grim javelin that had pierced his shoulder had been tipped with stone. Every flake from the head had had to be pulled up and through the wound tract before it could be sealed. It’d felt like the healers were pulling ice shards through a burn.

He paused in his work. The shafts wood lay dull with fresh flat wood a few shades lighter then it had been. The head still dark but cleared of friend and foes blood. War had come; Ulven against Ulven, but more importantly, the ghosts were real. This civil war would happen, but the undead were the real foe, and the only thing any of them should be focusing on.
As he started working the scour again, Yawn resolved to seek something greater than himself; Gaia’s children, the spirits. Yawn resolved to turn land and animal against foe, and to serve his pack through healing. That was the way to put down the walking ghosts, and it was the way to give Magrat, his friend, a little piece of her home that had been. Yawn had made up his mind. He would seek the path of the shaman. It was the only way he could fix things.

He’d felt a pull from the Dirge Swamp; a need, a call. He would take the dagger he’d been carving and go. Once he convinced Magrat that he was ready, he would waste no time, taking only what Magrat told him. In three days time he would have his totem, or his death.

—————-

Yawns pace was slow. The Dirge swamp did suffer fools. Just not for very long. He could still cover better then eight miles inside of three hours at this pace, assuming he didn’t run foul of the swamps more colorful features. Or that he didn’t stumble face first in to a Mordok camp. He adjusted his belt. He was already well past the witches hobble. Yawn had set out to warn her second thing after arriving at the outpost. Crazy or not, no one deserved to be over run unaware by the undead. Even if it meant his last night at the outpost had been more eventful. Of all the questions raised after stirring the ashes of that old mountain foot out post, one Yawn did not want answered. Namely, what happens IF a caster rises? He was certain knew EXACTLY what the worse case scenario was there. And it put a cold pulsing knot in his gut. He thumbed the handle of the knife. All he was allowed on this trial. He felt naked. With out his knives. With out his mace and shield. No armor, no glaive, no spear, no javelin, Great Wolfs tail not even a damn pouch full of stones. He never thought he’d say it, but right now as he leapt the stream and paused a moment at the site of the burnt Mordok camp, but right now, he’d trade his future fangs for a sling and a pouch full of stones. The air of the camp was still foul with months old scent of Mordok blood gone over and ash even after the springs rains. How happy he’d been last fall. How complete. Yawns boot ground a torn ragged bit of cloth into the the muddy rise. Life had been complete. He had been deliriously happy, out numbered, thin on supplies, told to watch and run if more came for the outpost, and dead certain he’d be joining his missing brothers in the great wolfs long house before the week was out, fortnight at the most. But he lived. And from what was supposed to be his pillory for brawling the night of naming, became his mark of distinction. His moment in the light. Warrior in full. All he’d ever wanted done in just less then four days time. His feet beat a steady pace along the ground ,solid ground, what there was of it to be found, steadily became narrower, and patchy. One needed to know how to step to keep pace, not twist an ankle, or spend the rest of the day tromping in wet boots. The only thing more miserable then a day in wet boots was seeing the bottom of the poke.
Yes his life had been full. Complete. Full of adventure and fights any young-ling Ulven would trade his fangs for. And would be fool enough to make the trade for it too. How had he found himself on this path. Had fewer been lost those first days of thunder and blood. Had his temper held long enough to challenge the three he’d thrashed or best them during the trails. Perhaps if his Mothers blood line was not touched by far sight and madness. If Magrat hadn’t been with the bastards. If putting down the dozens on the way back to Onsallas had been enough to fill the void mourning had left. If he hadn’t risen so far so quickly. And if doing so hadn’t echoed hollow as an emptied mead barrel.
The brothers Longfang were alike in many ways. Both took some aspect of their mothers. Stannrick in his steadfastness. Yawn in willingness to learn. But the pair could not be more different in their rages and mourning. Stanrick dealt with it by screaming, raging and sputtering, a pipe, or finding a warm bed not his own, after making sure the Great Wolf winced from cries. Yawn carried that weight of death with him. Hollowed out a bit of his heart for those lost. He saved it the way others save good drink and tobacco. When things grew truly dire, he let that weight in his heart fill him. With bitterness, sorrow, but most disturbing of all, joy. Joy that he could put one more body on the pyre. That he might join his friends and family.
The point, the point of this knife. For this was an augment in his own mind, and all arguments are knives, doubled edge, cutting both ways, and coming to an end, a point was this; His path lead here. For what ever reason. Divine providence, was that what the Syndar, the yellow one, had called the will of his gods? Could it not be the very course, the very snare laid for him by Gaia? Did not the goddess have a hundred thousand ways to bait the snares and paths she meant her children to find. Was his instinct not to find a new path? He would not question it now. Magrat knew the means to kill the undead. The undead were here. The Longfangs, his pack, devours maw the whole Ulven race needed that knowledge. Foresight and visions ran on his mother side. As did madness. And on his fathers side, decisiveness. The will the be the first the make the leap into whatever need be dealt with. And was that not a sort of madness? Was it not an ideal joining of these traits that he would be the first to think to ask of Magrats ways? To know the undead were a threat before the proof of it tried to cut him to ribbons after he hurled a stone half the size of his chest at the lich? Thank the Gaias tender if rough hewn mercies it had only a pair of swords and not a pole arm.
The shade of the swamp grew deeper and the familiar plants gave way. Here less then an hour in and it was already darker then the pines at mid day. The plants, even those he knew grew strange, gnarled, some bleached and unwholesome looking. Strange and some how, the twisted form of the familiar was more deeply unnerving then the new stranger looking plants. Here and there fallen trees slowly rotting, some dotted with, black, gray, and ashen white spiked … fungus, were those the fungus he’d seen around that forsaken outpost at the foot of the mountain? Had that merchant had less ale and drink on hand, surely his head would like as not found it way to a pike. If he were lucky, after it been severed. No tipman fungus, unripened or otherwise. Another gifts of the colonists, had it come over the gaping ocean with them? Something to ask Magrat when he returned. To file away for his return. Along with the questions for Rill of the more.. familiar plants bleached and blackened relations. Until now, plants had fallen into three categories, useful, dangerous, and edible. The last was the most favored, though the second was heeded fully and it truth just a different sort of useful. Useful had meant he carried it back on his patrols to Rill most often. Now it meant knowing more the portion he’d not been apart of. What could it treat? How much did one need? How to gauge the dosage? How best to ply it? When and where to look he’d known, but it simply been a chore before, now ignorantly plucking Gaia’s bounties and turning them over was not enough.
The hours ebbed and flowed strangely. The deeper Yawn went the the thicker became the darkness. Twilight beneath he leaves of twisted cops of trees. Foul smells, rot, and stagnating pools, the air choked and thick. Moss and shade bleached grasses everywhere one might step, a bit of bare stone or root here or there, the occasional stunted rise with something else, some times a higher pool of water, ancient trees, anyplace where stone, root, rock and earth were too tough to give out even under the duress of countless years of weathering. With out the sky and sun, the ever darkening twilight imperceptibility growing ever dimmer, made a joke of time. Here was only darkness. Though it provided no comfort. The trees strangled the winds. The water made the air so humid that sweat came in rivulets. The canopy provided no relief from the heat. With time gone, distance was the second victim. With out time there was no way to know, no true means to guess how far he’d come. “Well.. they don’t call it the black for nothing, as it turns out.” Yawn muttered to the trees. “You don’t belong here wolfing.” Yawn whirled round on his feet the knife drawn in one clean motion, eyes searching his ears tingling, his forehead had that odd pinched sensation he had when he’d stared down foes in combat, when he had weapon tips pointed at him. Again came the voice joyful, teasing, mocking, female. “Turn back wolfing, syndar can make the spirits to heel but not a pet, not a human playing at being a wolfling.” The words shocked him. Did the spirits think his late coming fangs would shake him. And yet it sent a chill down his spine. “Don’t listen” His breath became labored, heavy, the air felt, thinner. “d don’t listen, trying to break me, to play with your skull Yawn, don’t listen its just your mind filling in the dark.” Yawn felt something cold lash over the back of his left hand, the pain sang up his arm, and he lashed out to the left with his knife, catching nothing. “A warning wolfing who is not, your last, you can be made to bleed in more… dire ways.” The voice was anxious, eager. It promised more suffering. But it didn’t’ want him to turn back. Whatever it was it wanted the threats it made to come to pass. Yawn wheeled about feeling the cut pulse. His heart throbbing in his ears. The blood screaming through his veins. The blood flowing freely over his left hand. A minute passed. A second. And yawn cursed to himself. He scooped up dried leaves, crushed them, and packed the wound. It wasn’t an ideal poultice, but it would stop the bleeding. Pain shot through his hand, packing the wound worse then clean quick cut, Yawn held it fast, and waited for the bleeding to stop, he knelt there. Until the bleeding paused there was little else to do.
Yawn panted. Sweat slicking his brow. His tunic dried too quickly to soak through, the material too thin to hold much liquid. It kept his arms and chest if little else dry, and just a touch cooler for it. It had to be near night full but the swamp and its thick canopy trapped the days heat. Yawn thumbed the ring pommel of the knife. He was already floating in and out of consciousness. That on it own wasn’t knew. Not being drunk, battered, or bleeding out while it was happening was. His jaw ached…. the very bone, had he been grinding his teeth? The mocking voice echoed in his skull. One phrase stuck there like a thorn between his shoulder blades. “Wolfing who is not” He’d hunkered down trying to figure out what should come next. When he started to hear and feel things around him. Voices, snatches of sensations, and thoughts… None his own, and always on the dip into something less then wakefulness. It was as though until now he’d been able to stroll on the surface of an ocean. Now that he knew it was there he could no longer stride over it. No not over it… He’d been… Walking on a scum of ignorance. Now that he’d broken it, that he knew, it would no longer hold him. Again the dip, he felt as a peace of flotsam on a great swell, bobbing and sinking. He have to learn to swim or be pulled below. All at once the sounds faded. Yawn felt still, calm, and cool… He rose. No reason to. He just felt that surge… The spirits waking? Stirring at the some one seeking. Seeking what. Why so… so active? Was it him? That an ulven sought to commune to deal and bind instead of command? Or was that the mordoks did no deal but corrupted and subdued. Yawn turned eyes open the darkness nearly complete. Turning listlessly eyes seeing this and that his head swimming though still that cool. Could be the Black was eager for some one to try a different method? A word floated in… In between his ears like a wisp of smoke. Champion? Chosen? What what was that damned human word? Retainer???? No all wrong all of them. No the right word what was the right word…. Did he have it or was his attempt to decipher the idea of it the suggestion in fact unmaking that wisp of an idea. No important… Part of the trail? Trick? No important now come back to it wait for the signs, a sign….

Yawn kept turning until he saw it… a diminutive pulsing flickering light….. Distant or diminutive??? Sign it doesn’t matter go his own instinct answered. His feet hadn’t waited for his mind to resolve it self and he already start lumbering, slowly, toward the now slowly growing orange flame. Yawn felt almost as if he was only watching himself act. Passively watching until his body needed to be jolted in this direction or corrected. He was thinking about walking… but also seeing himself walk from out side himself… And seeing what he saw.. At once….Yawn was thinking about the oddness of it all… seeing himself both as if he were a bystander… while knowing, acting and seeing as himself… If some one could manage such in combat… to see as two what could that person manage? A voice pulled him back into his body. A voice that brought him back to himself. And that filled him with rage. “How now fangless one? How does will the Great wolf find your heart when I tear it from you.” Yilew…. Greytides…

————————————-

As he heard the voice of the greytide he’d thrashed shortly after the shaman incident at the Onsallas outpost, one turn of phrase entered Yawn’s mind and dropped from his mouth. “Crow’s luck.” Curse, explanation, and exclamation in one. With this, the spirits meddling was a far lesser trouble. Down came the blackened sword. Yawns feet carried him side long to his attacker, and danced to a bit more to his left. Circling sword side… Not good form. Not good at all. The whistling cut found no purchase in its target, but already its wielder ready the follow up strike. Yawns mind raced, locking its to the lessons of his days as a youth in the training circles. Full body turn, cross blow, utterly devastation if it connects. Yawns left leg snapped up in a sharp short kick. The ball of his foot checking Yilews wrist and fore arm just as the Greytide made ready to uncoil his strike. A voice bellowed in his head. Like one might imagine the voice of Gaia, basso profondo, female, his instructor in wrestling. Kajal, “IF YOU STRIKE ONCE THEN STRIKE TWICE FOR THE WOLFS SAKE!” Yawn pushed off his left foot hard felt the moss beneath give a bit, torquing his hip into the turn.
Combat holds many lessons. Among the first the young learn is this. Striking a skull with you bare hand hurts like hell. There are much easier targets. Much more effective targets. But Yawn had done all Kajal had asked of him. She’d taught him to harden his hands. So as yawn threw was was the called by his people the crossing blow, and by some of the colonist’s the Iron cross, others simply the right cross, his fist flew for his foes jaw. “FANGS AND FURY!” Yawn cried as his fist plowed into Yilew’s jaw and kept moving through. The impact sounded like a stone against a side of beef. As Yilew fell his blade swept up and caught Yawns right arm around the meat of the fore arm. Not a deep cut, but testament to Yilew’s swordsmanship. Most would not be able to wound a foe, let along cut a decent wound as they fell. Yawn lashed out his left foot, once, twice, three time a quick stomp, another snap kick, and second stomp, to what portion of anatomy he did not know, again up came Yilew sword, point aimed for Yawns gut. Yawn feet drew him back and to his right so that all the blade found was a bit of his belt. “yew cannnt keepah dat up all nig th.” Yawn translated roughly “You cant keep that up all night.” Yilew knew what Yawn knew about fighting. That fists, hands, fingers, thumbs, broke easily against a skull. Yawn smiled wide. “I can, those of us that remember the face of the Gaia can.” He wanted to explain how hard he had worked under Kajal. How for three weeks he couldn’t open his hands. How he couldn’t even hold a fork with out pain. How he’d dipped into brine water, and covered them still bleeding in the stinging poultices. Yilew rose suddenly. “STAY WITH ME STAY HERE DON’T YOU GO DRIFTING OFF YOU HAVEN’T EARNED A WARRIORS DEATH YET PUP” Again Kajal voice reaching out of his past to save him in the present. That time she’d been choking him was near senseless, and finally the counter to the strangle came to him. Yilew thrust as he rose. Smooth efficient graceful and deadly with the whole of his weight behind his sword tip. Yawn again slid, this time just a half step from where his stood, to the his own left this time. Yilew meant to pierce his heart. Yawns left hand traped the Grey tides sword arm. A master strike. One that should of killed him, that should of even peirced his mail had he been wearing it. But against a foe unencumbered by mail or shield just a half step too slow. His right scooped his blade from its sheath. Gripped blade down another voice of his past guided him “You have to remove the wing before you cook fowl, no good eating there, too string, you put the blade here and pull” Stannrick teaching him to clean game birds. The knife came down not cutting, again the bare inner angle , Yawn wrenched Yilews sword arm straight, and pulled the knife in and up sharp. Tendons gave way. All that skill. All of it destroyed in a single cut. Yilew screaming and failed. His body turned traitor. His good sword arm no longer obeying his will. It couldn’t. Yawn shoved Yilew to the ground and straddled him. He wanted to see his eyes when he put the light out of them… Wanted to know the look his foe had when he took all that was left or he decided to leave him half crippled in the middle of the black.

Yawn near toppled over his foe when his eyes saw. Not Yilew. Not Greytide. His foe smiled, and he felt his knife arm go limp his hand drop the blade. Felt blood running down his sword arm. He stared at himself. Older, fanged, and twisted, wearing the greytides belt flag. “A thousand miles, run a thousand more and you can’t out run me, I am you.” Had he crippled himself? His life as a warrior, was it over? No sword arm no shield arm. No bow, no spear, no two hander. “STAY HERE YAWN” Kajal voice again, the same choking feeling, get out, fight. “The spirits will hollow you out, make you what you least want. Traitor, Onsallas will burn and your people die scattered and cowerin-.” Yawns left hand griped his foes tunic hard, and he put the whole of his weight down again his forearm. And across his dopples throat. Could you pummel or choke a spirit to death? Yawn would try. Would it mean his own end? He just want the prattle to stop, if it meant he stood before the great wolf today so much the better, to die against a supernatural foe, while trying to keep the whole of his people well. So be it.
“I am not you.” Yawn spat, his left hand screaming in pain as his improvised poultice gave way. As he bled a fresh. “I don’t know what spawned you, or how you can be me, or how we share the same wound, but I AM A LONG FANG. I have not forgotten the face of my mother, or my sisters, or my brothers.” sweat pouring down his back his foe sputtering for air. “ You, you are dust, you are rot, you are nothing more then a stone in my path. I will press you under heel as I step on the path, that is all you are, all you ever were, and all you ever will be.” He felt the struggle go out of his foe, felt the body convulse in its last desperate attempts for air, and felt woozy. Greytide blade… cuts… why, too shallow…. poison…. The world spun before his eyes, going gray, then black and red, and at last, naught but black.

————

Time with out a marker. As distance beyond reckoning lost its meaning. Such it is with dreams. Yawns mind slid again through the black. He was so damn sleepy. His arms where heavy. His feet lead. He couldn’t keep his head up. He need to rise. But only managed to sit up legs sprawled. That was enough for now. After all he was done. It was over. After all of that he was certain the Great Wolf would lend him some slack if at once to his feet to greet him. Certainly he wasn’t the first warrior to have such problems. Did the mending happen before or after the great wolfs weighing of deeds? A question he’d never bothered to ask. If not before, surely more then one warrior has struggled to be presentable while less then whole. Even whole would not one find the transition disorienting. How many sprang from battle and only saw another enemy?

He heard the waves again. He was adrift. Not yet drowning though. Not yet swimming. Still he was drawing breath. Was that enough? He let the waves take him. It was pointless to fight an ocean with out a goal. Wasted energy. Fury against the darkness would do nothing more then tire him. He let the water pull him where it would. Listened to the waters song. It was peaceful, restful. Apart from sting in his wounds and a slight coolness, it was comfortable. It even smelled pleasant. He strained his ears he heard something not the waves, not birds, something in the distance. He strained to hear anything more over the waves and water.

“Yawnrick. Yawnrick. YAWNRICK!!!” shrieked a voice going from tenor to shrill alto. A voice he thought of as Gaia’s own. Yawnrick snapped up bolt straight eyes hazy full of terror and confusion. He knew that voice. It was the thing Yawnrick feared more then death. More then a straw death. And more then the devours hell. Kajal. Kajal his teacher. There she was. All five eight of her. Light as a damn bale of hay, but ever capable of breaking larger fighters in two, and smiling while she did. Scars laced over her arms and hands too numerous to count the skin there like leather. Yawnrick winced. But this was not the Yawn you know. This was Yawn before he’d become the warrior he would be. Before the days of blood and thunder. Before becoming a warrior in full echoed a hallow in his soul. Before he’d even seen a Syndar.

Yawnrick was slight, pale despite his time in the sun. The only signs of his future sturdiness were the wolfings hands, feet, and joints which seemed just a size too large for his frame. “Welcome back Yawnrick I hope you enjoyed your day dream. You dream up a way to kill with out paying attention or a wish do let me know. Have you?” Yawnrick, seldom if ever now at a loss for words had not yet found his voice then. His mouth gaped for a second closed and he shook his head. To kill with a wish… A thought? Will? Who could manage that. “Kajals eyes narrowed, a smile on her lips. “Well then maybe you’ll come up with something worth while during your laps.” Yawnrick sighed his shoulders slumping, as he started for the gate from the training circles. “Yawnrick.” at her call young Yawnrick stopped dead in his tracks. “Twenty laps, with the timber, and the shield”. Yawnrick briskly jogged to the racks and just as his hand gripped the first shield. “The double weighted shield Yawnrick.” He bit his lip and scooped up the heavier shield a slot down. The timber was a a hunk of a sapling. Six inches wide roughly, four feet long. He knelt and wrest the thing over his right shoulder, struggled to rise and managed better then a trudge. His packmates snickering behind him. “What are you lot giggling at, he only has the rest of day to struggle alone. You unfortunate pups are still stuck with me.” He started for the first corner. The route would take him around the back wall then to the mid point look outs between here and the pines. If he was lucky he’d finish just after sun down. “OH YAWNRICK DROP EITHER OF YOUR BURDENS AND I WILL HAVE YOU RUNNING LAPS TIL’ TRAILS!” he heard Kajal’s call and winced as he started for the second corner.

Sweat rolled down Yawnricks shoulder his tunic matted. He could feel his arms as a whole screaming aches, where his tunics folds ground into his shoulder beneath the timbers weight. Last circuit. Last round, he would not falter, not now. He’d not give Kajal a reason to smile that wolfs grin of hers. His pace swayed tilting, bobbing, swaying nearly off balance. Exhausted, hungry, thirsty, frustrated. He came in sight of the gate. All he needed to to was to make it to the racks. He shuddered. His back spammed, his knees creaked, and he could feel his feet throbbing in his boots. He dropped the timber first and racked the training shield. He could feel his muscles twitching, he fought the urge to kneel or sit. He closed his eyes standing, gripped his hands together and rolled them back and forth trying to loosen up the tendons. He knew better then to just collapse or be still after that.

“Why are you wasting my time Yawnrick.” He snapped around on his toes hands up fists closed. Kajal glared at him, pipe in hand a trail of dark gray smoke trailing from the corner of her mouth as she lifted the clay pipe to her lips and drew again. The bowels ember growing bright casting her upper face in a red glow. His hands dropped. Confusion filling his eyes. Why the hell had Kajal picked a time like now to start asking questions of him. Kajal started towards him. Kajal did not move so much as seem to flow. Her movements quick smooth deliberate. As mist lifting over a white cap and then just as seamlessly dropping back over it’s wake. Yawn did not see her hand rise. Kajal did not give warning signs of her strikes. One moment she was closing the distance, the next Yawnricks head snapped aside and he tasted blood. “Answer me pup, why are you wasting my time? Your fighting in the circle is half hearted at best, tell me Yawnrick, why are you still only half here?” “I” Yawn started when Kajals hand again raised from her hip and knocked his head back the opposite direction as her first blow had. “You can’t be half a warrior Yawnrick.” Kajal gripped Yawnricks shoulder hefting him by his tunic. “It gets your friends killed. If wish to be anything else pup now is the time.” Kajals voice did not strain. This was not her instructors voice. Not the voice of command. This was a soft deadly serious statement. Kajals eyes burned. Her hands were like steel. Yawnricks hands wrapped her griping at her hand from the outside of her grip and prying at her thumbs. His foot shot between them. In one motion Yawnrick pushed planting his boot in Kajals stomach and pushing as he pried open her grip at the thumbs. It was an all or nothing bid. Kajal taken aback by his desperate gambit flew backward, and as Yawnrick fell back he lost sight of her, all he’d seen was her pipe spilling its smoldering contents before scrambling for his footing. Not fast enough. Kajal blind sided him as he rolled to hands and knees. With her knee. A smooth rushing shot that connect beneath his chin and sent him to his back. He hadn’t even the time to scramble again before Kajal had him by the hair dragging him by it muttering curses. This time he couldn’t find a point to pry. “Give up now pup, become a farmer, a fisher, anything, there is no warriors heart in your chest.” Kajal spat as she threw Yawnrick into the training circle. Yawnrick rolled twice but some how found his balance ending in a crouch. “No.” Yawn managed his voice hoarse, and he felt his lip split at the corner. Kajal smiled. “You can’t even break a hold on your hair pup. Give up now, become anything but a warrior, have lots of fat plain straw wolfings with some happy Ulven girl.” Yawnrick felt his blood fever starting. Felt his rage clawing at his mind. He choked it back. He wanted to give in. He wanted to lash out blindly, but what good would berserk fury do against Kajal? “No Kajal.”

She swept in Yawnrick threw a jab which Kajal turned aside easily. Her leg lashed out cutting off Yawnricks side step as her free hand gripped his uncommitted shoulder. With an easy turn of her hips she forced Yawn off the ground and into the air, with a quick shove she sent him backward, sprawling across his back. No sooner did Yawnrick start to his feet then Kajal leapt for him, knee high. Down it it came. Yawnrick managed to catch her heel with his hand. Did he hear a crack. Don’t be the bones giving, not now damn it. Kajal glared down at him. Inching her weight onto her forward leg. Forcing Yawnricks hand down toward his throat. “Will you keep this up all night Yawnrick? I can. Think fast or you’ll be waking with the healers.” Yawnrick shoved back, giving it all he had. Kajal simply hopped. Turning mid leap, her free foots ball aimed for his jaw. Yawnrick watch and time slowed. He felt the tread connecting, his skin being pulled, his inner cheek tearing against his teeth, the pain and blood. And as he did Yawnrick rose with all the strength he had, sudden and smoothly. And he saw Kajals eyes go wide he forced her feet into air toppling her. Yawnrick slid form his back to his knees. Finding himself at her side, his hand reached and fished for Kajal tunic. Finding a hand full twisting as he rose on his knees. Right curled into a fist ready to rain blows on his teacher. When Kajals face changed. Half a moment more and he’d of brought his fist down until Kajal countered or … Or what I killed my own teacher? Until I saw blood? Until Kajal surrendered? Kajal laughed. Bright and full, infectious and true. Again Yawnricks face and eyes showed utter bewilderment. Did going gray drive Kajal mad? “So you’ve fire enough it turns out. Enough Yawnrick you’ve proven yourself.” If Yawnrick bore ears as the wolves they’d of pinned themselves back. He shook. Just a moments tremor. The blood fever stalling its frenzied charge through his veins. “What?” He meant to open his hand. He meant to but it held like a vise to the tunic. “I will make you a weapon yet Yawnrick. You needed to see what you could do. I’ve seen it before. Those who don’t realize all Gaias children have means to fight. None more so then her favorites. I needed to see what you would do with you back to the wall.” Yawnricks eyes narrowed and he pulled Kajal closer by her tunic he leaned in perhaps a few inches. “Why.” He spat. Kajals face showed neither concern nor deceit. She smiled warmly. Her voice remained calm and a little sweet, which disturbed Yawnrick. He’d never heard Kajal speak sweetly. Slowly she placed her hand over Yawnricks forearm. “Because I do not train fodder. All Ulven wish to die in service to their pack. All warriors. But I will not train useless idiots. I will not train those better suited to labor then battle. Fools rushing head long in to the devours teeth. Names dying on the wind.” Yawns face softened but his grip remained “but” Kajal continued ignoring Yawnrick “Nor would I suffer those unwilling to fight for their own lives. I train pups to wolves not armored cattle.” Yawnricks hand finally obeyed his will and started to open. “Good. Yawnrick fetch my pipe.” With out a thought, perhaps dazed from his blood fevers abatement, Yawn turned, limped toward the pipe, bent at the waist, and scooped it up. He hadn’t felt himself drop to his knee so hard. Kajal was already sitting up and opening her poke. Yawn knelt wincing having some how forgotten his abused knee. Kajal shoved her poke into his free hand. “I will make you an Ulven Yawnrick, but first your learning to smoke. No mead until after training. And you’ll be staying late Yawnrick, your father had skill with his hands, if you’re just a spec wiser I can teach you things he never learned.”

Yawn stared dumbly at the open poke and pipe. “Fill the damned pipe pup.” Yawnrick started “don’t force it, just stuff in a bit, not hard. That’s it. The lamp candle will work for a lite. And you will wish for a farmers life before you make it to trails Yawnrick.” She smiled that wolves smile at her student again as Yawnrick managed to lite the pipe. Wrong, of course but the pups brain had to be scrambled after that kick. And as Yawn coughed. “You’ll get used to it, but don’t you dare drop my pipe pup.”

Aram

With these words that I inscribe upon paper, in the inks of the Prophets of the Four Gods, I begin a book that may one day find a place within the pages of the Holy Books of the Kae’Rim. Though our home may be long gone and the sands of the deserts far behind us, though our people may no longer exist, it is my duty to write the words as the Prophets once did. This tale may not be true, but it is true enough to instruct those who come after me, and that sort of truth is enough to guide any soul.

Before the Four Gods, I must confess that the oaths of my people have been transgressed. But as was said in the book of Ul-Brana, man may doubt, but only the gods may judge their souls. It was with human madness that I struck a Mhordak, and it is with human piety that I confess that to all who follow these words. In these actions I did judge this being, and I did break the holiest of tenants of the Kae’Rim, that one shall harm no living creature. Though my blade was dull, the creature did fall and die at the hands of those seeking to defend the Outpost of the Wolves. My actions were made in human folly, and for those, I hope to atone.

As Mha’ker did argue with Al-Nulpun when he gave us the laws, so do I intend to consider these thoughts. Should this drive me away from the truth, then atonement shall never come and I shall remain away from the guidance of those who protect the Kae’Rim. I pray for a sign that I am wrong, and that the grace of the Four Gods resides in this distant land, that I may once again know the stars in the skies and know that the minds of the Prophets guide me.

It is written in the Book of the Laws that no living creature may be of evil pure, that all judgment that man may give is absolute or true, and that only the gods may know what evils lay within the hearts of those who choose to follow those paths. We were ordered to destroy only the khaltam, those who walk forth from the shadows of death and mock the embrace of Ul-Weitwe, and that all other life is sacred. These things are known, and they are truth.

But what truth may be found in new lands? What signs lay before us to discover? The poets of the sky are not of my people; they are those of a different folk, the Yl-vhen, wolves of this new home. What guidance may the Kae’Rim draw from these poets, who sing of battle, honor, and the evils of the Mhordak?

Though I feel no doubt that the Four Gods reside here, in the glories of this nature and the land where water runs freely, I question why I am here. The calling to this land was sudden, and came only when the prophecies told us that our people must look away from our home and seek the Light of the West, so that we might find the Ever-Changing Eye. These words meant little to me when I left with my dhara, but in time, I feel these signs will become clear.

I know not if my people survive. We have always walked the deserts, taken the paths that the dwellers of cities shun, and exterminated the corpse-breath of the land. It is our duty, and duty may never be eschewed. If we are the last, then we shall write one final book of these events, to stand with the others. Our guiding words were lost in flesh, but not in the heart, and it is there that they truly matter.

Through all this doubt, I find the question of the Mhordak appear as a wind in the desert; relentless, wearing, eroding all that stands in its path. What are these creatures? Why do they hate all things? Are they as unnatural as the khaltam? A sign is needed, and a sign I shall seek.

With words of anger, I promised a good man that I would make him the poison that steals the strength of any creature. With words of rage, I did cry for their blood. With a mind of hate, I struck another being. In calmer times, in rational times, these words would be forgotten easily, forgiven as the folly of a mortal, full of doubt and restlessness. But in this time, where all is new and little can be understood, I must consider them.

In the coming days, I will ruminate upon these words, and seek the signs of the Mhordak. If the Four themselves grant me wisdom to see through the illusions of the world, then I shall arrive at truth. Not the truth of a story, fragile and weak, but the truth of certainty. I have seen some of these signs; the words I copied at the time of the wolf’s closing jaws were of an evil that no being should play a part in, inscribed on the bones of a creature long-dead, a dishonor to its spirit and a corruption of its form. This speaks of an evil so pure that it may beg the flame of Ul-Brana, that this horror might be cleansed from the world.

As is written in the Great Book of Al-Khara, when he spoke of the rites of death and the role the Kae’Rim must play in them, “Dishonor not the bones, for they become the grains which rattle the dunes. Adorn them with symbols most pure and righteous, and watch them for signs of evil. Cleanse them with fire, and give them no chance to rise again. The soul lives in the bones, for without them, no creature may move.” This evil is beyond that of the Betrayers, the False-Led. To condemn a creature to such evil is beyond any rational thought.

Still, I remain uncertain. With these meditations, those who come after me may derive guidance. I have spotted the stars; now, I must chart them, and discover the meanings within. Ul-Weitwe supports me; Al-Nulpun nourishes me; Al-Khara surrounds me; Ul-Brana protects me. This I know, for the signs of the Four surround me in this land of plenty. Should a sign come, I shall be ready, and these words will be inscribed, so that I may not forget. May they someday join the rest of the Books, if only in the hearts of my people.

Though I am filled with doubt at my actions, one truth remains, and it is certain; a promise was made to the Iron-Handed Wolf. This promise, made in anger, still rings true after the rage has fled. Should the serpent come, so shall it be transformed into a dagger to plunge into the heart of evil.

So is written the first book by the hand of Aram as-Khani im-Brana-Weithe ór-Nalta Isaldi-nor-Eftim, son of the Kae’Rim.

“They can not stand up to us in open battle Astrid, they couldn’t when we landed and they can’t now. They aren’t trained or equipped to fight Lions toe to toe, but their skirmishers will tear us to pieces if we have a long march. They’ve lived and fought in these lands for centuries. They have adapted their tactics to their ancestral foes well.”

The masters of the Order were all studying a map of Mardrun, not even the Ulven had fully mapped the continent but that which was known was on display before them. On such knowledge did the future lie.

“Mordok and Ulven are worthy foes Folkvar, as I recall you have the scars to prove it. I healed them, I should know. I’ll bring the tea.” The Runemaster retrieved the steaming pot and poured cups for her compatriots.

“Believe me, I have not forgotten. I did not mean to diminish Mordok or Ulven battle skill or ferocity, just that we fight differently. Neither has ever faced tight formations of heavy infantry, supported by skilled archers and engines. Have any of you ever known either race to use a siege machine?”

His question was met with silence.

“Exactly. Ulven towns aren’t built to withstand a siege, either their warriors will fight off the Mordok raid or they break out before the supplies vanish. It’s simply the way things have been done here. Raid followed by counter-raid. I’ve talked to enough Ulven among our allies to know that the last time they faced an army of Mordok was decades ago. It rampaged through Ulven lands for at least a season until enough warriors were gathered to stop it. The simple fact is that the Ulven don’t wage war, not by our definition.”

Folkvar takes a sip of the tea and traces the thin lines on the map.

“Raid, counter raid, repeat and so on. They don’t besiege the Mordok, they don’t fight pitched battles. Their history is one long skirmish. We force them to fight us our way. We attack their towns, surround them and reduce them. If they try and bait us, we ignore them. As long as we keep our supplies and support troops in the center of the column and don’t enter any terrain with an ‘ambush here’ sign they will have to face us to stop us. We can repair our armor and heal ourselves on the move, as long as we have food…”

He moves to the part of the map that signifies the lands of the Greytide.

“The most Greytide will be able to do is slow us down and save their people. Non-combatants may flee but most of their warriors will want to stand and defend their homes. We will crush them in a pitched battle and we will give them no other choice.”

He takes another sip of tea and tips over a few wooden markers on the map.

“This is all irrelevant. The war will not stay between us and Greytide. If it happens it will be all the Colonies and all the Ulven, with the Mordok thrown in for good measure. The Dead never crushed me because I could trade land for time, falling back to a better position, retreating when necessary. We simple don’t have any room to maneuver here. The land we have is home, we have nothing to trade for time. If this becomes a race war they will simply isolate us and starve us out. Not being able to break open our walls doesn’t mean they can’t win.”

Astrid looks up from the map. “Well Warmaster, aren’t you just…”

A harried looking young messenger, perhaps ten, bows and stumbles over to Master Anundar’s place in the corner. The boy hands a letter over, bows again, and leaves. Anundar open the letter and begins to read, his expression turning darker and darker.

“The Runemaster steps forward first. “Well, what is it?”

I’ll just read it: “A Lich has been sighted between New Aldoria and New Hope, a old man calling himself Boomhowler managed to warn a small trading post and fight off an attack. Mordok raised but killed quickly, stopped a ritual the beast was performing. Lich escaped, current location unknown. Ulven know.”

The Masters shared a stunned silence for some time. After a time Folkvar stood up and looked at Astrid: “When do I march, and with how many?”

“Forty Lions and as many Eagles as can be spared. All assets in the area now have a new focus. Send word to…everyone, including Aedan. His mission is still his priority, now we must have peace with the Ulven. It’s not against who we thought, but we march”

“Make sure all of them know. Never again.”

“Not here, not again.”