 
The Prince of Graves

By W. E. Linde

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 W.E. Linde

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_When the devils rise and the living wail_

The dead reach out, cold and pale

The days of men shall falter and fail

Entombed forever beyond the veil

No hope, no rest, no power to save

The wicked day dawns as the noble day wanes

The light and life of the kingdom fades

When all kneel down to the Prince of Graves

The End Times Prophecy from _The Vhendis, the Tome of the Prophets_
Chapter 1: The Northern Storm

Prince Frey watched from atop his war horse as three of his spies galloped up narrow, winding switchbacks. Their return was later than expected. With the sun already starting its descent, Frey had decided to move his forces when a spotter called out that the spies were speeding in from the north.

"Tell Captain Vraim to come to me once he takes the report," he said to his squire, who immediately turned and scrabbled down the narrow path past a knot of archers settling into position. Frey frowned inwardly as he watched them signal to another group of bowmen on the opposite side of the wide passage his troops were currently fortifying. Nearly eight hundred horsemen with seven squads of longbow men were arrayed at this spillway that was the only exit from the southern reaches of the Frost Lands. The land was a dry, freezing gully bounded by steep, rocky walls that rose into craggy cliffs. These offered a commanding view into the desolate hills of the lifeless land to the north.

An army foolish enough to journey through the Frost Lands would have to come through this pass. Despite the wide, flat, and easily traversed ground between the ridges, to do so would invite carnage because of the way the steep walls would channel them. A brutal ambush would be easy to plan. Frey grunted to himself, and turned his horse carefully on the narrow trail. He intended this ambush to be devastating.

Slowly, he guided the lightly armored horse down an ancient animal trail which hugged the steep wall of the ravine. After only a dozen yards, a smaller path rose back upwards again. He took this path and was greeted by his retinue of eight knights and Prevost, his man-at-arms. He would wait here for Captain Vraim's report.

* * *

"My Lord, Magus Dayhoral's words are all true," said Captain Vraim. Although only five years older than Frey, Vraim looked like he could be the prince's father. His long face and graying brown beard betrayed a weariness that would have slowed a lesser man. "The Dagir Xethu dared to cross the Deihaken Mountains and are assembling near the mountain called Sleeping Lady. What is more, the spies believe they also intend to journey through the heart of the Frost Lands."

"Ha! Let them then," scoffed Prevost. Brown haired and clean shaven, Prevost wore the light plate armor of the cavalryman. His helmet was removed and his chest plates set aside, along with the armor of the rest of the retinue gathered to council their prince. Though skilled in combat, Prevost was brash and reckless in Frey's eyes. "They'll die in that wasteland."

Frey nodded. This would be true for any other enemy. The frigid hills of the southern reaches of the mountains were savaged by severe ridges, which created a natural labyrinth. The dry lands were devoid of life and most of the water was poison.

"Lord," said Vraim. "By all reason the enemy's strategy is madness. But the powers of the Necromancer Kings are unfathomable. Somehow they traversed mountains which are well nigh impassible to a man, much less a heavily laden army. And lord, this army is massive. The spies reported at least four Great Columns had issued from an unseen pass, and more were coming. They had to flee or risk detection."

Frey stepped to the edge of the cliff and pointed to the northern horizon, dominated as far as the eye could see to the east and west by the ice covered granite giants of Deihaken.

"I do not know these lands as well as my brother Ghelan. He expected this, as impossible as it seemed. He also believes the Xethu will push through the Frost Lands."

"The channels are steep and bewitching," countered Prevost. "Entire expeditions have become lost in that ungodly maze. Even if the fools do enter there, surely it will take weeks to emerge. We can lay up ambushes and attack them at will."

Frey glanced at Vraim, then back at the mountains.

Prince Dehrbane, one of Frey's three elder brothers and third in line to the throne, had argued vociferously against placing Frey's forces here. The main body of the Dagir Xethu, the Armies of Death, was massing on the western side of the River Vendehar, across from the Plains of Ayar, nearly two hundred leagues southwest from where Frey and his brother Ghelan were now positioned. Their eldest brother, Prince Laveris, along with Prince Dehrbane, now led the vast bulk of the army there, while the Elder Wizard Layarax marshaled the powers of the magi against the main effort of the Necromancer Kings.

It was Layarax's apprentice Dayhoral who had exploded into the royal throne room two weeks ago. He declared to King Atherion and the Royal Magus Revhalom he had seen the impossible in a vision. A vast army from the north was crossing the deadly Deihaken Mountains, which intended to drive south and march upon Ceremane the Great, capital of Valeot, while her armies were engaged in combat upon the Plains of Ayar.

Dehrbane had argued there was no direct route through the Frost Lands that this army, if it existed, could traverse. The crisscrossing ridges created wide, unforgiving lanes, none of which provided a direct route south to where Frey was now.

Ghelan remained adamant. The Dagir Xethu were not constrained with the same limitations as the Eastern armies of Valeot. Although mortal men mostly filled their ranks, the Armies of Death were driven by forces that pushed them beyond human limits. Frey nodded at this thought.

An army nearly as large as that of Valeot's has crossed mountains we thought impassable.

"Captain Vraim, the Dagir Xethu will push due south. The ridges will not confine them as they do us. They will emerge near here. We have no idea how swiftly the enemy will travel, nor how far away my brother's forces are, so we must set up our ambush now. We have one thousand men, and they at least four times our number."

Vraim opened a thick parchment and spread it out over a wide rock that jutted out from the side of the cliff at waist height. Frey, Prevost, and Caither Chief of the Archers closed in to read it.

"This is the map our men drew as they made their way north to spy out the movement of the enemy. At the widest point, roughly where we are now," Vraim swept his hand wide to gesture toward the slope on the opposite side of the pass, "it is too wide for our archers to engage forces driving down the center. While it is likely when the enemy moves through here there will be plenty of targets close enough to their positions, I think they should move further north, where the pass narrows. The slopes here, although steep, are irregular enough we can line up at least two squads of horsemen along the walls. They'll be unseen until the enemy is close at hand. They can then charge in and cut them off as the archers harry them."

"What of the remaining men?" asked Prevost.

"They should remain over the final rise near the mouth of the pass. Once the signal is given to engage, they will charge over the rise and hit the Dagir Xethu head on. That should prevent the enemy from attacking the archers, who can continue to rain death on them from the sides and rear until the cavalry has fully engaged."

Frey consented, and his captains hurried away to array their men. His thoughts moved to Ghelan. Only four years older than he, his brother was a master strategist. Elder knights and wise men who had chafed at the King's order to allow Ghelan to be included at the early war councils were soon taken in by his command of maneuver. After the renewed imperial intentions of the Necromancer Kingdoms became clear three years ago, Ghelan's shrewd intelligence and reasoning proved nearly as critical as the great magic of the magi in keeping the enemy at bay. As the war had ground on to the climax which now played out on the Plains of Ayar, Ghelan became restless. Some sense convinced him a feint was in the making. When Dayhoral reported his vision, Ghelan won out over Dehrbane's skepticism and convinced the King to allow him and Frey to proceed to the north to counter this unexpected threat.

With the vast bulk of Valeot's armies now arrayed along the River Vendehar and on the plains, assembling a force capable of withstanding the northern threat proved challenging. As soon as seven hundred cavalry, infantry, and archers were massed, Ghelan went forward, instructing Frey to follow on as soon as he could organize the rest of the host. After another week, arms and soldiers enough had been pulled together, and they made north as fast as they could, arriving three days later at the pass.

"Where are you, brother?" asked Frey under his breath. He watched as a squad of his cavalry crossed the wide pass to seek vantage points to waylay the approaching enemy. He had expected a messenger or a signal of some kind when he arrived, but although the tracks of many horses were clearly evident at the mouth of the pass, he found neither. With a sigh he turned to Prevost, who had learned years ago it was best to let Frey brood in silence until he was ready to speak again.

"Find Dayhoral and bring him to me," Frey said. He then gave orders to prepare a nearby alcove, a recess in the cliff wall large enough for several men to gather, to be fitted as his war council. From there he would watch and wait for Ghelan, or the Dagir Xethu, to arrive.
Chapter 2: The Plains of Ayar

North of Hythena Forest and east of the river Vendehar, the border of the Necromancer Kingdoms, the expansive Plains of Ayar extended hundreds of leagues into Valeot, last of the Remnant Kingdoms. From a subtle bend in the river, a narrow road broke away from the King's Road and snaked to the east. Nearly two leagues hence stood Glorion, sanctuary of the Elder Magus, rising like a pearly fang from the green grasses of the plain.

The armies of Valeot and her allies swarmed around Glorion, pouring in from the road. Once tranquil meadows vanished as war machines and defensive fighting positions were cut into the earth. Half a league to the north a vast number of archers and catapults were arrayed, where the expanse of the river was most narrow. From there the dread Dagir Xethu, the Armies of the Necromancer Kingdoms, were expected to cross.

Amid the frenzied work, a group of four riders mounted on heavily armored warhorses charged toward the glimmering tower. Already a number of tents had been erected around it, and hundreds of larger tents for the soldiers were being assembled. As the group of riders arrived at the tower, its single door, painted a shimmering emerald color and three times as tall as a man, swung wide.

The riders dismounted. Three of them, each wearing the thick silver plate armor of a heavy cavalryman, fell behind one who wore the royal colors, as they strode quickly to the door.

Prince Laveris stood taller than all around him. His black hair was wild, save for a single thin braid that ran down the side of each temple, his eyes dark and tumultuous. Wherever he walked, he filled his men with the same war lust hammering within his veins. Those who knew the prince understood he loved peace more than he loved war, but when war came, he embraced it. No fear was found in him, no doubt he would either lead his people to victory or be buried on the battlefield.

At his side, secure in a deep blue scabbard bound with silver rings, was the sword Valehem, the Son of the Gods. Laveris felt the weight of eons within the weapon, the hilt of which adorned the banner of his kingdom. His father, King Atherion, had presented it to him just before riding out to the western front. Laveris tried to refuse.

Father, he had said, Valehem must remain with you to defend the city should we perish on the plains. Ghelan and Frey will need it if the enemy lays siege.

Atherion had waved him silent, and commanded him once more to take up the ancient sword. His words were severe.

If you fall, Laveris, none of my sons will be mighty enough to save the kingdom.

Now Laveris stepped through the open door, his great helmet held at his side. Two men stood just within the entranceway. The first was familiar to the prince: Revhalom, the elder magus serving his father in the Court of Ceremane. He wore a dark gray robe with a lighter gray cloak over it. His beard was white and long, with the ends coiled into a series of leather bands that bore strange writings upon them. The wizard's hazel eyes had a predatory glint within them that had ever caused Laveris to feel uneasy in his presence.

Standing just behind Revhalom was an even older-looking man. Laveris stopped short as he felt an indescribable presence fill the tower around him. Layarax the Great, the eldest of magi, bowed respectfully to the prince. He was tall, although not as tall as Laveris. No hair was on his head but his silver beard was long and adorned with silver chains in a manner similar to Revhalom. His wizened face and head were nearly black, covered with tattoos and incantations written in some lost tongue. His silver robe was plain, and over it he wore a loose green vest. Embroidered on the vest, running up and down, golden words appeared to move in the flicker of the torches lighting the tower.

"Master Layarax, my father the king sends his greetings, and his gratitude. What news do you have? Our spies have been silent for three days now." Revhalom made as to speak, but Layarax stepped forward. The motion silenced the younger magus, and he stepped to one side.

"My lord prince, I have seen nothing new. The will of the enemy is bent on concealing their movements now, such as I have not seen since this war began. This alone tells us they plan a masterstroke. But I have received word the enemy has in fact traversed the Deihaken Mountains, as Dayhoral and your brother Ghelan believed."

The three companions of Laveris murmured among themselves at Layarax's words. The prince turned, and as he did so, he noticed the intensity within the elder wizard's eyes as he watched the three speaking behind him.

"You wish to send forces back to Ceremane to defend against this threat you never believed existed. Yes?" asked Layarax. The manner in which the wizard spoke indicated he already knew the answer.

Harkom, Laveris' man-at-arms, removed his helmet. He was a stout man, shorter than the others around him, and the oldest of Laveris' personal retinue. His short black hair was almost entirely overtaken with gray, but his age had yet to take his vitality. Laveris would not consider going to war without him.

"My lord, Ceremane has been emptied of most of her army," said Harkom. "If any significant force is able to cross the Old Mountains, then they can assuredly pass through the Frost Lands. We must consider dispatching a battalion or two to reinforce your brothers."

"The force which crosses from the north is great," said Layarax, holding up a slender hand. "At least four Great Columns have been propelled through those once impassible mountains and even now converge on the forces Ghelan and Frey command. But my prince..." at this Layarax looked to Revhalom. "The threat we face is no less dire. The massive armies you have assembled here will soon face the unmixed wrath of the Necromancer Kings."

"Prince Laveris," said Revhalom, "the movements of the Dagir Xethu have been invisible to our spies and the eyes of the magi. Even so, though we cannot see them, there is a malevolence approaching that is as plain as an evil sky before a storm. This presence bears down on your brothers in the north, and it comes here as well."

"Out with it, Revhalom," ordered Laveris. "Do you speak of the Death Knight?" Revhalom looked startled for a moment, which surprised the prince. He and his brothers were raised under the tutelage of the wizard. For years the royalty of Atherion's house had learned the history of the Remnant Kingdoms and the nature of the world — the natural and the unnatural — from the magi who served the Court of Valeot. Laveris knew Revhalom's many flaws, but also his character. Never before had he ever witnessed fear in the old man's countenance.

"In truth, the Death Knight does lead the Dagir Xethu, my prince," he answered carefully. "And that is not all. We believe the enemy has emptied his pits. A powerful presence looms in the west and comes closer every moment. That same presence has been felt in the north as well."

"How?" Laveris demanded. "In the history of the Remnant Kingdoms there has never been more than one!" Laveris laid a hand on Revhalom, and only then did the prince realize the court wizard was trembling.

"The only time we have known of more than a single Death Knight, called Xethicor in our lore, is at the Fall of Maladine," said Layarax. "Now consider this, Prince Laveris. Valeot is the last of the Remnant Kingdoms. The Necromancer Kings now move to crush the final vestiges of the old ways, and with it the memory of anything we know as righteous. Once Valeot is gone, the remaining duchies will collapse quickly."

Laveris absently placed his left hand on the hilt of his weapon, looking from Revhalom to Layarax. The faces of the two magi flickered in the shadows of the tower entrance room, and the arcane tattoos on Layarax's face seemed almost alive.

"The Xethicor has brethren, the Dagir Xethu move invisibly, and the enemy is setting upon my brothers with a massive force. Wizards, do you offer any encouragement at all?"

"I can only say the men of Valeot and her allies have survived over a millennium in the face of the Necromancer Kingdoms for a reason." Layarax nodded to Revhalom, who bowed to him and the prince, then departed through the open door to the outside. "Stay true and hold fast to your courage.

"My prince, you wield the greatest weapon to ever grace the hands of the descendants of Maladine the Great. Valehem vanquished a Xethicor once before, and you are as great a warrior as has ever possessed it. In addition, I will give you a gift to help. Revhalom has taken your shield and now brings it to the smithy beneath my tower. Tonight I will enchant it to help you stand before the beast which leads the Dagir Xethu. For the time being, continue to prepare for the coming battle, for it will be unlike any you have ever seen."

Laveris looked intently at Layarax. The wizard wore a solemnity that was both comforting and enigmatic. He nodded.

"My brother Dehrbane now oversees the building of our defenses. I fear every tree within miles of here is being felled, and every stream diverted. It will take a decade for the land to recover."

"If at all," Layarax replied. He bowed, and turning away, walked to a narrow staircase winding up into the darkness of the upper tower. The prince watched him as he ascended the stairs, turning to leave only after the wizard was out of sight.
Chapter 3: An Army Shattered

Dayhoral was a young wizard by Frey's reckoning. While some gray littered his short brown hair and beard, his appearance was youthful. This was particularly so when observed standing next to his master, Layarax the Great. As the magus stepped into the war council, Frey motioned for all save Prevost to leave.

"What sign, Dayhoral?" asked Frey. "Our spies have confirmed your vision. The enemy has crossed the mountains, but we no longer have report of them. Can you conjure up another vision? Or tell us my brother's location?"

Dayhoral's look was gaunt as he sat upon a stone. He wore a thick brown robe tied at the waist with a simple leather belt. Mud caked his boots and ran up his leggings and robe.

"I fear no new visions have I seen," he said. His voice was exhausted, and his eyes red from fatigue. "When I dreamt the first vision, the enemy swept out of the north like storm clouds, straight toward Ceremane."

Frey turned back to regard the black clouds moving his way, now crowned with lightning.

"Dayhoral," asked Frey thoughtfully, who after a moment looked at the wizard. "Do you believe as Revhalom? The coming of the Prince of Graves?"

Dayhoral kept his silence as his eyes darted to the northern horizon.

"My lord," he said at length, "I'm no prophet. And with all respect due to the elder Revhalom, neither is he. Yet many of the prophecies of the Scrolls of old are being rapidly fulfilled, and all seems in place for the coming of the Prince of Graves."

The distant air murmured a low, rhythmic thunder. Frey stepped forward out of the alcove. While pregnant black and gray clouds slid south from the great mountains before them, the prince knew the quiet rumble did not issue from the sky. Prevost cast a nervous glance at his liege.

"Gods," swore Frey. "They only crossed the mountains two days ago. Could they be upon us already?" Dayhoral and Prevost joined him and peered at the approaching darkness in the sky. "Do they truly ride the clouds, as in your vision?"

"The armies of the Necromancers are surely under dark enchantments," replied the wizard, folding his hands into his robes. "The mortals in their ranks will perish with such powers pushing them on, but not before they finish their mission."

Frey turned an angry eye toward Dayhoral.

"We will not let them. Tell me, wizard, will your magic be able to aid us?" A clap of thunder rolled suddenly, and the cliffs trembled. Dayhoral reached a hand out to the cliff face to steady himself. A sound as of a heavenly whip cracked in the sky, and arcs of white lightning danced between the clouds.

"I will do what I can. With Layarax and Revhalom upon the plains, I am alone. Pray whatever necromancer aids this army is the lesser wizard."

Frey looked Dayhoral over critically. Turning back to the north, he listened as the sound of the rhythmic thunder from the ground started to blend with the chaotic thunder from the sky.

"I'll keep my prayers to myself, wizard. Find yourself a place to watch the battle. It is nigh." He turned to his left and looked down the steep cliff trail. In the shade of the ravine's walls, he spied Captain Vraim, who was watching him intently. Frey raised his right hand, held it for a moment, and then brought it down quickly. Vraim drew his sword and raised the hilt before his face in salute, and then turned.

"To arms! To arms!" he called, spurring his horse as he galloped to and fro to ensure their forces were in position.

* * *

The earth shuddered in step with the advancing army, sending stones clattering down the rock walls wherein Frey had secreted riders, lying in wait in shallow caves and behind great boulders strewn throughout the length of the basin. Frey stood next to his horse, a prized stallion of northern stock, holding its bridle and stroking its white mane.

Of the four sons of King Atherion, Frey was the only one from a different mother. The Queen's passing many years ago had turned Atherion into a hard man, although not a cruel one. Two years following her murder, the north country of Deihaim threatened revolt, thereby removing the protection against raids conducted by Deihaim's lawless cousins farther to the north. To the shock of his court, Atherion offered to permanently bring Deihaim into the Kingdom's fold by marrying the daughter of the North Country's sovereign.

The move succeeded. Princess Shealia became Queen of Valeot, and soon bore a son, Frey. Although many of the denizens of Deihaim were a mixture of the Northmen and the men of Valeot, her blood was undiluted from the savages that once raided the coasts of the August Kingdom and her Duchies.

Like his mother, Frey's features were those of the Northmen: blond, tall, and powerful. His eyes were like blue ice, and in a quarrel his burning stare could turn away most of less passionate blood. In the days of his youth, as he trained for war under the tutelage of the masters who taught his brothers, his instructors both cautioned and praised him for the berserker-like rage he brought into a fight.

That lust now pounded in his breast as he felt the coming tempest beating upon the earth. His breath quickened. A slight smile touched his lips and he closed his eyes. Glory awaited him. He opened his eyes and alighted upon his stallion. Shrouded within the darkness of a shallow cave, he drew his sword Faerthring from its scabbard — a gift from his grandfather — which emitted a tinny whine. Through his leather and mail woven glove, he felt it vibrate softly in anticipation of battle.

The enemy had come. Doom marched through the pass, filling it from cliff wall to cliff wall. Frey looked down at a shadowy river overflowing with soldiers in black and gray armor, armed with jagged spears and wide cutlasses, helmets fashioned in the likeness of skulls and wolves. Banners of the Necromancer Kings led the way, an ebony field with the full moon displayed as a silver disk, the hateful runes of an ancient day scrawled across it. The blood lust swelled. Frey poised to plunge down into the enemy ranks and signal the ambush to begin.

He hesitated a moment. Strange dark shadows in the midst of the horde passed among the regular soldiers, driving the army at its unnatural pace. Known by no other name than the Dark Captains, these warriors were known to have been indoctrinated into the dark arts of evil wizardry. They rode upon fierce dragonmares, nightmare crossbreeds spawned centuries ago in the hills of the northern Necromancer Kingdoms. The size of powerful horses, the creatures were covered in coarse black hair, except along the chest and near the snout, where thick scales revealed the natural armor underneath.

He scanned the countless soldiers, looking for the closest of the Dark Captains. Frey would engage them first. Unable to hold himself back any longer, he lifted his horn, took a mighty breath, and let out a powerful blast that for a moment overcame the pounding rhythm of the iron shod multitudes and the thunder above.

"Valeot!" bellowed Frey, and his steed leapt down the path. Like a bird of prey swooping out of the sky, he swept past the Dagir Xethu soldiers who had yet to realize the trap had been sprung. A Dark Captain turned just in time to see Faerthring come down in a savage arc, cleaving his head from his body.

Riders in blue and silver sprang forth out of the walls of the pass, falling on their enemies with fury. More horns sounded from on high, and a rain of deadly arrows fell like lightning on the front hosts, some close enough Frey could have smote them himself. The horde halted its advance as the horsemen drove in from both sides. The relentless press from behind the seemingly endless enemy numbers, however, ensured the pause lasted only moments.

Dark Captains, their dragonmares roaring and steaming from savage maws, called forth commands which were not mere orders. A sudden shadow swept across the battle. Some of the Dark Captains were chanting, their incomprehensible language riding on the tide of the chaotic clash of arms. Frey saw two, three, probably more stand in their stirrups. They were carving sigils into the air, which peeled away like skin, revealing a living nothingness within the unnatural spaces hanging before them. The prince averted his eyes as a shudder ripped across his body. There were shapes there, evil forms that pressed against the blackness, desperately trying to break through.

As the chanting grew louder and coils and shapes began erupting through, brilliant blue globes appeared before the Dark Captains. The primal terror then fled Frey and his warriors. The globes flared like small suns, and all were forced to turn away. A moment later, the globes vanished, the preternatural tears in the air with them, and the Black Captains who summoned them lay charred and lifeless on smoldering mounts.

Vraim rode close to Frey.

"Our wizard has proven his worth!" he shouted. "He's keeping the evil arts of the Dark Captains at bay!"

* * *

The black army swelled, and Frey and his cavalry were forced to fall back. Frey reached out and rapped on Vraim's helmet, who nodded. While Frey hacked and parried, Faerthring ringing and singing in bloodthirsty glee, the Captain raised his horn and sounded three rapid calls.

With a roar, the main body of Frey's cavalry emerged over the rise concealing them from the Dagir Xethu. Like a great war hammer they slammed into the heart of the enemy, annihilating the surprised soldiers and sweeping away any with the wits to stand their ground.

Frey laughed, and despite the countless foes that replaced every fallen enemy, his blood was hot and fatigue did not assail him. Faerthring pulsed in time with his heart, and no enemy, no dragonmare, no Dark Captain was able to stand before him. Captain Vraim stayed at his side, defending his back and ordering the signalmasters and flagmen as Frey commanded.

The enemy ranks continued to flow through the wide pass. Eventually the hosts were so thickly entangled, the archers above slowed their deadly rain for fear of striking their own, and were forced to move further north to engage the never ending rush of reinforcements.

Suddenly the sound of new horns echoed throughout the killing grounds, and from the northeast another wave of silver armor and blue crests charged, descending down a steep wash along the ridgeline. Frey let out a victor's yell when he saw line upon line of wildly waving banners with the silver hilt on an azure field. Racing before the banner bearers was a familiar form adorned in tarnished heavy armor. Atop his full helmet was a blue plume, and on his shield the royal colors of azure and red declared the commander of the new force.

"Prince Ghelan! Prince Ghelan has come!" bellowed Frey. "Signalmaster, call the horsemen! We move to join my brother now!"

Like a spear hurled into a wild animal, Ghelan's charge split deep into the Dagir Xethu's eastern flank. Confusion again buffeted the enemy at the surprise assault, which the elder prince's cavalry used to exact a murderous price.

The pass was quickly choked with soldiers, alive and fallen. Still the Dagir Xethu came, climbing over the lifeless heaps strewn from cliff to cliff, creating a macabre battleground.

Frey and Vraim led a group of twelve knights forward to link up with Ghelan, but the fight was made more treacherous when a great mass of Dagir Xethu, with nowhere to run in the face of the charge, fled south toward them. Where once only a score of enemy soldiers separated Frey from his brother, now four times as many pushed them apart. Refusing to lose ground, Frey planted his warhorse and ordered Vraim and his knights to do the same. Like a great stone in the midst of a swollen river, the enemy struck Frey and his men, broke about them, and streamed past. And although they held their ground, Frey could not advance.

Another series of horns rocked the ravine. Ghelan waved his sword over his head and shouted something to his signalmaster. Three rapid peals issued from his horn, and then in the midst of the banner bearers four blue flags rose and fell in succession. Immediately the rear cavalry changed direction, and instead of pressing forward they bore to their left. By passing the thick of the fighting, they quickly linked up with Frey. With a laugh, Frey ordered the new forces forward, intent on joining his brother in the center of the melee.

It was then a shrieking blast of freezing air suddenly swept across the battlefield. Darkness followed immediately as the low hanging black clouds sank down and smothered the ground with an inky mist, casting a deep pall over everything. A chill not caused by the cold wind climbed Frey's spine. Without clear reason, his eyes drifted up and settled on the western wall of the gully, now only distinguishable as a darker shade of gray set against the mist.

The sound of a loud gong chimed, the peal rolling ominously through the death-filled gully. Inexplicably, the battlefield became silent and all movement ceased. The survivors stood still as monuments to the fallen in a fresh graveyard. Roiling black clouds traced with blood red sunlight rolled across the sky.

As Frey watched, a sudden blackness erupted from the top of the ridge which formed the western edge of the battlefield. Like a poison river the blackness fell, devouring the archers positioned along the ridge-face. It grew as it came, an unearthly madness billowing out before it.

As the consuming darkness closed in on the main battle, the great warhorses of the cavalry broke away in terror, many throwing their shocked riders to the ground. Even Frey's steed shuddered and let out a terrified shriek before madly bucking him from his back, then galloping south, away from the coming darkness.

Frey's body struck a large jagged rock, his head dashing against a stone finger protruding from the ground. Darkness and oblivion swarmed in to overtake consciousness. Struggling to stand, he removed his helmet and looked back to the north; he saw the enemy parting to form a clearing for the coming evil. None of the Dagir Xethu turned to watch it approach — all eyes faced south.

The blackness was off the cliff now, where it paused. Out of the abyss, a great red dragonmare stepped out. It hissed and snarled, and a hungry look lurked within its black eyes. Upon it rode a nightmare in black armor, great steel plates etched with innumerable vile runes. Upon its shoulders was a gray mantle, flowing about it like the black cloud from which it emerged. Its helmet, forged in the likeness of a cruel dragon-like beast, covered the entire head.

Gods, thought Frey. The Xethicor leads the enemy.

It sat upon its mount, surveying the carnage of the battlefield. Arrayed behind it a dozen Dark Captains formed up, and behind them the swelling army of death regrouped. Then alone atop its dragonmare it advanced. The fallen cavalry closest to the Xethicor tried to rally, lifting weapons and readying for battle. Yet as the thing approached, some fell to their knees and cowered. Others dropped their weapons and fled. Only one stood his ground. Through the blurry fog clouding his vision, Frey shook his head again and wiped sweat and grime from his eyes. Alarm shocked his vision back to focus when he realized the lone warrior bore the royal colors on his medium shield.

Ghelan stood alone before the Xethicor.

Frey froze, his limbs suddenly stone. His battle cries perished in his throat as he watched the Vassal of Death, adorned with a golden crown, slowly approach his brother with the air of an executioner. With a careful, deliberate motion the thing pulled its sword free, a thin black blade trimmed in living fire which traced runes engraved along the edges.

Ghelan's weapon faltered as the Xethicor loomed over him, massive and elemental as a great black mountain. From his vantage, all Frey could see was the iron smile and fiery sword in the midst of the black bulk mounted on the dragonmare. As terror threatened to humble him and drop him to his knees like Ghelan, a flicker of rage sparked as the thing lifted its weapon. A powerful, primal resistance gasped for breath.

"Ghelan!" the youngest prince shouted. The Xethicor paused, and turned its metallic visage towards Frey. Then slowly, shaking violently, so did Ghelan. The hopelessness in his brother's eyes nearly felled Frey. Their eyes locked, and Ghelan shook his head.

He is lost, thought Frey.

The Xethicor turned back to Ghelan, and brought its weapon down in a graceful swing that never slowed as it sliced through the prince. He fell over, his lifeless face turned toward Frey.

A roar of victory and ruthless glee erupted from behind the Death Knight. Frey staggered back at the sight of his brother laying motionless below the armored apparition. He died without fighting, lost in terror.

The Xethicor's mount opened its jagged maw and shrieked at Frey, but the demon sitting upon it made no move. Frey's throat was dry, and his body suddenly ached as he fought a near overwhelming urge to flee. The dragonmare stepped forward and began closing the gap with Prince Frey. As it did so, the Xethicor raised its mailed left hand. Without a word it brought its hand down, pointing towards the remaining forces of the battalion, all that stood between the Dagir Xethu and the open road to Ceremane.

The motion was a command, unleashing the torrent of soldiers behind it. In a frenzied rush, the Army of Death again filled the wide pass, falling with mad hatred on the remaining defenders of Valeot.

None came near Frey, who fought to stand and prepare for the coming Xethicor. He commanded every action of his body — his legs to stand firm, his arms to raise his sword and his buckler, his eyes to look upon his enemy. A white-hot fury burned within that terror so nearly paralyzed him. He sought strength from anywhere, realizing then Faerthring was silent, a worthless length of steel as dead as Ghelan.

Death and carnage reigned around Frey when his executioner finally arrived, towering over him, filling his vision. From behind he dimly heard his forces as they were being butchered. From above the screams of his remaining archers barely penetrated the muted din. All he could see, smell, and hear was the creature that somehow already laid claim to his soul. Frey's knees began to buckle, and his body ached as he fought to remain upright.

I will die standing, sword in hand. Though none will live to see it, my death will be with honor.

As with Ghelan, the Xethicor paused, this time turning its head to look beyond Frey toward the sounds of the battle. Then without a word it raised its sword again. Frey choked a strangled cough, all he could muster, as a victory cry.

I die on my feet.

The cursed blade, instead of striking Frey's head, sank into a glowing blue orb that suddenly hung in the air between them. The orb flared, and Frey was thrown back as a bright blue flash blinded him. He landed heavily, and once again darkness rose up to steal away his consciousness. As he struggled to keep his senses, he noted a figure standing suddenly above him, boots planted by his head. A familiar bearded face was not looking at him; rather, he was facing the Xethicor. Both hands were swallowed by brilliant blue halos crackling with red lightning.

A soul chilling bellow filled the battlefield, and Frey knew his life was finally departing. His final thoughts were that he had not earned his place in the Halls of the Gods. Surely he was to be cast into Hell, where the Master of the Xethicor ruled.

Dayhoral's voice rang out then, muffled, unintelligible. He was not speaking to Frey. The last words he heard, before his mind dissolved into the awaiting blackness, were of the Xethicor's response.

"I come to rule a nation of graves."
Chapter 4: The Grief of Brothers

A sickly red sun hovered over the jagged hill lands on the western side of the Vendehar River, ready to vanish under the desolate country of the Necromancer Kings. Dehrbane sat next to a fire pit and pulled his deep red cloak about him. The chill riding before the coming night was the worst yet. It seemed as though no amount of fire was able to keep him or the soldiers warm.

It had now been two days since Laveris learned the feint suspected by their brother Ghelan was real. Dehrbane stared into the embers in the pit as he struggled with the shame of his final words to Ghelan and Frey. How stupidly he had mocked them! Although Ghelan had convinced the King to allow them to ride north to the Frost Lands to defend against the suspected attack, by Dehrbane's insistence they had fewer than two battalions.

We need every man in the west, Derhbane had screamed at Ghelan. Your arrogance already bleeds us of our strength before the enemy can!

The sting of tears rose in his eyes. Dehrbane blinked them away and looked to the west again. A dying sliver of molten crimson was all that remained of the sun. He knew somewhere in the gloom was the masterstroke of the Lords of the Dead, an army the size of which had never been arrayed against Valeot. Certainly the hated Xethicor led this army, but even that was not the whole of the evil coming to meet them. Dehrbane looked to the rapidly darkening sky, searching for the eerie fire the watchmen had spotted the previous night. Of all the sorceries marshaled against them, it seemed the Necromancer Kings had also chosen to awaken the dragons as well.

And yet the guilt would not leave. Mighty and courageous though they were, his brothers faced annihilation now because of him, and with them Ceremane. Dehrbane cast aside his cloak and lowered his hand to rest upon the handle of his sword Tygrist. Although not as ancient as Valehem, Tygrist was forged shortly after the second war with the Necromancer Kings nearly eight hundred years ago. Called the Spirit Slayer, it gloried in the destruction of the servants of the Lords of the Dead. Now he felt it warm to his touch. The enemy was closer.

"Strike us!" he whispered to the darkness. "Get this over with. I swear if we prove the victors I will lead our armies back to my brothers." The fire pit then grew sallow, the embers black. The chill grew colder still as a wind rose from the west. Dehrbane's eyes watered, this time from the icy fingers of the wind. He took no note as his fire went cold. His eyes were fixed on the western land he could not see.

Thunder rolled, though the sky was clear and the stars burned brightly. A spike of fire rose in the distance. Then another, perhaps a mile farther north. With alarm he noted the fire was reflected in the river that lay only three miles from his position. Before he could utter a word horns began to sound, tearing through the night.

The enemy was upon them.
Chapter 5: The Great City

Frey was aware of a deafening wind. Not just the sound. He felt it upon his skin, which although cold, was far warmer than the inside of his body. He felt frozen, colder than the waste land he had fought in. He opened his eyes.

He lay upon a bare patch of rock in the midst of an immense river, the shores of which were so far removed on both sides of him that he could barely make them out as darker borders to the waters. The river was black and powerful, racing by at great speed toward a precipice so wide the ends could not be seen. The sky above was pitch, as was the sky beyond the falls. Frey could not tell how he was able to even see the landscape around him, as there was no moon, sun, or stars.

He was not alone. Quickly he stood, and turning away from the mad, frothing waters he faced a dark cowled form. The robe was brown, and about the waist was a silver belt.

"What is happening? Is this the land of the dead?" he asked the apparition.

"My prince, you yet live, though death yonder calls to you."

Frey knew the voice at once. "Dayhoral?"

"Yes my lord," he answered, although his features still were shadowed by his cowl. "Your wounds should be fatal. The blade of the Xethicor was not entirely turned away by my spell. It has cursed your blood, and your body, nearly lifeless, is now draped over a slain archer's steed. But Layarax is the mightiest wizard of this age, and he has taught me much. This enchantment has prevented you from crossing over."

Frey turned back toward the falls. "What lies beyond? Hell?"

"I do not know," said Dayhoral. "None do. Although the world is infected with countless strange spirits, there are none who have gone beyond those waters who have ever returned to tell."

Frey closed his eyes, feeling the roar of the water as it cascaded over the unfathomable precipice. The sound shook his frame, and his thoughts became unfocused as they were drawn into the everything that was the end of the river. Through the shaking and turmoil, he heard Dayhoral's voice calling his name. With reluctance he opened his eyes.

"Prince Frey," said the wizard, his voice floating on the surreal wind rushing with the waters past him. "Look upon me. I am the only link to the land of the living for you now. You can still perish, and if that happens, I fear all hope for Valeot will perish with you."

"We only need to hold out until Laveris secures the western front. He will then be able to send back enough of his forces to defend Ceremane."

"Your brothers face dangers as great as that which you have already met. As Ghelan met. They may not live to bring aid." Dayhoral's voice was elemental, his words without emotion or empathy.

Once more he turned toward the falls as though he might penetrate the darkness and see his brother. Again the world-shaking sound of the waters rose, this time with the promise to sweep away his grief and anger. His skin grew colder still.

As before, he heard Dayhoral's voice. It was not mixed with the sounds of the water and wind this time, but it rose over it in conflict.

"My lord! Your kingdom needs you! Without you, all will kneel before the Necromancer Kings!"

Frey opened his eyes and found his head was only inches above the ground, his posture bent over as though bowing before the Void ahead. With effort he stood once more and turned to face Dayhoral.

"What hope is there? There are no commanders strong enough to replace Laveris if he perishes. I have already been crushed beneath the coming doom!"

For a moment Dayhoral did not answer. The omnipresent sound of wind and water was all there was. When the wizard finally spoke, it was as if he had not heard the prince.

"We ride now back to Ceremane. You lie senseless on a steed being guided by Vraim, who although could not stand in the presence of the Death Knight, never fled. I rescued the both of you, and we now flee south to prepare the city for siege."

"Damn it Dayhoral! Defend her with what? We are routed on all sides!"

"No, my lord. There are still people able to bear arms in defense of Ceremane. Straggling forces pulled from the south await orders from either the northern or western fronts. As fortune would have it, a captain of Deihaim rides now to the old city to pledge his men to your father. And although the battle in the west is dire, my lord Layarax still lives, and a sizable number of Valeot's sons remain as a bulwark for now. If the sons of Atherion can rise and rally the kingdom, there may yet be hope."

"This son of Atherion has already failed. I will return to my father, and I will do what I can. But while the Death Knight leads the Dagir Xethu, we only prolong the fall of our kingdom."

Again Dayhoral was silent. His shrouded head turned slightly as though listening to something from behind him in the darkness.

"We are approaching Ceremane. Your wounds are severe still, although I've managed to dress them and heal them to a point. You must be strong." Frey nodded, but the wizard continued more forcefully.

"Prince Frey, in the coming days more than the fate of Ceremane will be determined, more than the fate of Valeot. The August Kingdom is the last of the kingdoms of Maladine. If we fail... if you fail... then the last vestiges of what is good and noble will fall to the Lords of the Dead."

Frey opened his mouth to answer, though with what words he had no clear idea. The roar of the winds and the waters suddenly ceased, and the quiet was unsettling. He opened his eyes, and before a madness of terror overtook him the sight of Ceremane the Great filled his vision.

Frey sat up and seized the reins from Vraim, whose eyes opened wide with shock at seeing his nearly dead prince rise with vigor. Before he could utter a word Frey held up his hand.

"Dayhoral and I ride to the throne room, and will enter through the Wheat Gate. Faithful Vraim, outside the Pilgrim's Gate are forces from the south and east awaiting our command. There is also a full battalion of warriors arriving from Deihaim even as we speak. Go to them, and tell them they will fight under Prince Frey for the very survival of their kingdom. Go now!"

Vraim hesitated only a moment, and then despite his bewilderment, a smile cracked his lips. His prince was back, and with him, hope. With a shout he turned his mount to the right, galloping hard to the western wall and the large Pilgrim's Gate. Dayhoral spurred his horse up next to Frey.

"Your presence brings encouragement, and the love of your subjects will be a powerful weapon against the coming army," said the wizard.

Frey watched Vraim charge hard across the flat grassland, and then looked at the city. The white walls were fortified, and although a great number of her fighting men were emptied and mostly locked in battle along the River Vendehar, Frey could still see soldiers manning the watch towers. Probably infirmed or youths, he thought grimly.

"Even if we somehow hold off the Dagir Xethu, and turn them away, the slaughter will be unthinkable. Ceremane will be more a tomb than a city."

Dayhoral looked to the ground. Frey drove his heels into his mount, and sped south towards the Wheat Gate in the northern wall.

Before following, Dayhoral looked back toward the north. The black clouds and lightning hung over the horizon like the galleons of the dead, sailing towards the last bastion of the living. A shudder ran through the wizard, and he turned again south. Frey and his steed were shrinking into the distance.

"A city or a tomb?" he asked himself, and the words of the Xethicor burned anew in his mind. I come to rule a nation of graves. He forced aside his thought, and with a command to his horse he followed the prince.

* * *

Frey thundered through the narrow length of the Wheat Gate after the watchmen recognized him from afar and swung open wide the heavy iron portcullis. Horns blared, and voices called "Prince Frey has returned!"

The war had drained the city of much of its vitality for over two years, and though the morning grew late only a few merchants and subjects had to move aside as Frey drove his exhausted steed south over gray slate rock streets. The ragged lanes sloped gently toward the wide River Lhorost, which bisected Ceremane. In the center of the city, built into the tall cliffs on the western shore of the Lhorost, rested the royal palace.

A massive dome formed the center of the palace complex, made with azure and purple stones painted with gold and silver. To the north and the south, one on each side, smaller domed fortresses connected to the great palace building. The entire palace was surrounded by a thick inner wall manned with stout guards, elite soldiers of the army of Valeot.

These guards too recognized the prince, and made way to allow him entry through the gate and into the courtyard. Swiftly he dismounted, intending to pass through the palace entryway and on to the throne room. As he handed the reins of his steaming and trembling horse to a palace page, a slender figure, watching from a nearby balcony, caught his eye.

Looking down on the courtyard, her auburn hair pulled back into a long braid, stood Elelluin, a daughter of the House of Caiste and betrothed of Laveris. She was dressed in the rustic brown and black wool of the soldiers of the Great Duchy. Long before Deihaim moderated the Northmen that dwelt on the fringe of the kingdom, the people of Caiste had lived for centuries under the threat of attack by the savages. The people were of the stock of old Maladine, however, and both man and woman in the Duchy answered the Duke's call to defend the realm. The Duchy had ever been renowned for her soldiers, and from her garb Frey could see Elelluin was to lead the Caiste soldiers in the defense of the city.

Stoically she searched him from afar. Even in the distance her look was piercing as she sought some sign from Frey about his elder brother. Frey met her gaze, and he saw understanding press her shoulders down. Quietly she stepped back, into an inner room, and disappeared from his sight.

Frey wanted to take the stair and comfort her, the woman whose fierce intellect and beauty captured the hearts of all the sons of Atherion. He steeled himself, and instead pushed past the growing crowd of court advisers and viziers, ignoring their demands to know of news from the north.

He strode to the grand entranceway. A pair of oak doors, two stories tall and bound with iron, opened into a richly decorated foyer. Deep stained oak panels lined the walls, adorned with carvings depicting the struggles of the Remnant Kingdoms since the Fall of Maladine one thousand years ago. A topaz ceiling, formed by a portion of the outer edge of the great dome of the palace, curved away and vanished behind intricate masonry.

Frey saw the powerful form of Canerion the Prophet standing in the center of the foyer. His torso was naked, exposing mighty sinews and a thick chest that belayed the elder years of the prophet, whose head was crowned with thick white hair and a gray beard.

"Prince Frey!" he called, his wild eyes wide with concern. "Wizard, you have done well to keep the young one alive. Attend to me, my lord." Frey did not try to hide his impatience.

"In time, revered one, if there is any to be had. I must report to the King." The prophet's great hands shot out, seizing Frey by the shoulders. Pain shot through Frey's left side.

"Prince Frey! A few moments do I need. Before your audience with the King, you should take on wisdom." The old man's gray eyes were tumultuous, his countenance nearly mad. So intent was he that Frey nodded, and as he stepped out to follow the prophet he winced. Looking down, he saw he stood in a small pool of blood. The prophet turned back and regarded the fluid that oozed through Frey's armor.

"You are harmed, but not broken. Valeot... nay, the last sons of Maladine need a prince now who can sacrifice more than blood to save the kingdom." Again he turned and hurried down a corridor that branched off to the right of the main passageway.
Chapter 6: The Scrolls of Prophecy

The prophet cast open a thick oak door adorned with the archaic lion emblem of the kingdom of Maladine. That great nation once dominated the land from the eastern ocean to the western ocean, from the grim Deihaken Mountains in the north to the desert lands of the mystics in the south. The Royal Histories, as well as the legends of Frey's people, told of a glorious kingdom ruled by mighty kings who respected the prophets. Peace was their shield, wisdom their strength, and righteousness their sword.

Then the necromancers came, and their dark arts corrupted the kings and the princes of Maladine. A century after the spiritists first whispered promises of power not only in this world, but in the world of the dead, insurrections sprang up. Led by royal clans who sought to seize the throne first, and then immortality after that, civil war spread throughout the kingdom. The prophets continued to counsel the kings, but eventually they were forced to flee as the kingdom crumbled. The center of the great nation fell under the power of Mahakir, youngest son of Berinshar, the last King of Maladine. Mahakir was a cruel man who embraced the necromancers. He built a massive fortified city he named after himself, and Mahakir has ever since been the home of the greatest of the spiritists.

The door opened up to a wide and well-lit room with a low ceiling. A series of arch-windows lined the east wall, and the Lhorost could be seen as well as the Middle Bridge spanning it. The other walls, made of blue-painted stones carved from the cliff the palace was constructed on, were otherwise undecorated. Heavy black wooden tables lined the walls, as well as a number of like-styled chairs.

Near the center of the room was a crystal dais which stood waist high. The light from the east windows cast prisms through the crystal along the walls. Atop the dais rested a massive book, clearly ancient, bound in cracked brown leather and filled with yellowed parchments and dried animal skins.

Frey had seen the book before. It was the Vhendis, the great Tome of the Prophets. Normally the Tome was kept in the Citadel of the Magi, in the southern portion of the city, but the King had ordered it brought to the palace as his sons were preparing to lead the battles in the north and east. He regarded the book reverently, although in truth he felt uneasy when near it.

Canerion stalked over to the crystal dais, and although his demeanor suggested he would simply rip the massive tome from the table it rested upon, he slowed and carefully opened the cover. Gingerly he turned the pages. Occasionally he would stop and read, and then he would turn more quickly.

Frey felt the room move, and then realized he was losing his senses. The wounds of the past days coupled with the punishment of their rapid journey were not lost on his body, and now fatigue assailed him as he stood still and watched the prophet. As his mind grew hazy, Dayhoral reached out and steadied him. Then the prophet spoke without turning to face them as he continued to search the Vhendis.

"All of life is played out on these parchments. Everything that is, lives or exists, it all begins, grows, fades, and concludes here. The prophets, unlike any else on this world, have been given the gift to see glimpses of the future. We may not always comprehend all until it happens, but if there is one immutable law in all of Creation, it is that the bonds of Prophecy are unbreakable. Even when presented with the knowledge of the future, anything we do, should we decide to resist, will always end in the fulfillment of Prophecy.

"The seers of old committed these prophecies to parchment during the age of the Great Kingdom of Maladine, which stretched west all the way to the far shores that have been unseen for centuries by any from Valeot. Instruments of the gods, most prophets did not know, nor did they care, who spoke through them. It never mattered. What a prophet scrawled into the Scrolls was always truth." Canerion glanced up suddenly, his eyes resting for a moment on Dayhoral. When he spoke again he turned back to the book, although he had ceased turning the large pages.

"Since the sundering of Maladine over a millennium ago, the age of the prophets came to an end along with the Old Kingdom. Century after century saw fewer prophets, and soon enough we were less prophets and more keepers of the ancient wisdom of the great seers of old. Only a handful of copies of this, the Vhendis, exist. As the prophets died out, the magi stepped in to try and decipher the prophecies. Though in many ways wise, the magi often erred grievously in their understanding of the texts. Blinded by ego and a love of self, the prophecies were twisted and rendered incomprehensible by the practitioners of magic."

Dayhoral remained impassive as he continued to support Frey. Finally Canerion motioned the two to join him at the dais. Frey urged Dayhoral to go ahead as he walked with him, some strength returning to him from his short rest. When the two stood next to the prophet, he pointed down to a largely blank sheet of yellowed parchment. Centered on the page were eight short lines.

Frey was filled with wrath as soon as he saw the text.

"The beast that slaughtered my brother, my soldiers," said Frey, venom on his lips, "could it be the Prince of Graves?"

Canerion grunted. "It seems every time the Necromancer Kings have waged war against the Remnant Kingdoms, someone has been crowned the Prince of Graves. The verses are dark, and there are no others within the Tome which illuminate them. But," and at this the prophet looked directly at Frey, "Valeot is the last of the true nations of the Remnant Kingdoms. The minor duchies are mere outposts of the August Kingdom. The people of your mother, the Northmen, are not descendants of Maladine and do not rule a true kingdom of any considerable might. With the north routed, and the west faltering, it seems there may be nothing to prevent a siege of Ceremane. And a siege with no allies to come to our aid can only have one end."

Dayhoral placed a hand on Frey's shoulder. "My prince, remember, Layarax the Great still lives, as do Revhalom and many of the magi. Deihaim can still provide warriors, as can the outlying duchies to the east and the south. There is still hope."

"You sound like the King!" spat the prophet, and Frey was stirred again to anger. "My prince, I have ever been the scoffer of those who see the foretold Prince of Graves in every shadow and enemy of the Kingdom. But I must profess, the verses in this short prophecy speak of doom, and there is no question doom rides now to the very walls of this city."

"Yet, the Xethicor which commands the northern advance is only one of the damned creatures," said Dayhoral. "Another leads the Dagir Xethu in the west. How are we to know that it is not the Prince of Graves?"

Canerion cast disdainful eyes on the wizard. "The magi are ever ignorant of the workings of prophecy. The words the seers committed to ink are not always literal. The words of the prophet here are figurative. The powers of the Death Knights are the spawn of the powers that subjugate the Necromancer Kings and seek to enslave all the living. They are the royalty of hell, and they surely are the Prince."

A bell sounded suddenly. Dull and distant at first, the tolling soon issued from an unseen opening in the darkened ceiling. Four times it rang, and before the last echoes faded the single note of a trumpet issued.

"My father calls for me," said Frey. Canerion continued as though he had not heard the bell and trumpet, or the prince.

"These last verses, called the End Time prophecy, are only in two copies of the Vhendis. In the days immediately following the Fall, the only complete Tome was seized by agents of the Necromancer Kings. To this day it rests in the halls of Mahakir.

"Then, over five hundred years ago a prophet, called Gheserit, appeared to Dehrigo II, King of Valeot, with what he claimed was a complete copy. It was compared to the Tome already in the possession of the King and the magi, and it was found to be significantly longer. How he came to possess the copy is still not understood. These verses of the End Time vision are fragments, believed to come from a longer prophecy."

"Layarax taught me the same history," said Dayhoral. He leaned forward, and pointed at a smeared line beneath the last verse. "Master Layarax believes before Gheserit died he was called into a trance and tried to add to this prophecy, the only vision given to a prophet since the fall of Maladine and the rise of the Necromancer Kingdoms. He died before he finished the verse, and his blood smeared the words."

"So we'll never know what the rest of the prophecy is?" asked Frey. "What is written there now leaves no hope!"

Canerion nodded, and was slow to answer.

"The gods who spoke through the prophets had reason for every word committed to paper. Even the incomplete marking on this prophecy. It may be we are to receive revelation which will open the doors to hope."

"Do you believe this?" asked Frey.

The prophet sighed. His muscular frame sagged, and the ageless glimmer in his eyes was eclipsed with sorrow.

"Nay. It would seem twilight is spreading on the kingdom."

"Then why give us the prophecy at all if from the beginning of time we were destined to fall under the yoke of evil?" Frey demanded hotly. For the first time in the prince's memory the old prophet looked afraid to speak.

"Although I am a prophet," he said at last, "ultimately the machinations of the gods are unfathomable even to me. I can testify that Prophecy is unbreakable. As mortal men we always look to salvation from the powers of those who reign in the heavens, and sometimes the powers which reign in hell. And perhaps there is salvation still waiting, but I fear we will not live to see it."

"If we are doomed, then how can there be salvation?"

Canerion closed the Vhendis. He then walked to the windows overlooking the river. Frey looked to Dayhoral, who shrugged.

"My prince, the Fall of Maladine was intended to cleanse the Kingdom of the unholy infection that the necromancers bore into the world. Through fiery trial the Remnant Kingdoms should have turned away from corruption. If that had happened, then without question Valeot would stand for countless generations." The prophet turned back to Frey and Dayhoral, sadness upon his face and shoulders.

"Repentance never happened. Valeot has been a poor reflection of the righteousness of Maladine the Great. And now the time has come to start over again." The glimmer that so often hinted at madness suddenly returned to Canerion's eyes. "The mere existence of uncertainty may be the only hope we have. The Remnant Kingdoms may be coming to an end, but the blood of the Northmen is not of the lines of old Maladine. They're the only people who are neither enslaved by the Necromancer Kingdoms nor even mentioned in the Vhendis. It is beyond me to know why this is. It may be irrelevant, and the Northmen may fall under the same doom as we all now face. Or it may be they will be the seeds of rebirth to redeem man some time in the future."

"Or could it be," said Dayhoral, "that with a battalion of Northmen preparing to defend against the coming Dagir Xethu, we may find deliverance now?"

Reluctantly Canerion nodded his head.

"Aye, a slight possibility, Dayhoral. I do not believe this to be the case." Canerion walked back to the dais and stood before Frey.

"My prince, this is my counsel to you, the words you should speak to the King. The days of Valeot are over. Prophecy is unbreakable, and it tells us the Prince of Graves has come to rule. The only spark of hope left for man lies with the Northmen, and possibly with you."

Frey stepped back. "Prophet, I have been vanquished once by the Xethicor. What hope..."

"The hope does not lie in force of arms," said Canerion. "At least, it does not at this time. I do not even know if there is any hope at all. Yet there is no denying your blood is mixed with a race not spoken of in the books of prophecy. It may be somehow you and the Northmen have a role to play in redeeming your people."

Frey felt darkness welling within his breast, clawing at his mind. It reminded him of the River and the Falls that led to death and oblivion. There was no hope there, only despair.

"What are you suggesting, prophet?"

"Beseech the King to withdraw the Northmen. Perhaps not all of them — only enough to protect you. You must then lead them south, to the wild mountains beyond the southern duchies where Valeot's reach is unknown."

"Flee?" Frey bellowed. "Never! You speak recklessly, revered one. Those words from anyone else would be a death sentence."

Canerion calmly continued, ignoring Frey's wrath.

"Lord, you and the King are of like minds. I will tell you what I told him before your return. The greatest army in the history of Valeot has been routed in the north, and is being consumed in the west. All that remains are fragments of men, some soldiers, some not, and stone walls. These will not withstand the Xethicor. To fight is to die."

"Treason! Canerion, if the gods have willed the world of men is to end now, then I'll leave this life with honor!" Frey stepped forward, his face a hands breath from Canerion's face. "Now you hear my words, old man. I will report to the King that his son will ride north to meet the enemy and do all in his power to protect this city, although all seems without hope. If by chance or providence we are victorious, I swear by all that is and was once holy, I will see you die by the executioner or banished forever!"

Canerion stood back, bewildered. His muscled arms tensed, and hot anger burned his cheeks. He opened his mouth to speak, but Frey raised his hand sharply.

"Speak again, prophet, and I'll remove your tongue." Frey turned to Dayhoral. "Wizard, my father is waiting. Come with me." The prince and the prophet locked eyes, the mad glimmer vying with the pale blue fire. At length, the prophet nodded, and turned away.

"Pray I do not return, revered one," said Frey. He then turned and strode out of the room.
Chapter 7: The Dirge of Laveris

For hours the enemy made no obvious move to approach the Vendehar. Although the bulk of Laveris' soldiers were entrenched near Glorion, his engineers had spent a great deal of effort destroying the ground between the river and his fortifications by hacking at it and then flooding it with the diverted streams. Throughout the ruined ground they had erected felled trees, many of which were sharpened like thick spears and jutted out to the west. Only two paths were now traversable to the wizard's tower, and around these the defense of Glorion would be centered.

Laveris dispatched Dehrbane to the southern line, which he felt would prove the most vulnerable. There the land lay upon rock that was difficult to raze, and most of the streams would take more time than they had to divert there. While still filled with obstacles to channel them, the enemy would likely discover quickly the fastest route lay through there.

The late autumn air had grown increasingly frigid throughout the long night, so when the pale sun crawled up over the eastern horizon, much of the mire lay under a layer of frozen mud. Laveris took to his horse and rode along the lines, challenging his captains and adjusting their positions.

Most of the soldiers, twenty thousand men, were arrayed north to south in three formations. The greatest was the center, and was composed almost entirely of mail-wearing footmen under the command of the royal knights. Four squads, each with eighty heavy cavalry, stood ready to charge the first wave of attackers. These forces lined the primary road that led from the river to Glorion.

To the north of the center formation were several battalions of footmen, as well as nearly a battalion of archers. The bowmen were grouped into formations of one hundred each and interspersed between the great war machines, catapults and heavy crossbows. Laveris and his captains had debated for hours over the placement of the war machines before the prince decided to split them evenly between the northern and southern formations. Since the most likely avenue of attack was defended by the center, the machines could rain punishment on the enemy's middle and rear echelons without risk of being in range of the longbows of the attackers. However, since much of the ground was now flooded to slow the advance of the Dagir Xethu, if the machines needed to be moved it would not be done quickly.

The southern formation was also composed of footmen and several squads of archers. Laveris decided to place the bulk of his cavalry in the south as well. Since the terrain was not nearly so treacherous as the center and northern approaches, the cavalry might be able to push through and attack the enemy's southern flank. That would depend on the number of attackers, and how reckless the enemy would be in the assault.

Four hours had passed since the sunrise. Laveris ended his inspection of Valeot's army, leaving Derhbane last of all. As he turned his steed back to where his war council was established, on a rocky rise in the center of the middle formation, he glanced again to the west. From his position the river lay less than a mile away, and he peered beyond the other side. Nothing but blighted grass and lifeless hills could be seen for miles.

In an instant the world grew unnaturally silent. Laveris frowned, and his gaze searched the only visible road that led to the western shore from the hills beyond. There was no movement on the ground, but the sky turned suddenly ashen as thick gray clouds poured in like molten steel across the heavens. In moments the sun was shunted off into another world and shadows fell upon the men of Valeot.

A deafening sound, as of a typhoon hurtling against the land, swept down out of the sky. Four great black beasts the size of forts fell from the clouds, spreading massive wings and roaring above the land as they soared over the defensive fortifications.

Laveris cursed and drove his spurs into his horse. It can't be! Leviathan! He watched as the colossal shapes turned in the sky in obscene defiance of the natural order. The ebony scales layered over their hulking frames looked to be made from shadows, and long scarlet tongues flicked out of their long, ferocious jaws.

No dragons at all had been seen in Valeot for decades, and the leviathan had lurked in the shadows of legend for centuries. The ancient reptiles were said to have spawned the first dragons millennia ago, at the command of the God of Death. But the leviathan vanished after the first war between the Necromancer Kings and the Remnant Kingdoms, so that none save possibly the magi believed they still lived.

The leviathans landed to the north of the formations, two on either shore. Gargantuan mouths opened with a great rush of air inhalation, and then a hellstorm of fire burst forth against the river. The air was at once suffocating and hot, and the river vanished into boiling mud.

While the dragons blew, Laveris watched in horror as shapes bubbled on the surface of the now exposed riverbed. Arms and torsos struggled as an army long perished writhed with unholy life. The desiccated bodies did not form ranks, however, nor did they attempt the rise far out of the mire. The things grasped at one another, pulling, pushing, and climbing.

"The demons in the river, what evil are they doing?" asked Harkom. Laveris said nothing, but as he watched, transfixed by the ghastly sight, he heard the sound he had awaited since arriving on the plains. A steady rumble could be heard, and felt, coming from the haze-obscured western bank. Rapidly it closed in, sounding as though thunder had been trapped within the earth.

"The main host of the Dagir Xethu has come," said the prince. He looked to the north where the belching flames of the black leviathans were still consuming the river. All that could be seen was the fire, as the bodies of the creatures were lost in the steam.

"The dead in the river," said Laveris, "They mean to become a bridge over the mire. The Dagir Xethu will cross over them."

In disgust Harkom observed the rotten bodies as they clawed up both banks, none alone but all joined to other dead men. A soul chilling moan bled forth from the riverbed as they watched a wide road of bones emerge and join the banks. The Dagir Xethu prepared to cross.

"Gods!" cursed Harkom. He turned to the signalman who always followed him. "Call the archers from the north! Assemble them within range of the southern banks!" Harkom leapt upon his horse, and loosed his ram's horn.

"My lord, the enemy's vanguard will be here within the hour."

"No, the vanguard is already here!" Laveris pointed to the sky. Racing from the swollen clouds great balls of fire began to fall. "They look to have awoken every damned dragon from the bowels of Maladine!" yelled the prince.

Thick shafts of roiling scarlet fire stabbed the earth, igniting the heavy beams in the defensive lines and war machines closest to the crossing point of the Army of Death. The soldiers and engineers who had labored desperately for days to establish the fighting positions cried out and perished in a moment, or fled before the newly arrived horrors.

The dragons, seven in all, landed one after the other, impacting the ground with a deafening crash that Laveris felt nearly a mile away from the high ground where he had set up his war council. Though smaller than the black leviathan, the creatures still dwarfed the war machines around them. The dragons spread out, clearing a wide wedge to prevent any attack on the impending enemy crossing.

With a shout, Harkom turned his steed and galloped down the grassy road that led to the advance forces arrayed along the northern shores. He raised his horn to his lips and blew two shrill signals. The dragons turned their heads at this, and their wings raised and folded back as cats ready to strike.

"Loose the war machines!" bellowed Harkom, riding hard. "To the south! To the south!" A series of flags went up, proving his orders were heard.

Minutes went by, and as he watched the man-at-arms race down a slope toward the river, Laveris saw the catapults and heavy crossbows moving south towards the dragons on the shore.

"Fire as soon as in range!" Harkom called. "All of the enemy nation is coming over the river!" As if response to his words the sky appeared to suddenly boil. Red lightning flashed and curled overhead as the clouds sank closer to the earth, casting the world into a deeper gloomy hue.

Laveris sensed the onset of terror in his men. His knights could be heard rallying their troops in the face of the supernatural might of the enemy. He swore once more, and looked to Glorion. Will the wizards be able to counter this?

The war machines let loose their first volley, hurling stones and heavy arrows toward the dragons. None found their mark, and the dragons leapt into the air. Three climbed into the sky, while four paused to unleash fire on the closest soldiers. After a few moments, these dragons ceased and joined the others.

Then as if a star had suddenly descended, the crown of the Tower of Layarax radiated with a crystal blue light. The encroaching shadows from the west fled, and the soldiers of Valeot took heart. A shout, a war cry, started near the base of the tower and then grew, rolling across the armies, and became a ground shaking roar.

The heights of the Tower of Layarax twinkled, and the light faded. The seven red and gray dragons circled, flame dripping from their maws and leaping toward the wizard's sanctuary, which only blackened the white stone.

The largest, a deep red beast, suddenly made for the sky, rising higher and higher, faster and faster, and then disappeared into the clouds. The six remaining beat their wings in time, and then as one dashed away. Out of the chaotic heavens the great red dragon reemerged, enveloped in fire and black smoke as it careened towards the tower. Just as it seemed it would dash itself against the white and silver stones, a brilliant bolt of lightning arced from within and struck the beast with such force it split in half.

From the west, deep horns issued the battle call of the enemy, the War Dirge of the Dagir Xethu. Though unheard in the distance, the Dark Captains who commanded the enemy soldiers ordered the attack; like a flood the army began issuing over the bridge of bones. As they approached the eastern shore they were met by a hail of arrows. Oblivious, they pushed through, hurling the dead aside. Once on the eastern slope the enemy spread like greedy fire. Great stones fell in their midst, as did burning swaths of pitch. Yet the dead were merely trampled, and the Dagir Xethu plunged ahead.

Laveris could still hear Harkom issuing commands, adjusting the formations. Angrily he cursed himself. The enemy was pushing to the southern lines, just as he had feared. The northern lines were threatened only by the leviathans, and they were directing their fire against the river to keep the way clear for the crossing. He watched as the enemy troops flowed across the river, filling the shattered land with a speed that disregarded the flooding prepared for them. Harkom rode up, flush and breathing heavily. Laveris pointed at the unfolding battlefield.

"We may be able to encircle them. The southern line will have to hold for a while, but the northern formation must be ready to move when commanded. Order the cavalry south, and ready the reserves to do the same!"

Harkom raised his sword in salute, and turned to the signalmaster to issue the orders.

The battle was now met as the first ranks of the Dagir Xethu reached the first lines of Valeot's defenders. Despite the speed of the assault, the defenders held firm, and the initial wave foundered. Though their numbers continued to pour across the bridge, their assault was complicated by wave after wave of arrows raining down from before them and from the north.

The War Dirge grew louder, though no musicians could be seen. The enemy gnashed their teeth and pressed the attack in a fury.

Having discerned the enemy's main effort, Laveris called his squires to him and readied to ride to the front. As he pulled on his mailed gloves, he caught sight of devilish shapes hovering over portions of the battle. The Dark Captains, mounted on their dragonmares, were not only commanding the enemy. They were calling their incantations as well, summoning demonic aide from an unnamed hell. He shuddered as the air above the enemy scintillated and folded. Harsh chanting rose and fell over the killing grounds, at times rising into a painful crescendo over the surrounding clamor.

Yet the devils never broke through. Laveris turned to look at Glorion behind him. The power of the Elder Magus Layarax was likely contending with the dragons, none of which seemed able to pull away from their orbit of the top of the tower. Likely then Revhalom was now directing his arts against the Dark Captains to keep them from pulling their demons from the abyss. The prince issued a quick prayer of thanks. Grasping Valehem and his shield once more, he called his retinue and drove hard toward the enemy.

Laveris galloped swiftly to take command of the center formation closest to the southern ranks. He and his attending knights collided with a ferocious zeal, scattering the enemy soldiers and throwing back the advance in the surrounding area. The Dagir Xethu was equipped for speed, and although dark enchantments surely lay upon their arms and armor, they wilted before Laveris and his men. The horrible joy of combat took control of the prince then as he threw himself against the waves of attackers that seemed without numbers.

* * *

Exhausted, Laveris pulled back. He had been in the midst of the fray for time undetermined. His breast rose and fell under the heavy armor, and his limbs were afire. Though no enemy, whether Dark Captain or enemy foot soldier, could overcome Laveris, their numbers continued to multiply and press against the defenders. Slowly they were forced to give way, and the Dagir Xethu pushed closer to Glorion. The prince spotted his banners, where Harkom had moved the war council to be closer to him. He pushed his fatigued horse as quickly as it would ride.

When he arrived, a squire dashed up with water and bread. Greedily Laveris devoured the provisions. As he did so, he noted Harkom. The face of the man-at-arms was puzzled as he looked to the sky.

"Have the necromancers seized the heavens as well?" shouted Harkom over the din of arms clashing and men screaming. Dragons belched their sticky flaming breath with the sound of tidal waves crashing onto shore, mixed with the hunting shrieks of the dragonmares. "The day should be over!"

Laveris cast his gaze skyward. Indeed, through low clouds the pallid disk of the sun remained glowing like an ember in the same spot as when the battle began.

The soldiers noticed it as well. Those that were not actively fighting, planted closer to the tower to defend it against any enemy that broke the front lines, glanced often to the sky. Confusion gave way to mounting fear at realization that even the sun and the moon seemed to be under the power of the enemy.

Laveris handed the water bucket back to the squire. "The Necromancer Kings have truly unleashed their full might against us." He looked across the carnage which spread out all about his council. Two of the great black leviathans still burned the river, and so the land remained cloaked in fog and steam. The enemy continued speeding across the bridge of bones, rejuvenating the attack while his men grew increasingly spent.

"It may be the wizards have some hand still to play," he said. He dismounted, and the squire took the exhausted horse away as another squire brought a fresh one fitted for battle. He looked again at the sun frozen in the sky. "Now is the time the men of Valeot prepare to sacrifice all for the kingdom."

Harkom nodded. His eyes then darted back to the southern lines. He cursed, and bellowed for the signalmaster as the prince turned to look. The front line buckled as enemy banners pressed against the ranks. With a shout Laveris ordered a squad of his reserve cavalry to stop the breach. Instantly, forty armored knights galloped down the slight grassy slope. The leading twenty lowered their lances as they saw Dagir Xethu breaking through, while close behind the remaining readied their swords.

Laveris watched as the captain on the line acknowledged the horn blast that signaled the cavalry's charge. He ordered the signalman to pull his soldiers to the right and the left to clear the way for the knights, and like a metallic curtain the line parted wide. The Dagir Xethu swiftly surged to widen the gap, and then realized death rushed down to meet them.

Suddenly the lead war horses shrieked. Most flipped over in a mad attempt to alter direction. Several knights were crushed under the armored bulk of their steeds, while many of the others were flung forward in a bewildering crash. Only three of the lead knights kept their mounts under control, while the trailing wave of twenty reined them in.

With a thundering crash, one of the four great leviathans landed in front of the advancing Dagir Xethu. Before the fallen knights could loosen their swords, a wave of fire sprang from the beast's jaws. The screams of the knights were drowned out by the roar of the fire and the battle cry of the enemy advance. Like a wall of black metal, the enemy pushed past the fell beast as it leapt up and landed again closer to the next concentration of knights.

Laveris turned his coal black warhorse toward the leviathan and drove his spurs deep. The stallion charged while his master leaned forward and spoke commands to urge him through his terror. Finally, it could bear no more as the great beast turned to face them. It spread its taloned, bat-like wings and reared up upon its hind legs. The steed stopped in its tracks, trembling.

Laveris leapt off his mount, Valehem in his right hand and his medium shield on the other. The shield, silver with an aqua-blue circle centered within, now bore the arcane language of the magi and Layarax's enchantment. The prince charged forward up the isolated knoll where the dragon loomed.

The nearby soldiers remained locked in combat, though none dared approach them as the beast bore down upon Laveris. An ancient light flickered deep within midnight eyes that warily regarded his weapon and shield.

Without warning the beast suddenly hesitated, turning its head away from the prince to glance behind itself. To Laveris's amazement, the massive creature cowed. It dropped down heavily onto its muscular forelegs, dipping its head onto the earth. Laveris halted, breathing heavy and filled with war lust. His pounding heart urged him on, to leap, to strike the murderous creature while its head was down.

Suddenly the gloom grew deeper still, and a blast of frigid air howled from the west, followed by a preternatural silence that washed over the battlefield like a great tide. The leviathan trembled and averted its eyes. Darkness rode in, and all fled before it.

Laveris lowered his sword as a powerful presence rode through the now obliterated defensive position. A great armored creature, in the shape of a man, emerged from the steam and the darkness. Mounted atop a devilish black dragonmare, it wore the armor of the highest servants of the Necromancer Kings. Midnight black plates covered in strange symbols concealed a massive warrior's frame, and a gray cloak billowed about it. It wore an iron helmet that covered the entire head, fashioned in the shape of a horrible skull with savage dagger-like teeth.

The Xethicor had come. Of all the slaves of the Necromancer Kings — the mortals, the beasts, the living dead — none were feared so much as the Xethicor. What kind of creature, or what kind of presence dwelt within that armor, none knew. Not even the wisest of the magi knew their origins. For over a millennium, the Xethicor had led the armies of evil which sought to enslave mortal man. Their power was such that entire legions had fled before a single one. No hero of old had ever slain one without the aid of powerful enchantments and wizardry.

The creature rode toward Laveris like a conquering king, casting a demonic grin from the hideous black helmet. The prince felt his courage flee and his blood turn cold. Valehem roared at his side, but the sound was muted and distant, absorbed by a living silence and sentient darkness that rode before the Nobility of Hell.

The peak of Layarax's tower was suddenly lost in a silver-white light. As if in answer Valehem radiated an invigorating warmth that turned aside the deathly cold suffocating the prince's soul. The buckler too felt as though it were deflecting a portion of the approaching terror. A similar light sprang from the symbol of Layarax, and some of the shadows fled before it. When the Xethicor arrived, Laveris stood tall and grim, weapon raised and prepared for battle.

"Death greets the spawn of the last king of Maladine this day," intoned the Xethicor, its voice tearing into the prince's soul, writhing in the depths of his mind like a nest of vipers. Laveris found words would not come to his dry mouth as his body did battle with the primal fear that rode upon its voice.

Laveris raised the sword of his fathers and met the black-steel weapon of the Death Knight. Every clash of the weapons exploded in a mix of black flashes and blue lightning, every blow shook the ground around them. The soldiers of both armies rallied as their champions clashed atop the knoll, and all about arms and armor rang out in a frenzied bloodletting. A death wail, like the song of banshees, reverberated from the cursed runes of the Xethicor's weapon, striving on the wind with the battle yell of the Prince and Valehem.

* * *

Harkom tore his gaze from the unearthly struggle on top of the knoll. With every flash that leapt from the battle, a corresponding flare answered from Glorion's pinnacle. Whatever power Layarax was lending to Laveris looked to be pulled from the veil of protection cast about the battlefield, as the dragons appeared once more, casting columns of fire into the midst of the armies of Valeot.

The Dagir Xethu continued to pour across the skeletal bridge, swirling around the Prince and the Xethicor. In a frenzy they threw themselves on the last defensive positions leading to the tower.

"Signalmaster!" called the man-at-arms over the din. "Move all of the northern war machines to the center line!" Scanning the savage melees raging on both sides of the knoll, he determined the southernmost lines were faltering. The line on the northern side of the hill was arrayed at the top of a slope, and the relative high ground provided enough of an advantage that the defenders, supported by the archers still positioned north of the greater battle, were holding fast. But the ground south of the hill dropped rapidly, becoming quickly flat.

A flurry of colored flags rose and fell at the signalmaster's order, and batteries of catapults and heavy mounted crossbows ground through the muck closer to the fight. In short order a deadly barrage of stones, pitch, and heavy bolts raced across the sky and fell on the reinforcements threatening the southern line. With another command Harkom sent two additional squads of mounted knights to strengthen them.

Once again the dragons came, and the ground around the knoll became an inferno. The heavy weapons glanced harmlessly from their thick scaly hides, and soon many of the war machines were reduced to ashes. Wherever the armies of Valeot rallied and pushed back the invaders, the dragons returned and dashed their advances. The powers of Layarax were being drawn into the battle with the Xethicor, while Revhalom was taxed countering the spells of the Dark Captains on the battlefield. Although the four great leviathans had vanished once more, the six remaining red and gray dragons drew closer to the fight with no fear of the magi now.

Harkom raced toward the thick of the combat on the southern flank, straight toward the banner of Prince Dehrbane. Quickly he found him, on foot and drawing his enchanted blade Tygrist from the falling form of a Dark Captain. The closest enemy soldiers fell back, and Harkom seized the chance to approach the prince.

Dehrbane called for another steed. As he mounted, he noticed his brother's man-at-arms.

"My brother?" he demanded. The elder soldier pointed to the knoll.

"Prince Laveris battles the demon prince of the Necromancers." Immediately Dehrbane turned his mount toward the hill. Harkom grabbed the younger prince's reins.

"My lord! Another threat calls you now, and the peril is just as great. The dragons!" A roar came from the sky, and fire rained down nearby. Harkom pointed at the closest of the beasts, which had landed behind the defensive position and was raking the reserve soldiers arrayed around Glorion.

"None can stand before them, lord! The wizards are consumed with battling the dark powers of those devils, and your brother duels with death itself! Perhaps only you and your weapon can fend off those beasts!"

* * *

Dehrbane looked again at the hill, which seemed to have grown into a small mountain. His brother's features could not be determined. All that could be seen was a form in silver and armored in light striking and parrying against black armor and death. Then the roar of the dragon near the tower called his attention once more. With a jerk of his steed's head, he raced toward the tower.

The dragon was red and long with a thick chest. The ruby-crimson wings on its back were folded down as it unleashed another storm of fire from its jaws. Dehrbane pushed his stallion, a horse of the same fearless stock as his brother Frey's, hard up the now blackened slope. Dehrbane galloped in from behind. The creature's tail whipped high as it gnashed at the last defenders before the great doors of the tower, exposing for a moment the thickly armored lower belly.

Dehrbane commanded his horse under the beast and drove Tygrist deep into its bowels. A blast of heat expelled from the wound, causing the horse to stagger. Spinning around, the dragon howled as it drove its talons down, skewering the horse through.

The prince rolled up from under the dead horse, buckler raised as the dragon crouched to face its attacker. Furious ebony eyes suddenly sparked with red embers as the creature opened its massive jaws.

Dehrbane sprang forward and brought Tygrist down in a wide stroke, catching the lower jaw and cleaving it down the middle. The dragon snapped its head back with a shriek of agony. It attempted to bat its wings to escape, but the belly wound robbed it of strength and the creature crashed several yards away.

Dehrbane pounced, leaping up the creature's chest. With a fierce cry he drove Tygrist into the raging beast's skull. Shuddering under a great spasm that threw the prince clear, the beast fell still.

The prince rested a moment on his back, but the clamor of combat forced him up again. With the death of the dragon, the enemy had fallen back to just beyond the knoll where Laveris stove against death. Dehrbane started down the slope again, casting aside his fatigue, as a storm cloud seemed to descend upon his brother and the Death Knight.

* * *

Cruel winds lashed the knoll, fanning the raging dragon fire into a seething tempest. Laveris felt his mortality quicken within him, as each blow, each crash of arms with the Xethicor brought death — and something far worse than death — ever closer. But his fear was banished now, his terror at bay as Valehem fed off of his war lust and his shield channeled the power of Layarax.

The sky turned black as the battlefield again grew unnaturally silent. The Tower of Layarax shone forth with a dazzling light which blinded all who looked directly on it. The Xethicor paused and turned to look for a moment at the tower. Suddenly silver lightning thundered down and smote the ground, scattering the Dagir Xethu. The light atop Glorion pulsed, and again lightning spit from the clouds, and again, and again. Within seconds lightning began cascading out of the sky, and the enemy was thrown into chaotic retreat back toward the river.

The Xethicor appeared uncertain under the storm of silver death, and Laveris swung at it, carving a gash in its side. As the Xethicor fell back Laveris thrust, impaling the creature. Then, as the weapon lodged in the Death Knight's torso, the blade snapped in twain. The creature itself made no sound, and the heir to the throne of Valeot, last of the Kingdoms of Maladine, stepped forward and peered into the eyes of Death.

From within the depths of the great helmet, the creature laughed.

It stood tall, and Laveris felt its accursed weapon pierce his chest. A soul withering numbness spread through his body and he fell to his knees. As his strength ebbed, and he felt his life steal away, he grasped up at his enemy. The Xethicor raised its weapon, and brought it down with such force the shield of Layarax split with a great flash of light. Laveris fell.

* * *

Dehrbane halted his dash toward the hill as his elder brother crumpled beneath the Xethicor. The noble heir, eldest of the children of King Atherion and the mightiest of the sons of Valeot had been no match for the Emissary of Death. With a shout, filled with the rage of brotherly despair, Dehrbane charged the hill where the Xethicor crouched over the dead prince. It turned its great helmet toward Dehrbane, its iron smile and pale eyes leering at him. As the living prince reached the creature, it stood tall once more, looking more like a prince of Hell than ever. The golden crown on its head blazed with fire, and the black blade in its hands sounded as a dirge.

The flames of the dragons had waned, and now a noxious black smoke wafted over the battlefield. Dehrbane's eyes stung and he fought to breathe. The creature faded from his view, all except the nefarious crown that now bewitched and captivated him. It rose higher and higher, bursting with fire and looking like the sun as it hung over him.

Then the iron visage of Death appeared beneath the crown, its cruel features hovering over the prince in mockery and malice. Dehrbane's strength fled, and his ancient blade Tygrist went silent. The prince fell to one knee, his honor and courage raging within as terror overwhelmed him. With a powerful effort he raised his eyes to look upon his enemy. Beyond the creature, through the smoky darkness, Dehrbane saw the lightning again started to fall from the heavens.

An icy pain shattered his chest. His last vision was of the sun falling from the sky and landing upon the back of the Xethicor. And then blackness took him as Dehrbane joined his brother.

* * *

Harkom despaired as he looked upon the bodies of his princes at the feet of the Death Knight. The beast stood motionless except to turn its head to look from one body to the other. The War Dirge of the Dagir Xethu then broke out anew, the deep primeval chant resonating across the battlefield.

The enemy had regrouped at the river, and now charged the demoralize defenders with hate-fueled lust. The defensives were disintegrating. Line upon line of men turned in terror from the rising tide of soldiers pouring around the fallen princes. The remaining dragons dropped into the thick of Valeot's soldiers, burning and crushing all that stood before them.

Harkom struck his horse and charged toward the tower. Riding against the crush of his retreating men he spied Revhalom. The magus was stooped over as though wounded while one of the crimson dragons rose up over him on its hind legs, fresh blue flame kindled within the blackness of its open mouth. The man-at-arms charged, but his horse pitched forward and fell to the ground in fright. As he fought to stand he saw Revhalom lift his hands and place them together just as the dragon unleashed a torrent of fire. The elderly magus disappeared from sight as blue flame engulfed him.

The heat of the dragon fire crushed Harkom under a blanket of searing agony. He gasped as his lungs fought to pull in air so close to the unnatural inferno. Gripping his sword tightly, he plunged it into the earth before him and used the weapon to help him stand.

The wizards are our only hope now, he thought desperately.

The hellish heat ceased, as did the roar of the dragon. Through watery eyes Harkom saw Revhalom, now on his knees but otherwise alive and unscathed. The dragon lowered its head and roared at the wizard. Harkom felt a tremble as Revhelom's gaunt face turned to him.

Come to me, said the wizard without using his voice. Come now! You cannot kill the dragon, but I will protect you for a moment. Layarax the Mighty will perform one last work.

Invisible hands lifted Harkom. In amazement he looked down. His armor was blackened and had mostly burned away. Much of the flesh on his left leg was exposed and charred, though the pain was gone. Before him was the dragon and Revhalom, the only defender standing before the tower. The wizard motioned him forward.

Come now! Cry aloud for your kingdom!

Harkom hefted his sword, and charged at the dragon as all fear fled. "Valeot!" he shouted. For a moment nothing on earth seemed to move, and all was suspended in shadows. When Harkom neared the beast it turned. As it did so, the wizard stood and raised his hands.

The ground shuddered and Harkom was again thrown to the ground. His head collided against the scaly foot of the dragon. He tried to stand. His leg, while still without pain, would not obey him. The wound had burst, the muscle and sinew opened wide. Harkom looked beyond the dragon looming over him. The other beasts were landing around the tower.

Shout once more, said Revhalom's voice. For King, for vengeance, for Valeot, shout and raise your sword. I will help you. I am taking your pain from you now, and you will help to save your people.

Harkom's thoughts swam as through mire. The dragons advanced, and in their midst was it, the slayer of his princes. Yet although the Xethicor approached, still no fear assailed him.

So he rose, Harkom of Ceremane, man-at-arms for the greatest of Valeot's sons. Despite his useless leg he stood, and though his mind felt dull and slow, a flame flickered within his breast. He brandished his sword, and summoning what strength was left within his bones, let out the battle cry of his King. "Valeot!" he bellowed. The cry echoed across the maelstrom on the ground. The dragons turned and the Xethicor paused. Harkom laughed within as the sword of his fathers, although imbued with the slightest of enchantments, blazed with the same blue light as the pinnacle of the Tower of Layarax.

The dragons hissed. The two closest averted their eyes, unable to look directly at the burning weapon he now held. The shadows that cloaked the Death Knight mostly fled as well. Its dragonmare stepped back, halting only when the Xethicor pulled upon the reins. The advancing legion paused.

With a shriek of the damned, the Xethicor slashed its sword forward, pointing at Harkom. The dragonmare instantly pounced, racing toward him. The dragons roared as well, and sped toward him and the wizard.

The ground trembled, and the sky above Harkom was consumed in cerulean fire. The savage mount of the Xethicor plunged into the earth as a lance of flame tore through its beastly skull.

Harkom collapsed, and fell upon his back. His eyes rolled up, and he saw Revhalom standing before the door of Glorion. Suddenly, as he blinked, the wizard was gone. The inferno above grew more intense, and although he knew his body was burning, Harkom looked above directly into the flame.

The pinnacle of the tower was ablaze with a celestial fire. Bolts of the supernatural flame leapt to the heavens and to the earth, destroying everything. As the violence intensified, the tower began to shudder and crack. Massive stones fell from it, shattering into flaming debris as they fell on the creatures below.

The dragons wailed and fought to climb into the air. The burning stones collided with them, crushing and burning that which no earthly flame could burn.

In the midst of it all, the Xethicor stood. It no longer seemed concerned with the dying Harkom, although he lay mere steps away. Its awful eyes, encased in its demonic armor, were upon the cosmic devastation above him. Harkom again laughed. He would see vengeance before he died.

The tower groaned, then buckled. As the Dagir Xethu fled madly back to the river, Harkom's last sight was of a gargantuan slab of silver stone, ablaze with the fire of Layarax's Tower, as it hurtled to the ground where he and the Xethicor stood. The creature turned then, as if to flee. Harkom gave a final shout, heard only by the Xethicor, who glanced down at the mortal at his feet just as the blazing stone consumed them both.
Chapter 8: The Season of Shadows

The trumpets were silent when Frey and Dayhoral rode out of the Pilgrim's Gate. The afternoon was now late, and the sun remained obscured behind a veil of somber clouds. The King's Road, wide and constructed of smooth gray stone, was born at the foot of the gate, leading away gently to the west and north. Hundreds of miles it stretched, terminating at the border of Valeot where even now Frey knew his brothers vied with the main thrust of the Necromancer Kings.

Frey turned his sight to the field that lay on the north side of the road. Marshaled there was a hastily formed great column, perhaps two thousand men. Amid the din and clatter of the assembly, the voices of his knights could be heard as they strove to impose order.

Defending on the plain north of Ceremane would be bloody. With no significant land features to occupy, the last of the army of Valeot quickly began building defensive positions from whatever material they could. Women and children were enlisted to help drive horses and oxen laden with carts of stone cut from the quarry west of the Lhorost. All the lumber nearby in gardens and grottoes was harvested. What artisans and engineers that still dwelt within the city walls were called upon to direct the building of catapults. Hurling stones and pitch were marshaled and stocked nearby.

Frey guided his steed through the frenzied activity. He knew where Vraim had set up command. Shortly after exiting the Pilgrim's Gate, a narrow paved path snaked to the north for nearly a mile. At the end of the path, rising like a great stone sentinel, was a thick keep built upon a man-made hill overlooking the deep ravine cut by the Lhorost. Hundreds of years ago, a royal strategist had ordered the keep constructed so the King's soldiers could have a post that would allow them to view anyone coming from the north, a once-favored approach of the wild Northmen who now fought for the King.

As they approached, Frey noted archers in the watchtower silhouetted against the opaque sky. By the time he and Dayhoral had arrived at the base of the keep, Vraim was standing there. With him were two knights, tall and powerful men girded in full plate armor with the sword-hilt emblem of Valeot engraved on their breasts. Beside them stood another tall man with long brown hair and a thick black beard. He wore chain-link armor under a leather vest and a steel helmet on his head. Captain Braned of the Watch Keep knelt as Frey approached.

"My lord," said Vraim, "the Dagir Xethu have pressed hard following our first engagement. Little time was spent rallying their forces after all had exited the Frost Lands."

"How soon until they arrive, Captain?" Vraim looked to Braned, who rose as he answered.

"Lord Frey, sentinels arrived just hours ago from Frorend. The village has been leveled."

At this Vraim held up his hand and placed it quickly on Braned's shoulder while he addressed Frey.

"The inhabitants are safe, Prince Frey. We rode through the village yesterday evening en route here. We stopped to change horses, and when we did so I ordered the magistrate to clear out the village at once. Most are now within the walls of Ceremane, or have traveled to the coast and the Caiste Duchy."

"Well done, Captain," said Frey. "This kingdom knows no more noble a knight than you."

Vraim nodded in submission, and stepped back to allow Braned to continue.

"An army the size of which now marches on us should take at least two days to make the journey to these fields. The road is far too narrow to accommodate them all. But the sentinels report they could see and even hear them for most of their journey south. Prince Frey, I fear they are a half day's journey away at the most."

"So they would arrive before daybreak. Dayhoral, what can you tell me? Will they travel at such speed through the night? Will they pause to regroup before they assault us?" Frey turned, only then noticing the wizard was no longer behind him. He glanced around before noticing the familiar cloaked figure standing in the center of the Keep's hold. Frey opened his mouth to call out when a sudden chill passed through him. The others must have felt it as well, from their shared countenance.

Frey strode forward and approached the magus. Dayhoral spoke as he closed in upon him.

"Nay lord, they will not pause before the attack," he said. His cowl was cast back, and his eyes were staring into the darkening clouds above. "They will not be hindered by night either, my prince. Night will not visit us this evening it would seem." Frey looked quizzically at the wizard, then up to the sky. The sun was still obscured by the clouds.

"Vraim, what hour is it? It feels like night should be upon us soon." Vraim's voice answered from behind him.

"Aye, my lord. Evening should be upon us now. But the sun has not moved for hours." Frey turned to look at his captain. For the first time in his memory a shadow of fear had crossed Vraim's face.

"Dayhoral, by the gods, what is happening?" Dayhoral watched the sun, and then looked to the east. The clouds had parted close to the horizon, and the moon could be seen rising.

"The Necromancer Kings are exercising all of their might. They seem to have taken the sun and the moon captive, my lord." His voice wavered, and trailed off.

"Wizard, whatever arts you and your master possess, I pray you are able to counter this." Frey stepped forward to a battlement. He looked to the blackened north.

"The Xethicor comes, already crowning itself our Lord," said Frey. "Our weapons can slay the Dagir Xethu, our magic can counter the Dark Captains. Yet while that beast leads the enemy, we have no hope."

"We have one," Dayhoral spoke distantly, looking once more to the west. "I have heard nothing from my master in over a day, and I dare not guess what that could mean. But he is powerful, and if he and the remaining army can counter the main thrust of the enemy in the west, then perhaps Layarax will be able to bend his will this way."

Braned laughed disdainfully. "Magic has done nothing to slow the enemy advance. Nearly two battalions were eradicated despite being led by our heroic princes, and your magic was without effect. Magic has failed us. Our only hope is in the might of our people." Frey stirred and the fire within his ice-blue eyes silenced Braned. When he spoke, his voice was hard.

"I'm not fool enough to place my faith in sorcery, but Dayhoral's magic was great enough to save me and some of my command, and to summon together the forces we have arrayed here now. I do not know by what miracle we can overcome the doom marching upon us, and so I will appeal to whatever powers I need to."

Frey pulled Faerthring from its scabbard. The glint that at one time seemed to live within the steel was gone and the weapon felt like dead weight. "Everything feels corrupted. The death which rides with the Xethicor is worse than the end of life." He looked at Dayhoral.

"I must be able to stand before the Xethicor, if only for a short time. Whatever enchantments you have at your command, I need them." Dayhoral looked down, seeming to ponder the prince's words.

"My lord, there are artifacts within the Citadel of the Magi that may be of use. Your father bequeathed the greatest of these to Prince Laveris. Others may remain that might aide us. I will ride at once."

Frey nodded, and the wizard departed.

* * *

The sun continued to smolder beyond the veil of clouds that grew ever darker as the hours slipped by. Familiar red lightning thrashed the northern darkness. The soldiers stopped working on the fortifications in order to rest before the inevitable combat. The King's subjects had been gathered together and sent back to the safety of the city walls, and all was quiet for a brief while.

Thunder rolled. Spidery veins of fire spread across the clouds. Then the deep, rhythmic rumble of thousands of marching soldiers cascaded across the plains.

Frey sat within the Keep's dimly lit Great Room. Six lamps sputtered atop a thick wooden chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling. Frey felt the shadows grew greater as the minutes escaped into hours.

The walls vibrated. The floor, barely perceptible in the shadows, shook slightly. The flame within the lamps flickered madly for a moment. Suddenly a knock violated the ominous quiet, and Dayhoral entered.

"They have come?" asked Frey.

"Aye, my lord." The wizard stepped carefully through the darkness and presented himself before the prince. Under his arm he carried a wide chest of dark wood bound by silver hinges and an ornate silver lock. Carvings decorated the box, although the details lay submerged under the shadows of the room. Frey looked to Dayhoral, waiting for explanation.

"Since the time the Death Knights first took command of the armies of the Necromancer Kingdoms," the magus began, "only two warriors have ever vanquished one. You know of Berinshar, the last king of Maladine. He slew the first of the Xethicor, only to fall to the treachery of his own son. The only other hero to stand before the Death Knights was Vingarous, the son of the prophet Toulorn. Six hundred years ago, he vanquished the enemy on the shores of Vendehar during the third War with the Lords of the Dead."

"I know the histories, Dayhoral. How did they do it?"

As he answered, Dayhoral pulled a heavy, iron key from a pocket within his robe. The key was plain, like one that would open any door within the Keep, except for a glassy green sapphire fixed at the base. The wizard inserted it into the lock on the chest.

"Berinshar is a mystery," Dayhoral said. "Although not unkind to the magi, he was renowned for his aversion to all things magic. I believe this led to his death, as his enemies had embraced evil and spiritism. How he was able to battle and defeat the Xethicor is forever lost.

"Vingarous was able to stand before the Xethicor only because he was aided by Margarion the Great, the Elder Magus of that day. Vingarous was the noblest of warriors, upright and mighty. But as you and I have both seen, the terror invoked by the mere presence of the Xethicor overwhelms all mortal courage. Margarion held in his possession an ancient weapon forged before the days of even Maladine, thought lost after the Fall. This he gave to Vingarous, as well as a shield and a helmet that he himself forged. Each of these items the Elder Magus infused with all of his power. Everything."

A memory of a past lesson leapt to Frey's mind.

"Valehem, the sword my father gave to Laveris, is that weapon."

"Aye," Dayhoral nodded. "The very same. The metal it is forged of is said to be a fragment of a divine weapon. Who knows?" said the wizard with a shrug.

"During Vingarous' battle with the Xethicor, the sword was able to pierce the armor of the beast, and the shield withstood the creature's blows. But both were useless without this," and Dayhoral opened the chest. Resting within was a helmet of sorts. It looked more like a thin crown set upon silver chain links.

"This was kept in the Magi Citadel. Although your father demanded Valehem be given to your brother, he feared allowing the helm to be worn. Its enchantment will allow you to stand before the Xethicor. It will brace your heart, but there is a cost." Dayhoral reached down and lifted the circlet. The chain links shook free and sparkled even in the gloom.

"I expected as much. What cost will be exacted?" asked the prince. Dayhoral hesitated before answering.

"Magic such as this does not produce the spirit necessary to stand before such evil. Enchanted devices either inflame what is already there, or it summons energy from without."

Frey looked warily at the circlet. In the center of it was a single red stone with a hue so faint it was translucent. Within the stone the Lion Crest of Maladine could be seen.

"In what manner does this helmet work its magic?"

"It does both," replied Dayhoral, turning the helm as though examining it. "It will quicken your spirit, your natural courage, burning it like the fuel in these lamps. Eventually your spirit will be exhausted, and the helm will seek power without. When Vingarous wore this helm, that power was given by Margarion. Of that art, I am not familiar. So there is a risk, a danger, the helm will draw from the spirits of rage and malice which now seek to overwhelm us."

Frey shook his head. "To what end? Will I invite the enemy into my body? Of what use is this then?"

The wizard appeared thoughtful, and when he spoke his words were careful.

"Should you face the Xethicor and live, you will likely remain a son of Valeot and the enemy of the Necromancer Kings. However, your spirit may become infected with forces alien to your nature. Hate and malice are spirits of this world, of this age. Depending on how long you struggle with the Xethicor, you may be forever tormented by the spirits called to assist you. It is the way of these things."

Frey looked closer at the delicate-looking crown. The reflected light of the chandelier slid over the silver as the wizard nervously turned it over and over.

"My lord," continued Dayhoral. "You are one of the greatest heroes of Valeot. Your courage and heart are renowned. I have always thought you the equal of your noble brother Laveris. In some ways, I believe you to be the mightier, though you yourself dismiss the notion." Dayhoral then set the helm back in the chest and leaned forward to the prince.

"But you are wounded, and your spirit is still recovering from the first engagement with the Death Knight. I fear that, should you prove the victor, the scars will haunt you the rest of your days."

Frey placed his hand on Dayhoral's shoulder.

"Well said, Dayhoral. And do not think me ignorant of the deeper meaning of your fears. If this helm exacts such a weighty toll, then an heir to the throne will be a mad prince. But we must face the truth. I will not likely live to see tomorrow. I do not expect to vanquish the Xethicor. After all, I am not Berinshar, and Vingarous was equipped with a mighty sword and shield I do not possess. My only purpose now is to stop the beast long enough to bloody its forces and weaken them. Perhaps Ceremane can survive until the western forces, if they prevail, can return to her aid."

Dayhoral nodded. He leaned back, his features dissolving into the shadow. Frey was reminded of the cowled visage of the wizard when he had stopped the prince's descent into death. Foggy memories of the rushing torrent of water from the deathly river cascaded through his thoughts. Frey mused, and realized soon he would have the opportunity to see what waited over those falls.

* * *

Atop the Watch Keep's center tower, Frey, Dayhoral, Vraim, and Braned looked on as the faded green and beige of the northern grasslands became polluted by the dark mass of the arriving Dagir Xethu. At first a thin line appeared, marring the horizon. Quickly, it spread.

Frey thought of Canerion, and the line of prophets before him. The old seer was insane, but his cold words called out within his mind.

"Both the prophets and magi teach the dictates of prophecy are inescapable," said Frey. "When we have the arrogance to ignore the will of the divine, doom will inevitably fall." The prince continued watching as the dark stain of the Dagir Xethu spread across the land like blood soaking through a burial shroud. Horns called out like morning birds from amid his troops, bringing to mind memories of the slaughter in the north. Still, though their foes seemed innumerable, he felt victory could still be won were it not for the damnable host's devil prince.

"Is fate so desperate to fulfill prophecy it sends the Xethicor to ensure victory for the enemy?" he asked bitterly.

At the head of the advancing army, leading like a great figurehead of polished ebony, rode the Death Knight. Rising and falling in a gallop close by were dozens of Dark Captains, each on dragonmares of black and red and gray. The remaining host spread out like wings east and west.

A chill swept across Frey as he looked upon his enemy again. He cursed how the battle zeal building in his blood fled when his eyes fell on the Xethicor, and his wounds would burn and ache. A voice carried on the wind. Frey shook his head to block it out.

I am coming.

Frey heard low voices conversing behind him. A tall man wearing the muted green and brown uniform of an army messenger was speaking softly to Captain Braned. When the messenger saw the prince turn he immediately knelt.

"My lord," said Braned. "Captain Vraim summoned Orodin, chief of the Deihamen warriors, to the Keep. He has arrived, and is in the hold with Vraim."

Frey dismissed the messenger.

"We have no time to squander. Bring them both to me now for counsel." Frey glanced again north. "The enemy arrives within hours."

Moments later, Orodin emerged with Vraim and Braned from the damp staircase which led from the hold to the upper ramparts. The Northman was a hulking figure who towered over all around him. His long platinum hair, bound in a leather braid, and ice blue eyes spoke to his race. When he spotted Frey, he strode toward him.

Frey sensed the unease of his two attending knights. The peace that existed between Deihaim and Valeot was decades old now, and Deihaim had embraced fealty to the August Kingdom with the marriage of Atherion and Shealia. However, the bloody history between the two kingdoms ran much longer than the peace, and resentment still dwelt in the breasts of the people of both lands.

Frey felt the suspicion of his men vanish the moment Orodin stood before him. Immediately the powerful man bent to one knee and bowed his head. A stony voice rumbled from beneath the averted eyes.

"My lord, the people of Deihaim await your command." Frey noted the surprised look on Braned's face at the sight.

"Rise, Captain Orodin. The August Kingdom is in dire need of your warriors, and is grateful."

Vraim stepped up beside Orodin, but Braned kept some distance. Frey looked to Vraim.

"Captain, the enemy host is too wide for us to assault on the flanks. That leaves our center too weak to halt the main advance. I know our knights want to strike at the heart of the enemy, but place them in command of the Caiste soldiers and defend the flanks of the Northmen. They are to keep the enemy from encircling them at all cost."

Orodin bowed his head slightly.

"We'll drag these creatures to hell with us before we let them strike the walls of Ceremane, my lord."

Vraim looked thoughtfully at Orodin, then back to the prince.

"Prince Frey, the center of the enemy attack will be led by the Death Knight. How will it hold?" The shattering bellow of thunder rolled across the sky, followed quickly by another, then another. Many of the soldiers ceased their frenzied preparations and cowered below the noise. Only Frey and Orodin did not flinch.

"Canerion said the men of Deihaim do not appear in the prophecies of the end of the kingdoms of Maladine. Perhaps they can stand close to the creature while I challenge it." Vraim cast his eyes to the ground. Frey sensed his thoughts.

"I know, my friend, that alone I cannot stand before that devil. I'll need Dayhoral's arts to absorb the black terror. If I can stand before it, perhaps we'll have enough time to bleed the bastards dry and foil their designs on Ceremane."

* * *

The sound of a world-devouring dirge billowed across the plains, rising from the marching enemy. The Deihamen readied their spears and swords, returning a roar of war lust that drowned out the mournful ballad of the dead. Nearly a thousand of the Northmen, placed in three formations, steeled themselves with scarcely suppressed euphoria as they waited for their captain's command.

On the far ends of the Deihamen were the Knights of Valeot and the soldiers of the Caiste Duchy, numbering nearly eight hundred. Though lightly armed with spears and wide short swords, the people of Caiste were renowned warriors, at one time long ago being the first line of defense against the Northmen they now fought beside. They were brave and skilled in the use of their weapons.

Behind the formations were the hastily built fortifications. Only four squads of archers could be pulled from the city, almost two hundred men. These were divided evenly across the defensive lines, ready to unleash death into the center of the enemy mass. Behind the archers stood the catapults, the throwing stones, and the burning pitch. Only a small reserve force of another two hundred soldiers, under the command of a single knight, was held back, ready to reinforce whatever part of the forward lines first looked as though it might fail.

* * *

The enemy did not pause, but rather increased speed as they approached the men of Valeot. From the midst of the metallic thunder of iron boots a vile bellow issued that shook the walls of the Watch Keep. Leading the charge were the Dark Captains, darkness clinging to them like great cloaks. They rode atop their dragonmares and chanted in their alien tongue.

The Deihamen spearmen responded with a shout, then closed ranks and braced for the charge. The first wave of the Dagir Xethu swept in, crashing into the front lines of the Northmen. Like a gargantuan battering ram the enemy struck as dragonmares leapt into the air to bypass the first lines of defenders. Most were hacked down before their scaly hooves touched the earth. The hateful shrieks of the invaders mixed with the war cries of the Northmen, neither giving quarter.

* * *

Dayhoral stood atop the Watch Tower. A whirlwind of blue light raced around him as he issued incantations toward the battlefield. The shadows surrounding the Dark Captains below evaporated, rising like the smoke of forsaken fires before disappearing into the blue whirlwind. Clouds of burning arrows arced toward the magus, but were either burned up before reaching him or turned mid-flight to fall upon any Dagir Xethu that approached the Keep.

The assault was wide, swiftly reaching the flanks where the knights and Duchy footmen were poised. The eastern flank, the closest to the Watch Keep, shuddered as dragonmares and Dark Captains were followed by a great rush of Dagir Xethu footmen. Only a narrow swath of land separated the eastern position from the rocky cliffs that towered over the Lhorost as it entered the northern reaches of Ceremane, and the precipitous cliffs prevented the enemy from encircling the defenders. The Dagir Xethu crashed time and again into the knights and warriors of Caiste, attempting to drive them over the cliffs, or to break through and approach the Keep.

Yet the defense held. The flank was too well anchored and many of the Dagir Xethu were cut down. Some were even forced over the cliffs in their reckless zeal to surround the defending forces. The knights rallied their troops as the buglers issued the command to advance. Arrows, stones, and pitch fell into the midst of the death soldiers, creating a gap in the advance the knights seized upon. With a shout to the signalmen, they charged forth into the face of the enemy. The eastern assault was faltering.

* * *

In the midst of the battle raging in the center of the arrayed armies, the Xethicor descended like a thunderclap, and none stood before him. Before the defenders of Valeot could turn to flee, they were cut down by the Death Knight or shred by the creature's dragonmare. Consumed with terror, none were able to strike back.

Amid the circle of carnage surrounding the beast, a grim calm settled it. The Xethicor turned its sight to the east and the Watch Keep. While the Dark Captains and Dagir Xethu battled around it, Frey could feel its hateful gaze look upon them.

"He will come now," said Frey. "Dayhoral thwarts the vile magic of the Dark Captains, and though we cannot hope to prevail against the Dagir Xethu, the ferocity of our stand is weakening them. Effective siege may be impossible. Therefore it will seek to destroy the Keep quickly in order to slay me, and slay Dayhoral." Frey took up the silver helmet.

"I ride now to meet the Prince of Graves, alone."

Vraim burst out in fury. "Alone my lord? Madness! The kingdom will lose another prince if you go alone!"

"My friend, there will be no kingdom if I do not go. Our forces are stretched to breaking, and will fail soon enough. If I can but draw the beast away for a short time, I know we can bleed the Xethu enough to defend against siege. I must go!" He turned Vraim back to the battle.

"See, the western line is collapsing, and the center buckles! Captain Vraim, send the reserve unit to the western forces now. Lady Elelluin leads the Duke's soldiers there. Order the archers to move their aim to the seam where the center and western advances are joined." A shadow passed over Frey's face, and he looked down. On a thin path that had been cut between the recently built defensive lines and the Keep, the Xethicor rode.

It emerged from the fighting as though it were a thing of no consequence, of no more interest than the carcass of an animal by the wayside. Like a living shadow, the figure appeared to glide effortlessly up the trail. Within minutes it had arrived at the base of the hill of the Watch Keep.

* * *

The doors of the Keep swung wide. A blast of trumpets issued forth, declaring the coming of the Prince of Valeot. The Xethicor paused and the hackles of the dragonmare rose. Frey urged his warhorse over the threshold. The prince now wore the plate armor of one of his knights, save for the helmet. The silver circlet rested on his brow, and the chain links were secured to the shoulders of the thin hauberk that lay under the plates of his armor. The red stone was dazzling now, and Frey felt the terror of the Death Knight breaking against him like the waves of the sea against ancient cliffs.

Frey prompted the horse forward down the slope of the long hill, Faerthring in his right hand. The Xethicor watched from the base, motionless. At length the dragonmare stepped on to the incline, and stalked toward Frey. The rest of the world faded into a mute aside as the emissary of death advanced. The prince's heart hammered against his ribs, and the air turned cold as they closed the gap between them. The creature halted once more when it was a mere fifty paces away. Frey quietly ordered his mount to stop as well.

In silence they regarded one another, Frey and his mount on the higher ground. The creature's eyes were hidden by the dragon visage of its steel helmet, but Frey sensed the malice pouring forth from them. Freed of the preternatural terror of the beast, he felt euphoria wash over him in anticipation of combat.

Suddenly the dragonmare let loose a long, low hiss, then sank to a crouch. To Frey's surprise, the Xethicor dismounted and stepped forward. No weapon was drawn, but the stench of death and decay roiled around it. In a horrible voice, the sound of the lifeless lungs of centuries of fallen men, it spoke.

"The Lords of Mahakir command you this day to surrender. Do so now, and some within the city walls will live. Do not, and none will survive. You and your family will lie in torment in the dungeons of Mahakir forever."

Frey shuddered as the voice echoed through his mind. The red stone burned brighter still, pushing the wicked voice aside. He took a breath, and freezing air burned his lungs. Warmth radiated from the circlet, however, filling his body with vigor.

"You've failed, beast," Frey called. "Every man of Valeot will die on this battlefield before you can reach our walls. For each that falls, ten of your dogs fall with them. And if there be any justice from the gods, I'll take you to hell with me!"

The Xethicor stepped closer, its footsteps heavy and loud. It began slowly, almost causally, to walk to Frey. The awful voice chuckled, and in response the stone of the circlet burned hot and bright.

"The prince of mortals doth speak of the eternal," it mocked, drawing its accursed weapon from its scabbard. "But he knows nothing." Within the depths of the demonic helmet Frey caught the glimpse of pale blue eyes burning with spite and hate. The entire circlet now felt hot. Frey looked down at his mount and realized it was trembling in terror. Swiftly he dismounted, allowing it to turn and gallop back to the Keep.

The Xethicor drew closer still, looming like the shadow of death itself. It spoke once more, a dry hiss invading Frey's mind.

"The kingdoms of men are fallen, the season of the living perishes. Your time has ended!"

The heat of the circlet then swept through Frey's body, and suddenly Faerthring burned to life once again. The blade glimmered, humming hungrily. The Xethicor stopped once more, only steps away from the prince. Frey raised his weapon.

"In the name of my father and my kingdom!" he yelled, and lunged at the Death Knight.

* * *

"Signalmaster!" yelled Vraim over the grisly cacophony raging around him. "Order the archers and reserves to the west!" He urged his steed to a gallop as colored flags rose and trumpet blasts sounded. Within moments, a rain of arrows began falling on the next wave of attackers that were threatening to decimate the western flank. The break provided was short lived, but Vraim ordered the reserve squad to shore up the expanding breach. Swiftly he joined with the commanding knight of the reserve squad and plunged with him into the midst of the oncoming Dagir Xethu.

Of the ten knights charged with leading the defense of the western flank, Vraim could only see the banners of three, and Lady Elelluin was nowhere in sight. The remaining seven knights were either slain or routed.

Even with the reserve soldiers and the support of the rear archers, Vraim knew the line would soon collapse. From the vantage of the Watch Keep, he had seen that though the enemy force was massive, they were far from limitless. However, with the eastern flank securely anchored along the Vendehar and the ferocious defense given by the Deihamen in the center, the enemy was shifting the brunt of its effort against the west.

The soldiers of the Caiste Duchy regrouped despite the missing knights, converging instead around Vraim. With savage thrusts of their broad spears they carved the enemy away from Vraim, allowing him to call the remaining knights to him.

"Collapse the western flank, fall back to the walls of Ceremane! Anchor the defensive line at the Pilgrim's gate. The enemy will aim his fury there, but will not have enough room to encircle us with Vendehar's southern exit so close to the gate."

"My captain," shouted one of the knights, Lucas. "Our forces will be too thin! Unless you mean for us to retreat into the city, we will not be able to stand long!"

"We will stand as long as if we stood here and let the Dagir Xethu encircle this position! But I mean to drive the Deihamen straight through the belly of this beast the moment the western flank is secured at the Pilgrim's Gate! Now go!"

The knights saluted, but before order could be given a savage roar rose over the surrounding clamor. Out of the thick of nearby combat a great black dragonmare leapt up and over the defenders. It landed with the speed of a great cat, its teeth biting into the neck of Sir Lucas' steed, shredding the armor. The horse collapsed, but before striking the ground the black beast snapped its jaws with such violence Lucas was hurled forward into the mass of the enemy. In moments the soldiers of death were upon him.

Vraim leapt off of his horse and fell upon the dragonmare, impaling its hindquarters with his sword. It screamed in pain and rage, spinning and thrashing at the captain. Vraim righted himself, but his weapon remained lodged in the creature.

The dragonmare crouched, but before it could leap it suddenly screamed again and was knocked over as a knight of Caiste swept in on horseback and skewered it with a lance. The monster convulsed, and died with a final exhalation of putrid steam.

Vraim dashed up to the corpse and withdrew his sword, then in a quick motion mounted his horse. As he did so he locked eyes with the knight. Lady Elelluin nodded at him, and then turned her mount back toward the combat. With a shout she rallied her troops. Her horse leapt, and she vanished back into the fray.

Captain Vraim watched her for a moment before turning to the fighting nearest him. The groans and war cries all around echoed throughout the fields. He looked to the east, and his skin grew cold. The distant forms of his prince and the Xethicor shimmered on the hill as they closed upon each other.

Thunder battered the heavens and rocked the ground as a sudden tempest swept in from the north. Hail and rain began to transform the blood-soaked land into a grim marsh of the slain.

As ordered, the shredded flank began to fall back under the relentless press of the Dagir Xethu. Vraim ordered the signalmasters to trumpet the commands telling the eastern flank and center to hold fast. Prince Frey was no longer visible, cloaked behind a veil of elemental anger.

Through the thick of the howling winds and shrieks of death Vraim spied, to the east, the white and green banner of Orodin still flying wildly in defiance of the ceaseless onslaught. Vraim turned to battle his way to the besieged Northman.

As his mount closed the distance between them, another wave of black clad enemy soldiers assaulted the retinue of Orodin, who stood atop a mound made of his fallen enemies. His deafening war cry threw back the chaos of the gale. Even the dragonmares paused before attacking him as his ax hewed relentlessly any that approached.

The swell of enemies rose about him, and for a moment the barbarian chieftain and his fellow Northmen appeared as a shining white warship tossed on a furious black sea. Vraim urged his steed to dive to the center of the attack on Orodin, wondering as he did so whether he would be permitted to join the Deihamen in the afterlife promised by their gods.

* * *

The tempest that had set upon the battle went unnoticed by Frey. The grounds his duel was now fought upon were no longer entirely of the same world. The rain and hail hissed and vanished into a haze before falling near the warriors locked in battle.

The circlet felt as though it had burned through his flesh and into his skull. He paid it no mind. His own strength had been exhausted already, and hungrily he welcomed the powers that fueled his muscles and strengthened his bones. His mind groaned as raw, elemental forces vied for entry in to empower and rule him.

Frey was doomed. He had accepted his fate. If only he could throw this beast back to Hell, he would happily join it. So be it if the price was giving his body over to the spirits that lurked behind the magical veils of the world.

The Xethicor was furious, as every mighty blow was deflected and countered. The runes along its black sword were teeming with mystical fire so that the entire weapon appeared ablaze.

Somehow Faerthring withstood each strike that could shatter steel and pulverize granite. Frey sensed his weapon was channeling the mindless mystical rage that was his only strength now. Faerthring's gleeful shouts had grown louder than the omnipresent battle dirge of the Dagir Xethu.

With speed unmatched by a mortal, the Death Knight suddenly brought his weapon up high overhead and within a moment brought it down with preternatural power. Frey lunged forward, casting aside any desire to protect himself. The Xethicor was unprepared for the unnaturally swift counterattack, and suddenly Faerthring tore through the creature's belly, impaling it completely.

The creature's attack still fell, and Frey felt the blade strike his crown. The force of the blow, on the side of his head, hurled the prince away as though he were a scarecrow dashed off in the tempest. He landed heavily, his armor crunching against the rock and dirt of the hill.

Frey rolled up on his elbows, blinking hard. Then he heard the heavy footsteps, as of a great warhorse. The Xethicor trudged toward him, Faerthring still embedded to the hilt in its gut. Suddenly it stopped, its hidden eyes casting pale blue fire which radiated from within the helmet. It seemed confounded that Frey remained alive and his head hadn't been sheared off.

Frey stood, touching his forehead. The circlet was gone. It had absorbed the lethal strike, but to its own destruction. Perhaps Frey was near death as well, because as the great Prince of Hell suddenly rose before him, he still felt no fear. He was without weapon, and without allies. He glanced over to his right, toward the hazy darkness of the withering storm and the battlefield beyond. Faintly he heard horns, and a smile touched his bloody lips.

The Xethicor heard it as well, and cocked its armored head.

"Bastard," spat Frey. "Do you hear that? It is the charge of Valeot. My captain is advancing against your army. They fight to the last, and you will not be able to take Ceremane." Frey closed his eyes as his own strength failed him, and he fell to one knee. He was ready to die.

* * *

Fire and smoke spun around the Watch Keep tower. Dayhoral stood in the midst of the eldritch ring as it swirled out in wider arcs. He looked down through burning eyes at the battlefield, and at the titanic battle raging between Frey and the Xethicor. There was hope, but only a glimmer.

The Dark Captains continued to try and summon unholy beasts, dragons most likely, to help in their attack. Dayhoral's might proved an unexpected obstacle, as he drew away the power of their incantations, the raw magic of which now encircled him. What few archers the Army of the Dead possessed, he quickly dispatched by hurling remnants of their own spells upon them, so the ground to the west of the Watch Keep was charred and smoldering. No mortal or dragonmare dared to approach the Keep, in part because of the fury of the confrontation between Frey and the Xethicor on the ground, and in part due to the power of Dayhoral perched on the tower above them.

Again Dayhoral looked down at his prince. His magic was now taxed, so he could lend no aid to him when he watched the Xethicor's weapon strike Frey's head. The magus then nearly fell over when he saw the prince stand again.

Now is the time for sacrifice, thought Dayhoral. Prince Frey is giving his life to buy the slightest of hope for the city. I will join him. Dayhoral raised his hands, and instead of drawing the power of the Dark Captains away and dispelling it into the night, he began an incantation to pull it within himself. Once tainted with necromantic magic, Dayhoral knew he would need to perish. But the power would be enough to lay desolate the northern fields as well as much of the eastern ranks of the enemy.

A light then spiked afar off on the western horizon. It was dim for a moment, and though surely hundreds of leagues away, the thin spire of fire burned Dayhoral's eyes, and he turned away. Suddenly the world faded, and the wizard felt his mind slip into nothingness.

* * *

Dayhoral heard the familiar roar of the monolithic waters of life. He found himself standing upon a great horn of gray, wet stone. This was no small island, as when he saved Frey from death, but a jagged cliff that broke out from the falls. All around the cliff the waters plunged down into oblivion. As before no moon or other celestial emissary could be seen, but one other stood with him upon the rocky outcropping.

Standing on the edge of the rock, only a pace from the nothingness, was the thin form of a man. He wore a silver robe, bound at the waist with a silver belt. No hair rested upon his head, but the skin was covered with archaic and eldritch tattoos.

"Master?" called Dayhoral.

Layarax the Great turned and faced his apprentice. His eyes, crystal blue like Frey's, were hidden by deep shadow. His once gray beard was now snow white. He opened his mouth to speak, but before uttering a word the great promontory shuddered. The ground slipped, feeling as though it would plunge into the deathly abyss. It halted suddenly, bringing Dayhoral to his knees. The form of Layarax remained standing.

"Like an eagle the night is upon me," said the elder wizard. "My time has come. Listen!"

Dayhoral stifled the question on his lips. Layarax's form was still then, the shadowy features seemingly lost in thought. The apprentice sensed turmoil within his master. When he spoke, his words were sharp, bringing to mind an eternity of lessons from decades prior.

"The battle upon the western plains is won, but at great cost. The army of Valeot has been decimated, her princes slain, and the magi exhausted to the point of ruin." The wizard paused as the ground again seemed to give way briefly. A thunderous crack reverberated through the ground.

"And though you and the Lord Prince Frey have fought valiantly, Ceremane is on the verge of ruin. The Xethicor that leads the Dagir Xethu against you is bent on laying waste, not conquest. It is true the enemy severely underestimated your power, Dayhoral. I could see from afar that the denizens of the Dark Kings have been unable to conjure their hellish servants to aid them, and for that the Xethicor will surely confront you as soon as he destroys Prince Frey."

Again the ground quaked, and another massive crack rent the earth. The promontory lurched forward, pitching over toward the blackness below. Dayhoral clawed at a great stone beside him and held on. He glanced down the side and saw the unfathomable waters roaring so near into nothingness. Layarax called him back.

"My son, you are needed here. Listen!" Dayhoral shook his head and looked upon his master.

"Behold, I send you deliverance now for a brief time. Your courage, and the valor of the prince and the armies defending the great city, have bought time. I will work my last great spell... indeed, I work it now. But this is the most crucial, Dayhoral." Layarax stepped forward, and his blue eyes were ablaze. The ground rumbled, and he halted after his first step. He raised his hand and reached out to Dayhoral.

"The Prince of Graves is truly upon you. His time is now, the fulfillment of his coming is nigh."

"My lord, how? If we repel..."

"And the twilight of the mortal kingdoms comes with him." Layarax bowed his head.

Dayhoral became aware of a disquieting, alien illumination around them. A pale, pure light fell like dew, the source unseen in the sky but evidenced by a retreating blackness. The elder wizard did not move, and seemed to shrink.

"Behold, the coming doom," said Layarax.

At first Dayhoral could see nothing but the thick darkness beyond the falls, and hear nothing but raging waters. Then suddenly a horizon, a thin white line, loomed in the distance. Dayhoral strained, looking but not comprehending. The horizon grew more defined, and could now be discerned extending left and right, infinitely in either direction. Horror seized the young wizard as his mind struggled to understand. He looked at the falls that beckoned beneath him, greedily waiting for Layarax to feed it with his life. He knew these falls awaited all one day.

But what was this he now saw? The great waters fell into eternity... wait! There, in the lesser dark that now shrouded this world between life and death, a faint glimmer of an ocean could be seen. A vast chaotic expanse of black water so far below that entire storms could be seen from the precipice upon which he stood. As terrible and wondrous as this was, Dayhoral felt the awful draw of the misty white horizon. He scanned over the tumultuous ocean and then knew what he was seeing.

"You see truth," Layarax said at length. "These great falls beneath us are the end of life. But now, all life approaches the greater falls, the end of everything. The vision is certain. All that lives now approaches oblivion."

"By the gods, Layarax," stammered Dayhoral.

"This end consumes gods as well, it would seem." Layarax at last lifted his head. The light in his eyes had extinguished, and the rock they stood upon started to shake violently.

"My dear apprentice," said Layarax tenderly. "I have no counsel for this. Before all of creation faces extinction, great things will come to pass. My parting words to you are simple. Guard the great knowledge you have learned, for it is your greatest weapon. But, be willing to cast it all aside should wisdom bless you with salvation." Layarax then closed his eyes and bowed his head. Dayhoral opened his mouth to speak, but as the ground gave way beneath them both, his sight was covered at first by the choking mist of the falls, then by blackness.

* * *

From the collapsing Tower of Layarax, the great spire of blue fire soared into the sky. The clouds and tempest fled as it climbed higher into the heavens. It arced, dividing the sky between the captive sun and moon before racing toward Ceremane and the carnage on the northern fields. The earth beneath was filled with dark blue shadows and terrified men, those of Valeot and the Necromancer Kingdoms. The Dagir Xethu assault slowed, and as the great fire came closer and closer, some broke ranks and began to flee back to the north.

Standing before the Watch Keep, the Xethicor stood and watched the approach of the heavenly fire. It turned its head down the hill to look upon the battlefield. Though the war still raged, the defensive lines were not moving, and the rear ranks of the Dagir Xethu were ragged as deserters fled the coming judgment. The Xethicor turned back to Frey, who watched it intently.

Frey rose to his feet. He felt life in his bones again, but the terror of the Xethicor rose with it. There was no fight left in him, no strength. With the August Kingdom spared, his last wish was to die standing as he looked the beast in the eyes.

The Xethicor hesitated, and Frey could see the sky fire hurtling toward them. Frey laughed. It was a raspy, quiet laugh, but it was in mockery of the thing that sought to kill him. They would both perish now.

I am victorious, thought Frey. And then, with all the strength he could rally, he bellowed at the Xethicor.

"I am victorious!"

The creature silently regarded him. Then, to Frey's wonder, the creature knelt. In its hideous voice, like the echo of a tomb, it mocked him.

"My Prince," it said. Then the great bolt of fire fell upon them, rending the earth and demolishing the great hill. Frey felt the ground convulse and vanish. Rock and dirt tumbled with him as he realized the entire cliff face was disintegrating from beneath him and the Watch Keep.

The Xethicor, ablaze with the blue fire, was cast forward and fell into the deep chasm, disappearing into the shadowy ravine and the mighty Lhorost. As it fell the creature issued a horrible laughter that cursed the grounds below.

Frey's body slammed into a suddenly unearthed ledge. Even as he felt ribs break under his armor he clawed at the edge that ran along the top side of it. But though he held firm, all the earth about him continued its slide down into the ravine. An unearthly sense of displacement filled his insides, and suddenly Frey was loosed from the earth, and he too plunged into the shadows below.
Chapter 9: The Prince of Graves

The sound of rushing water once again stirred Frey to awakening. Slowly he opened his eyes, but instead of the somber gloom of the world before death he saw great stone walls towering all around him, separated by a brilliant clear blue expanse above. A brown falcon dove out of the sky and disappeared into cracks on the sheer ravine wall some distance away.

Frey lay motionless, watching the rocky wall and the nearly hidden escarpment where the falcon had tucked away its nest. Gradually he noted the honey brilliance of the sun spreading from the top of the ravine down. As his gaze swept across the crags, he spotted the unnatural gash along the top where once the Watch Keep stood guard. With a painful breath, he struggled into a sitting position and looked around.

He lay on a bed of coarse sand, not ten paces from the edge of the Lhorost. He looked upriver, on his right, and his heart sank when he saw the remains of the tower of the Watch Keep strewn across the far shore and into the great river. Then he noticed the shapes, the men who lay dashed on the rocks and trapped under the water, shattered and lifeless. The conflict had sent many over the edge, and too many of the corpses wore the armor of Valeot.

A movement from his left startled him out of his gloom. A thick figure, nearly naked, squatted by the river. Canerion sat quietly, looking into the gurgling waters of the Lhorost as it fled swiftly by. Normally this stretch of river was quite smooth, but the remnants of the Keep rising out of the waters created grim and unnatural rapids. At length the prophet spoke, though he kept his eyes on the river.

"The magi have been the keepers of knowledge for a millennium," he said, his typically deep voice thin and raspy. "They were never the keepers of wisdom. That should have been my charge, and I failed." He turned to look at Frey. "Forgive me. I failed you."

Frey looked deeply into the elder's face. The powerful man he had always known looked shriveled and diminished. Haunting his face was something greater than sadness, greater than fear. He made as though to speak but hot pain spiked through his side, stealing his breath. Canerion looked upon him with pity in his eyes.

"We all failed you," he continued. Frey wheezed.

"You were wrong, revered one. You can be forgiven." Canerion laughed lightly, tears welling in his eyes.

"Aye, I was wrong, but not for the better, my lord." He stood and turned to look down river toward Ceremane. The great stone quays that guarded the entrance to the city could be seen where the river widened nearly a mile downstream. Just beyond was the Heavens Walk, the northernmost of the three city bridges that spanned the Lhorost. Freckles of lights highlighted dark outlines of polished marble dragons writhing along the length of the bridge.

"The end time arrives, my lord, and all of us now stand before coming darkness." Canerion strode over to stand before his prince. Swiftly he knelt.

"Thy kingdom lies in ruins, thy army is decimated. The people who survived these years of war now face starvation and despair. Surely," he said, gesturing down river toward the ancient city, "the pride of the Remnant Kingdoms is a tomb!" Frey's eyes burned, the pain from his wounds mixing with a sickening rage that shook him.

"What are you saying, prophet?" he asked, his voice breaking.

"My lord is the Prince of Graves. And when King Atherion passes, all will bow to you. The kingdoms of men will fade, and the evil from the west will consume us."

Frey felt his mind ablaze. It seemed the circlet he wore while battling the Xethicor was again searing his head. A flood of anger overwhelmed him, and had he the strength he would have reached out to strike the prophet.

"Liar!" he rasped. "You've led the king astray, you've led me astray, and now you seek to ensnare me in some witchery. I promised you once, Canerion, that if I lived I would see you dead. By the gods, I repeat that vow now!" The prophet nodded, sadness in his eyes.

"The prince I knew was always brash, always quick to anger. He was never murderous. My lord, you have changed, but not of your own will. You, me, this kingdom...we are all led down these paths as surely as the river runs its course." Canerion then lifted a staff that lay at his feet. He donned a cloak, and then knelt again before Frey, who struggled to stand.

"I do not know what parts you and I have to play before the coming doom. Perhaps my role is over, and you will see to it I am burned. But for the moment I ruefully depart your presence, and pray we meet once more as friends before the end."

Frey staggered as he finally stood upon both feet. Hands balled into fists, he ground his teeth through the agony that coursed through his frame.

"Prophet!" he gasped, as Canerion nodded his head in reverence before turning to walk away. "I will find you, Canerion! Your lies will die with you!"

He stood there unable to move. The sun emerged overhead, filling the entire ravine with its brilliance. As the prince watched the prophet vanish into an unseen trail, he turned to look upon the broken remains of the Watch Keep standing in the river. It occurred to him that the gray stone tower looked the part of a great tombstone as it rose at the head of Ceremane the Great. He shook his head, and with despair and wrath settling in his heart, started walking back to what remained of his kingdom.
