*A note on ages: People of the galaxy of Spherus, where this story takes place, age differently than the inhabitants of earth. A 50-year-old there would be about the same as a 17-year-old here, to give an example.

Chronicled by Jeff Long

For years, rumors had been filtering in from the surrounding country-side. Rumors of rough, desperate men gathering together in secret. Rumors of strange ceremonies being performed by cover of darkness. Rumors of men with haunted eyes and bloodied hands taking refuge in the swamplands. The rumors passed mostly from mouth to mouth, from curious children who had seen silhouetted figures off in the distance, to the rugged farmers out hunting the beasts that preyed on their flocks, and even to young travellers and salesmen, unfortunate enough to be lost in the inhospitable terrain between the scattered farms. Though the central cities of the nation of Alcicaad were all equipped with the latest in electrical and telecommunication technology, most of the farms that ringed the fetid swamp-land known as the Shadowed Blight still ran off an old, rickety electric generator, and the cities rarely bothered to install tele-cables that far into the country side. As a result, the rumors, which were admittedly unreliable enough in the first place, stayed mostly bottled up in the small farming communities on the swamp’s borders, year after year. And thus, the local governments were blind to the silent gathering of the storm.

For a long time, these rumors were merely of a vague and general nature, but eventually, with all the rumors came a name. The name that was behind all the dark, mysterious gatherings and bizarre ceremonies. Dargere. Most of the grizzled old farmers dismissed him as a crude, unwashed barbarian, the leader of a gang of thugs and ruffians no more sophisticated than he. Others, the more superstitious, told of him as a religious fanatic, whipping his followers into a frenzy for no apparent reason other than to appease the desires of whatever imaginary God he followed. But there were yet others, men who gathered in the dark corners of taverns to share their tales of horror, who spoke of the enigmatic Dargere in a hushed, and veiled tone. They spoke of a giant of a man, a man seven feet tall, with huge rippling muscles, who could crush a grown man’s skull with his bare hands, and whose dark, dangerous eyes spoke of nothing but blood and murder. But whatever the rumors that one believed, the name remained, for the most part, nothing more than an interesting topic for idle speculation over a fire-side dinner and a tankard of good ale.

But such was only the case up until the year 1562, when the first raid was reported. A small, isolated farm, one of many along the edges of the Shadowed Blight, was allegedly attacked by the sinister group, all the live-stock stolen or slaughtered, and the farmer, his wife and his two sons mysteriously missing. As soon as word of the attack spread, the people of the area began bolting their doors, and placing weapons beside their beds. All of their precautions seemed futile, however, for the violent raids continued, five more farms within three weeks time. Always, the live-stock were gone, the adults taken, and young children found slain on the spot. The gathering storm had finally broken.

Finally, one of the farmers drove into Akiamoor, the nearest major city, and alerted the authorities. But the government insisted that a simple gang of bandits was a local affair, to be dealt with by local law enforcement. ‘What local law enforcement?’, the old farmer had retorted, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. It was not that the government cared so little about its people, but at the time, the nation of Alcicaad was at war with the neighboring country of Tanzri. Naturally, the military had no time to come down and deal with a small band of ruffians. After all, a scant few farmers, with next to no political power even when they all bothered to vote, could not be put ahead of the security of the nation. So the situation continued for more than two years, with the farmers of the area unable to protect themselves and their families from the "gang of ruffians", let alone deal with them permanently. By the end of the second year, more than a third of the outlying farms had been attacked at one point or another. The people of the swamplands were a hardy bunch by necessity, but even they could take only so much. Family by family, they began seeking refuge in the half-dozen small farming communities in the area, leaving their land and their livelihoods behind them. But despite this trend, there were, as there always is, those who were too proud, too stubborn, and too foolish to leave the lands that supported them.

* * * * *

Slowly, with the ease that came from over a hundred and fifty long years of practice, Krain herded his scraggly sheep back into their pen, closing the old metal gate behind them. Other farmers used dogs, or maybe a domesticated moor-wolf, but not Krain. He had farmed these hostile lands his whole life, just like his father before him, and all he needed, for sheep-herding at least, were his own two hands, and of course, his old RD-1 rifle - just in case. Flipping the switch that would activate the rusty electric fence, Krain turned and headed toward the cheery light of his family’s cottage. The fence was mostly to keep predators out, not to keep the docile sheep in. Many strange and dangerous creatures roamed the Shadowed Blight, creatures that would find a herd of defenceless sheep a tasty morsel.

Hanging his RD-1 rifle on a peg by the door, Krain crossed the short distance of his family’s old log cabin to enter the kitchen, where his wife Alayne was already laying dinner on the table. His fifty-year old son, Elvin, was, as usual, already at the table, helping himself to a generous portion of potatoes and mudbeans. It seemed that eating was what boys that age were best at. Alayne, wearing her old, patched-up, insulated oven mittens, was removing a side of roast lamb from the oven. Avianne, Krain’s young, twenty-year-old daughter, sat dangling her legs over her chair, sniffing contemptuously at her brother’s bad table manners. Her long, golden hair, an uncommon color, at least in these parts, cascaded down her back as she shook her head in her usual sulky manner.

His heavy work-boots clomping loudly on the wooden floor, Krain sank wearily into his customary spot, as Alayne placed the meat on the table. The woman’s jerky movements belied her nervousness. Eyes questioning, she smoothed her apron and sat down at the place next to her husband. There was a moment of strained silence before she spoke.

"Are you sure you won’t reconsider, dear?" she asked, a slight quiver in her voice. "Sonnivan has already moved his family to Keeper’s Grove. And Mianin said that Cole was planning on leaving next week. After they’re gone, we’ll be all alone out here." Elvin nodded in agreement with his mother, though his mouth was too full to add anything, and even sulky Avianne seemed to be in favor of the idea, though at the moment she seemed more interested in picking suspiciously through her food. Nevertheless, Krain shook his head stubbornly. They had had this discussion before, and the old farmer had made up his mind.

"We’re not goin’ to go runnin’ like a bunch of sick-bellied cowards jus’ because some little gang of bandits has been tryin’ to scare people off their lands. My father died fightin’ that damned Drakkhaan just so we could keep this farm. The land may not be much, but it’s ours. I’m not gonna let no band of toughs scare me away."

"But they say this Dargere fella is different, dad," said Elvin, his eyes wide even as he stuffed another slice of lamb into his mouth. "They say he can snap a man as easily as you or I could a twig. They say he can throw fire from his hands. They say . . ."

"There you go, listenin’ to your know-nothin’ friends again," snapped the older man angrily. "All they tell you is gossip and rumors. I say that this Dargere ain’t no different from the rest. Just some Gods-flayed bandit, that’s all he is. A bandit. Ain’t like we haven’t seen the likes o’ him before. Besides," Krain added, eyeing his son shrewdly, "ye’re probably jus’ worried that you won’t be seein’ yer girlfriend as much now that she’s movin’ away."

"I’m not scared at all," said golden-haired Avianne, half sneering at her cowardly brother. "I’m just worried that they might frighten Illuminia, that’s all."

"For the love of the Light, they’re not gonna be gettin’ at your precious pony," snapped Krain, throwing up his hands. "Or any of us, for that matter. Now for the sake of the Lord, let’s hear no more talk of these country bandits. ‘Cuz that’s all they are."

The rest of the meal passed in utter silence. Both Alayne, her big brown eyes making her look even more frightened than she was, and Elvin kept glancing apprehensively to the window, while Avianne sniffed at both of them, sneaking her own glance out when she thought no one was looking. The nervous looks were futile, of course. Night fell early in the Shadowed Blight, and the damp, misty veil of the swamp sucked out any star-light that there might be.

Krain, ever the practical man, didn’t look up from his plate even once.

* * * * *

Two more days had passed, and the atmosphere surrounding the Shadowed Blight was, if anything, even more chokingly tense than before. The air itself seemed particularly heavy and oppressive, though the swamp-gas that could blow in from the Blight often did strange and unpredictable things. It had been yet another hard day of work, as it almost always was, and the grizzled Krain was just now herding the sheep back between the old electric fence, his RD-1 hanging at his side. Dark, boiling clouds were rolling in from the north, and the farmer suspected that a bad storm was in the brewing. Curious, at this time of year. He would have to make sure to check that lighting conductor before going back for dinner.

Finished with the sheep, Krain shut the rusty metal gate with a clang that was dampened by the heavy swamp air, and loped easily across the rough terrain toward the shack behind the cabin. Unlocking the door with an old metal key, he stepped inside, flicking on the light switch beside him. The air in the shed was damp and musty, and the lights could almost be heard groaning as they slowly and reluctantly shed their brightness. After checking the various gauges and indicators in the old power shed, he turned off the dimly flickering lights, and strode back toward the cabin, being careful to lock the door behind him. Everything seemed in order, the lightning protection equipment working as it should. With a humorless grin, Krain shook his dark-haired mane, then stepped into his family’s cabin.

The sizzling aroma of fried meat and vegetables immediately rose to fill his nostrils, replacing the sickly stench of the swamp. Hastily shutting the door against the damp night air, the stocky man hurried to the kitchen, forgetting even to put aside his rifle. Alayne was just finishing with a frying pan full of lamb and vegetables as he entered. Sniffing the air hungrily, Krain pulled up a chair while Elvin tapped his plate impatiently in his usual fidgety manner.

"For the Lord’s Sake, put that thing away before you hurt someone!" scolded Alayne, motioning to the gun that still hung over Krain’s shoulder. Grumbling in a low voice, the dark-haired man slung the rifle over the back of his chair with practised ease. Alayne laid the still-steaming skillet on the table, and Elvin and Krain helped themselves to hearty portions. Sitting down between her husband and her daughter, who looked as sulky as usual, Alayne sighed and dished up a small portion of the fried meat and vegetables for herself. Avianne did likewise, though her portion was even smaller than her mother’s.

"This weather’s no good at all for the crops," lamented Elvin, as he messily hacked up a piece of lamb. "Not at this time of year, anyhow."

"The animals don’t like it none either," grunted Krain, eating almost as quickly as his son. "And the air don’t feel right at all. Must be some of that swamp gas blowin’ in from the east."

"Illuminia certainly doesn’t like the air," sniffed Avianne, poking daintily at her food with her fork. "She won’t even come out of her stall. Sometimes I think she’s too spoiled." Krain just barely stifled a guffaw, and even Alayne’s big brown eyes sparkled with mirth. Elvin wasn’t even that tactful.

"A bit like someone else we know, eh?" he laughed, all the while slicing another piece of meat. Avianne looked around at her family disdainfully before proceeding to cut her fried lamb into neat, tiny cubes, appearing every bit the princess among the peasants.

"Now, now, Elvin, that really wasn’t nice," said Alayne in a motherly tone, though humor still sparkled in her eyes. Elvin just chuckled softly and served himself another helping from the frying pan.

Abruptly, the family’ mirth was interrupted by a large crash resounding through the house, followed by the sound of booted feet on the wooden floor.

"What in blazes?" demanded Krain, leaping to his feet and grabbing the RD-1 rifle off the back of his chair. With another crash, the kitchen door fell inward, and a group of men rushed into the room. Elvin, his eyes wide, jumped up to stand beside his father. Alayne, the blood draining from her face, drew back from the table to lean against the cupboard for support. Avianne shrieked and huddled back into one of the corners in the room.

The intruders spread out through the room, bearded faces leering menacingly at the farmer’s family, and harsh laughs echoing from between their blackened teeth. A ruffian with a scruffy, yellow beard grabbed the pale-faced Alayne’s hands and roughly shoved her against one of the walls. Another man, with an ugly scar running from his forehead across his left eye, stepped over and picked up Avianne by the collar of her blouse, the girl shrieking helplessly all the while.

Sweat ran down Krain’s back, his dark eyes searching frantically around the room, not sure where to fire first. All his years in the swamp hadn’t prepared him for this. What if he missed and hit one of his family? Through his shroud of indecision, his gaze suddenly locked on a man walking slowly toward him. Metal boots scraping loudly on the floor, the man was dressed in tarnished metal armor covered by short, wicked spikes. His black hair was greasy and unwashed, and the stubble of a three-day beard covered his gaunt, haggard face. The old farmer had only half-listened to the mad rumors floating through the region, but he only had to look once into the man’s cold, dead eyes to know his name. Dargere.

Hands so slick that the rifle almost slipped from his grasp, the terrified sheep-herder raised the gun and fired. Panicky as he was, there was no way he could miss at this range. The stubble-faced man extended a gauntleted hand, and the bullet seemed to explode inches from his palm. Petrified by the man’s dead eyes and expressionless face, Krain could only watch in terror as a bolt of energy flew from the armored figure’s hand, slamming into his rifle and causing the weapon to explode into shards of broken metal. Hands and face cut and bleeding, the old farmer fell helplessly to his knees, defeated. He knew he had lost everything now.

"Take the farmer, his wife and his son, then go see what livestock you can find out back," the armored man grated in a cold, deep voice. Several of the men produced coarse ropes, and used them to roughly tie the hands of the farmer’s family, paying no heed to the way the raw rope cut their captives’ flesh.

"Lord Dargere," called the man with the scar, holding up the wide-eyed figure of Avianne. She was too terrified to even struggle now. "What about the girl?"

Dargere’s expressionless face didn’t change as his dead eyes swept over the cringing girl. The big blue pools that were her eyes quivered as they met his icy gaze. Quivered - and pleaded for mercy. A mercy which was not forthcoming.

"Kill her," he said simply. With that, he and the other men turned and exited the house, leaving Avianne alone with the scar-faced ruffian.

The door slammed shut, like the toll of doom itself, leaving the terrified girl alone with the bearded thug. He smiled, and pulled the struggling, golden-haired youth toward him. His rancid breath assaulted her senses, and she reeled back. The man only smiled more broadly, revealing more of his blackened teeth.

"Did ya hear that, girlie? I’m sure you won’t mind if we have a little fun first. Whaddya say? After all, ya don’t want to die without . . ." The man’s speech was interrupted by a howl of pain as Avianne savagely bit his wrist. The iron grip that held her fast loosened and in an instant, the girl was free, scrambling down the hallway. "You little RUNT!!" The scar-faced man’s roar of anger came out as an almost unintelligible bellow, as he charged after the young girl.

Her eyes wide with fright and shock, Avianne dove through the first doorway she saw. Finding herself in her brother’s room, she collapsed against the old wooden dresser and huddled into a little ball, hoping fervently and in vain for the man to go away. Panting and sobbing at the same time, she listened in horror as the man’s heavy footsteps came steadily nearer. The door opened with an interminable creak, and the dark silhouette of the scar-faced man appeared in the doorway. Light gleamed off a metal object in the man’s hand, blindingly bright to Avianne’s eyes.

"Now now, girlie, I was gonna get this done nice and easy. . ." the man began in a soothing drawl. The young girl shook her head in denial, backing up against her brother’s bed. Tears streaked down her face, so that she could barely see the man coming closer. Her hands groped behind her, beneath the bed . . . and closed on something cold and hard. Her brother’s sword! The one that his girlfriend Linaine had given him for their 2 year anniversary! The bejewelled sword was mostly ornamental, but Avianne still remembered cutting herself on its short blade once, when she had stolen it from her brother’s room. Desperately, her hand tightened around the weapon’s handle. The scar-faced man was upon her now, grinning as he ran a finger along his dagger. "But since you seem to wanna play rough, I’m afraid I’ll hafta oblige you."

At that, the man lunged forward, and Avianne swung the sword out in front of her and closed her eyes, hoping it would all end quickly. When it didn’t, she opened her eyes again, and saw the man’s wretched face inches from her own, his mouth gaping open and his eyes wide with shock. Looking down, she saw that the man had driven her blade more than half-way through his own midsection. After one, timeless moment, blood exploded out of the man’s mouth, and his limp body collapsed on top of the horrified girl.

Avianne lay panting for a moment, too shocked to even cry. Then she abruptly heaved the man’s body off of her and ran to the bathroom, where she retched into the toilet until she began spitting up blood. Her hands still trembled as she struggled to grasp the counter, but she hauled herself to her feet and took three long, deep breaths. I am not afraid, she told herself repeatedly, as she tried to quell the shaking of her body. It was no use, and she retched again, staining the counter with red liquid. I am NOT afraid! Then another, more frightening thought struck her. Illuminia! Desperately, her own weakness forgotten, the golden-haired girl dashed out of the house and ran across the fields toward the stables. A light rain was beginning to fall, numbingly cold on the girl’s bare arms, but such thoughts were beyond her consciousness. The stable doors, hanging at a drunken angle, had been torn off their old rusty hinges. Avianne eyed them fearfully as she entered the stable at a dead run, her gaze searching for what she hoped she would not find. Suddenly, she stopped in her tracks, and clutched at the wall of a pen for support. Lying in a corner of the stable was the crumpled form of a pony, snowy white except where it was stained with crimson. Avianne felt like vomiting again, but her stomach had already been more than emptied. Instead, she simply eyed the beaten form of her prized steed, eyes wide and bloodshot. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the rain-drops tapped a regular rhythm on the stable roof. The piercing shriek of some swamp creature briefly split the air, before being silenced abruptly. Slowly, Avianne turned from the stables and started walking toward the cabin, taking even less note of the rain than before. Her mind saw but one thing - the dead, emotionless eyes of Dargere. As she neared the house, her pace quickened, and by the time she reached the door, she was running.

She could see his eyes. They watched her even now.

Entering her brother’s room, she stepped over to the scar-faced man’s body and rolled him onto his back, ignoring the deep pool of blood that had formed on the floor. She would make his eyes bleed like that! With a mighty heave and a vicious snarl, she yanked the sword from the man’s chest. Ignoring the new blood that dribbled out of the wound, she ran out of the house and toward the Blight. The trail through the swamp left by Dargere’s men and the stolen livestock was easy to find. With a grim set to her jaw and a deadly glint in her eye, the girl hefted her sword - for some reason, its hilt felt comfortable in her palm now - and set off through the fetid lands.

* * * * *

The sun rose slowly in the Shadowed Blight. Labouriously hauling its bulky mass over the twisted tree-tops, it reluctantly began its daily process of burning away the mists that shrouded the swamp in a nightcloak of uncertainty. As the vapors slowly dissipated, they revealed a thin form awash in the vast swamp - a castaway in the forgotten mires.

Her small body panting in exhaustion, Avianne leaned against a gnarled tree to rest. For five days, she had followed the trail left by Dargere and the men who had taken her family, and the band had not let up their relentless pace for more time than it took to stop and sleep for a few hours at a time. A racking cough shook Avianne’s body, and she shivered from fever. Nights in the Shadowed Blight could be very cold and damp, and she wore nothing but her now-tattered short-sleeved blouse, a pair of wool stockings and a skirt that she had ripped off at the knees. Her once-golden hair was crusted with dirt, sweat and blood and her delicate face was thin and haggard. She had lost the sword somewhere on the third day, but still she pressed on, the feverish look to her eyes caused only partly by her sickness.

Despite all of this, she had so far been very lucky. Strange and dangerous creatures roamed the Shadowed Blight by the score, and not one of them had yet troubled her. Perhaps it was the proximity of the man called Dargere and his gang of ruffians. Unarmed as she was, Avianne’s young, tender body would have been a free meal for any creature lucky enough to stumble across her. Even those strange creatures that required no sustenance to survive, such as the Forgotten, would take a perverse pleasure in tearing her weakened body limb from limb.

Nevertheless, the thought of turning back for civilization never crossed Avianne’s mind even once. Scratching a crust of dried blood from her face with her hand, she rose from the tree and grimly set herself back on the trail left by the band of men and their ill-gotten live-stock. With them, the men had taken her family and indeed her entire life. She would find these men, and take back her life - destroying the men in the process. The question of how she would do this once she caught them did not occur to her fever-clouded mind.

* * * * *

The ground had been rising steadily for the past few leagues, and the damp swamp soon gave way to a blasted, rocky landscape. The sinking sun dyed the ground a bloody red, and the faint, eerie sound of the wind seemed amplified by the stony terrain. Dargere’s heavy boots scraped along the rocks, echoing out to the four winds, and his stubbled face was even bleaker than the lands around him. Even the rough, bearded men that forced the prisoners and the livestock forward gave their leader as wide a birth as possible. None dared so much as glance at his coldly dead eyes. The crimson light of the sun bathed his tarnished armor in a perpetual blood-red, but many believed that it wasn’t just the sun that caused that effect.

As the men crested a rise, they came upon a broad, flat plateau, criss-crossed by deep crevices and fissures. Steam rose in jets from the cracks in the earth, as well as fountains of a liquid deep black in color. In the dead centre of this plateau soared a monstrous complex. Squat and brooding, the deep black stone of its construction was bathed in the red light of the dying sun. Workers could be seen scurrying about its massive black towers, which reached toward the sky like the grasping fingers of a greedy child. A haze of darkness seemed to hang about the entire area where the massive fortress was being constructed. Dargere and his men carefully weaved their way between the cracks and fissures, as the dark building seemed to welcome them with arms of blackened stone.

As they approached the foreboding fortress, a figure stepped forward to greet them. Dressed in the rough, leather clothing best suited for the rocky wilderness, her long, unkept hair hanging past her shoulder blades, the woman smiled warmly as the group came within sight. The wind blew her light brown hair back in a wild tangle, and dust stung at her high cheekbones. Dargere smiled tiredly as he saw the woman approaching, and he removed his spiked gauntlets. The woman ran forward over the rocky terrain and rushed into his steel-clad arms.

"You’re safe. I always worry whenever you have to travel through that horrible swamp," she breathed, running a hand along his cold, armored chest.

"I have been chosen for a task, my love. I will not die as long as it lies uncompleted," the man in the tarnished armor replied in a sad, tired voice. He turned briskly to the rough men around him. "Take the prisoners and set them to work immediately." Grunts and nods followed the command, and the men hurried off, herding their prisoners toward the construction.

Dargere and the woman in his arms turned and stared for a long moment at the gigantic black fortress. Upon closer inspection, the fortress looked less complete than it did at a distance. Many of the walls were supported only by wooden beams, and the towers were still mostly framework all the way to the top. A huge amount of work remained to be done, and it would take many more than the few hundred workers who scurried about the scaffolds to complete the monstrous creation.

"How long, my darling?" asked the woman, staring up at the soaring fortress. "How long until your dream is complete?"

"Lithael, my love," said Dargere in a soft voice, stroking her unkept hair with his hand. "My dream is more than just this fortress. I hear the voice of the One God in my sleep. His grand design goes beyond mortal comprehension, but this fortress is but one of the components." The man looked up at the gigantic construct, the red light of the sun glimmering in his dark eyes. Delicately, the woman reached up and ran a hand through his thick, black hair.

"Then I will be with you until that day, my love." The two embraced closely for a long moment. They were interrupted, not by the jet of black liquid that steamed out of the ground dangerously close to their feet, but by a slight coughing sound. Reluctantly, the two tore apart as Dargere turned his head to regard the short, wiry man who had approached them. The newcomer’s hair was a black mass of cobwebs, and the cowl of his long black robes was thrown back, revealing his thin, pointed face.

"Milord Dargere," the man said softly, dropping to one knee. "Messiah of the One True God and High Priest of the Doom Order. My heart is glad that you have returned safely."

"And for this we thank the Lord," Dargere replied formally, finishing the greeting. "You may rise, Morgoss. What has transpired in my absence?"

The thin man rose to his feet, and spoke once more in his quiet, sibilant voice. "There has been an accident at the stone quarry, your Holiness. A dozen slaves and one of our Believers were killed. I will need to have more workers there if we are to continue producing adequate amounts of stone."

His arm around his lady’s shoulders, the tall, armored man set off walking toward the fortress, motioning for Morgoss to follow. "This is indeed unfortunate. We have few enough laborers working on the Fortress as it is."

Morgoss’ robes could be heard shuffling as he hurried to keep pace with his longer-legged master. "The Fortress-laborers will soon be out of work if we have no stone to continue construction."

For a moment, Dargere didn’t reply. His cold eyes were fixed on the towers that were ever-so-slowly clawing their way higher and higher. One day, it would be complete. "Very well. Your request is granted. Choose a dozen workers and take them to the quarry."

"Thank you, Lord," Morgoss replied, bowing low once more. "May your soul be one with His."

"And may yours as well, Morgoss." The armored man had yet to take his eyes from the dark scaffolding that would one day cast its shadow over the entire plateau. With a shuffling of his robes, Morgoss hurried back toward the monstrous complex, his dark form soon becoming one with the oncoming night’s lengthening shadows.

"He is your most loyal follower," the woman called Lithael said softly. "He would die for you if you asked him to."

Dargere nodded slowly. "Just as I would die for the True God. If He asked it of me." Unmoving, he still stared toward where the fortress towered above the rocky land. The sun had all but disappeared, and the fortress was fast becoming invisible against the darkening sky.

Slowly, Lithael reached up and turned the High Priest’s head until his eyes met her own. "I will pray that that day will never come."

Dargere smiled sadly, his haggard face looking more tired than usual in the fast-fading light. "It will come, my love. Sooner or later, that day will come for all of us."

* * * * *

It had been less than a week since Alayne had been brutally taken from her home, and already she could not remember what it was like not to be tired. Her captives, led by the man they called Lord Dargere, had pressed hard upon leaving their farmhouse, never stopping for more than two or three hours of sleep. Upon arriving at the fortress three hours ago, she had immediately put to work along with two dozen other workers under the supervision of two burly overseers. She recognized a few of her fellow captives; many of them were former neighbors of hers whose farms had been attacked by the mysterious "bandits". The overseers allowed her no time for conversation, however, as they savagely used a leather strap to flog anyone who stopped working even to rest for a few moments. Nevertheless, the work was interminably slow. The monstrous complex that these madmen seemed intent on building was far too large a task even for the tough old farming families of the Shadowed Blight.

However, despite the strenuous work, Alayne’s tiredness was merely a dull ache in the side of her consciousness. Her mind was still reeling from the thought of her little girl being callously murdered by these monsters. She could still remember the child’s face as the scar-faced ruffian picked her up by the blouse. She could still see her daughter’s wide, desperate eyes, pleading for help that she had been unable to give. Such thoughts kept the tiredness from her mind, and she worked as though in a daze, hardly aware of her surroundings.

She was so self-absorbed with her own shock and rage that she didn’t hear the bell that signalled the end of the work-day for the captive laborers. It was only when she felt the rough hand of one of the overseers on her shoulder that she realized that all her fellow workers were gone.

"Well, lookie here! We’ve got ourselves a newcomer, don’t we?" chuckled the swarthy, black-haired man who held her shoulder. The other man, the one who carried the leather strap, laughed as he looked her over appraisingly.

"Newcomers usually take some time to learn the rules," the whip-man agreed. Alayne noted that this man was missing one of his ears.

"Think we should have some fun with her?" the first man asked, running a hand along the back of the farm-wife’s dress. The other man grinned wickedly and set down his whip. Horrified, Alayne’s sluggish mind finally realized what the men intended to do. Adrenaline wiping the weariness from her muscles, she lashed out with her foot, catching the swarthy man right between the legs. He doubled over and dropped to his knees.

"You wanna play rough, you filthy wench?" snarled the one-eared man, lunging forward and knocking Alayne to the ground. "We’ll show you how rough we can be!" The man raised his fist to strike the fallen woman.

The blow never fell, as the man’s wrist was suddenly enclosed by a steel gauntlet. A steel gauntlet studded with wicked barbed spikes. Pain flashed across the man’s features, and he backed away, clutching his bleeding wrist.

"She is here to work," came the emotionless voice of the hand’s owner, "and nothing else." The one-eared man and his swarthy companion both fell to their knees, their faces in the dirt.

"Have mercy, Lord! We beg of you!" If Alayne hadn’t been so shocked or so frightened, she would have laughed at these two pathetic beings, who moments ago were so much in control.

"Do you dare to defy the One True God?" asked the steel-clad man who stood impassively before the two overseers. Though his voice was still emotionless, his words somehow came out sounding menacing.

"Never, your Holiness!" the two grovelling men proclaimed in unison. Still under the armored figure’s watchful gaze, they rose to their feet. The swarthy man grabbed Alayne’s arm firmly, though not roughly, and started leading her to the prisoners’ tents. No-ear grabbed his leather strap and hurried after them.

Alayne’s feet moved mechanically, unconsciously. Her mind was still paralysed by the past week’s events. She barely even heard the conversation of the two men beside her, who had started grumbling softly as soon as they were out of earshot of their Lord.

"Easy for him to say. He’s already got his wench."

"Not so loud! If he hears you talk about her like that . . ."

"Bah! Even he, with his all-powerful God, doesn’t hear everything!"

Fortunately for the two men, their words were indeed lost on the wind. For though their Lord, the man who called himself Dargere, still stood where they had left him, staring out at the endless stretch of cracked, bleeding earth, there was only one voice that echoed in his head . . .

* * * * *

Once more, the sun rose slowly over the rocky plateau at the centre of the Shadowed Blight. Bathing the land with its grim red light, its coming did little to make the plateau look any more hospitable. Jets of steam shot out of the earth at irregular intervals, like spurts of blood from the belly of a dying beast and shadowy chasms yawned across the rock, the craggy, uneven lighting of the landscape hiding them from man and beast alike until it was too late. Nothing thrived here. Rainfall was channelled down natural canals where it flowed down to feed the ever-ravenous swamplands.

Overhead, dark birds could be seen circling, waiting for a hapless creature to fall prey to one of the plateau’s deadly traps. Their wingbeats seemed sluggish in the hot, fetid air that rose from both the rotting swamp and the steaming chasms. A small finger appeared over the crest of a rocky mound, scratching weakly at the dark earth, and the birds could be seen gathering, anticipating the last breath of their long-awaited meal. However, their hopes were disappointed. For a moment, the finger disappeared, and then a ragged figure dragged itself into view. Ragged, but still very much alive.

The young waif who slowly crawled over the mound of fallen rocks looked nothing like the Avianne who just a week ago was disdainfully picking through her dinner with such pristine precision. This girl’s face was gaunt and haggard, not dainty and delicate like the face of the fussy little girl she had left behind. Her once-golden hair was gold no longer - it was merely a long, tangled mass of mud, sticks, brambles and caked blood. Her clothes were nothing more than tattered rags, torn and slashed a hundred times or more. Her left hand was badly swollen from brushing against a poisonous bush, and her once-immaculate finger-nails were chipped and crusted with dirt and grime. Most of all, her eyes were no longer the big, beautiful pools of blue that her parents’ friends remembered her for. They seemed sunken now, their surface glassy, as they continually stared at something that wasn’t there. If one looked close enough, though, they would see the reflection of another man’s eyes mirrored in her dark pupils.

Even her feverish eyes could not have missed the huge complex that came into view as she crested the rise. It spawned across the plateau, seemingly from one end of the horizon to the other, its towering spires blocking out the red light of the rising sun and casting their shadow down on the rocky plain. The girl who was once called Avianne paused in awe of the mighty construct that filled her view. My family...they’ve taken them...there. Her momentary awe turned to hatred, and she clenched her unswollen hand until she could feel it going numb. She wanted to smash the fortress, send its towers toppling to the ground, watch it crumble as she tore out its very foundation. Hatred once more filling her mind, she slid clumsily down the pile of rocks and headed straight for the gigantic monstrosity.

By the time she reached it, however, she began, for the first time since that horrible night, to have second thoughts. Maybe it was that she was finally clear of the mists and gasses of the swamp. Maybe the awesome sight of the huge castle had jarred her mind to sanity. Whatever the reason, she began to wonder what she, a twenty-year-old farmgirl, could possibly do against the men who were building this giant fortress.

Already, distant forms could be seen moving around the far edges of the structure, as the overseers roused their prisoners for another day of work. Afraid she might be spotted, the young girl quickly slipped inside the unguarded gate of the giant fortress. The central ground level of the construct seemed reasonably complete, and its silent, yawning corridors beckoned the frightened youth onward. The passageways seemed to stretch to infinity in all directions, with nothing to distinguish one way from another. Choosing corridor after corridor at random, the girl’s glassy eyes barely seemed to move as she crept through the foreboding fortress.

Her heart beat so loudly in her ears that she almost didn’t hear the slow, shuffling footsteps until it was too late. Ducking into a side corridor, she watched as a column of black-robed men shambled slowly by her, then faces lost in the cavernous cowls of their robes. Even once the men had passed, Avianne stayed clutching the wall, her fingers trying vainly to dig into the unyielding stone.

What can I do? There’s so many. And this place...so big. The thoughts ran through the frightened girl’s head as though sliding across a plain of ice. I know. I’ll bring help. I’ll tell the world about this place. I’ll lead them here so they can save all these people. They’ll get rid of this place. I’ve got to go warn them. Warn them. Bring them here before it’s too late. Before...

Springing from her hiding place, Avianne dashed through the corridors heedlessly, only one thought in her mind. Help. I’ll bring them here. They’ll smash this place. The corridors were a winding labyrinth of twisted stone, and her clouded mind only vaguely remembered the way she had come. She ran on and on, not caring, simply running. She wanted to run from this place. She hated it. Hated it with all the heart she had left.

Abruptly, the entrance appeared at the end of the corridor, a pinprick of light to her feverish eyes. She ran towards it. Help. I must bring help. Must let the world know. Before... Out of nowhere, a spiked steel gauntlet shot out and grabbed her wrist. The vicious prongs bit into her flesh, and she screamed as she saw her own blood running across her arm. Looking up, she found herself staring into a pair of coldly dead eyes. The eyes of Dargere.

She screamed. She thrashed. She raged. All of it was futile, serving no purpose other than to drive the spikes further into her arm. Finally, all of her anger spent, she broke down and began sobbing at the armored man’s feet.

Slowly, Dargere raised her into the air until her eyes once more met his own. The echoes of her screams had faded away, and the silence in the corridor was even colder than the man’s dark eyes. His gaze tunnelled straight through her blue orbs and found its way clear to her soul, and face emotionless, he spoke.

"Your blood shall run to serve the Lord of the Dark."

And with that, he released her arm.

Incredulous, Avianne starred at the floor for a moment, before rising to her feet and running as fast as her beaten body would allow her. No one but him saw her leave, as she escaped into the rocky plateau and disappeared. The man called Dargere merely stood there, watching her flight, his face an expressionless mask. As she finally disappeared from his view, he looked down and stared fixedly at her sweet, crimson blood as it slowly dripped from his gauntleted hand.

* * * * *

The cold, stone chamber of Dargere lay in the very heart of the Fortress, its single glass window overlooking what would some day be the very core of the Fortress’ evil purpose. Dargere had seen the design of the slightly bowl-shaped room that was the centre of the fortress innumerable times in his dreams. Indeed, that very room was the delicate nerve-centre that the entire dark castle was designed to protect. Dargere knew every inch of the room. Even now, he could feel the contours, the texture of its gently sloping floor. The room was not yet close to complete. Somehow, Dargere knew that that had to wait until the end. Staring down from his sparsely furnished bed-chambers, his mind filled in all the details that his laborers had not. Thirty-nine shallow bowls, each precisely three feet in diameter, were spaced evenly around the edge of the circular room. Out of each bowl, a shallow canal ran down to join with the moat that encircled the central altar. The central altar itself was a pedestal of black obsidian, and carved into its top was a small stone bowl, with four long grooves cut into its sides. Into the pedestal were carved these words:

Even now, he could see them. Etched into the obsidian rock by his own hand, and polished with fresh crimson blood. His dead eyes seemed to focus on the invisible letters, as he read them over and over again in his mind. The God had ordered him thus. It was his destiny.

"Master," came a soft, rasping voice from the entrance to his chamber. Slowly, the armored High Priest turned to regard his Chief Disciple, Morgoss.

"What is it?" he asked in his deeply cold voice.

"Master," Morgoss repeated, head lowered and voice riddled with sorrow. "Master, there has been an accident. One of the tower beams fell while some of our slaves were working on it. The Lady Lithael . . .she is dead, Milord."

Slowly, his face not showing an inch of expression, Dargere turned away to stare once more out the glass window, out into the dream that had become his obsession.

"Leave me."

His thin face wrinkled with concern, Morgoss hesitated. "Master. Are you sure you’re . . ."

"Leave me, Morgoss."

With a low bow, Morgoss hurriedly shuffled out of the room and shut the door, leaving the High Priest of the Doom Order alone in his chambers.

His face still as expressionless as ever, Dargere dropped to his metal-clad knees, raising his arms in front of him.

"I understand now, my Lord. Having both her and You was too much to ask. My life must belong to You and You alone. From now on, my limb, my life and even my very soul shall be Yours. I will not rest until your bidding is complete, even if this Fortress drains the last sweet drop of blood from my weak mortal body."

Rising to his feet and spreading his arms wide, the Dark Lord threw back his head and shouted to the unseen skies.

"My life is Yours, my Lord! Only when you take it can we be reunited!"

His cries echoed endlessly through the cold stone room until they finally faded away into oblivion. Motionless, he stood, his arms raised high above his head, and his dead eyes staring at something that only he could see.

* * * * *

Fifty years had passed. The war was long over and the nation of Alcicaad was enjoying a period of peace and prosperity. It was a good time to be an Alcian and an even better time to be simply alive.

A light rain was falling over the city of Gelninkha, slowly but relentlessly overflowing the city’s somewhat outdated sewer system. A city of about sixty thousand people, Gelninkha’s major industry was its giant factory that produced military aircraft. Since the war had ended, the factory had seen little use, and unemployment was rampant throughout the city. Gelninkha was a town that had enjoyed better times.

Despite the unemployment, or perhaps because of it, the Shik-Rak Tooth Tavern was busier than ever that evening. The worse things were, the more money people seemed to have to spend on drinks - or so Grogget, the portly, beady-eyed owner of the Tooth, had noticed. A large crowd of people were gathered about in the pleasantly-lighted bar, consuming large amounts of alcoholic beverage and lamenting about good times long gone. For Grogget, of course, times couldn’t be better. He served each customer with a toothy grin, their every drink making his smile wider and his purse fatter. In dark times, there is always a silver lining; at least, for somebody.

"I remember those times, back durin’ the war!" slurred an old drunkard, a man with salt-and-pepper hair, three-day stubble and a ubiquitous smell of cheap wine about him. The man had been one of the first to go when the factory’s business started declining. "We was pumpin’ out ten, maybe twenty aer-o-planes every damn day!" The man took a long swig of his mug, spat on the floor contemptuously and continued his story. "Why, I’ll bet the guys on the frontlines didn’t see that much fir’power in one day! Awww, ta hell with them damn Tanzri! Why don’t we just attack ‘em again and do it right this time?"

During the man’s discourse, the door had opened and a figure had entered the room. The newcomer was dressed in tough, well-used travel leathers, marking her as a stranger to these parts. Her clothes were thoroughly drenched, as was the woman’s lush golden hair - an unusual color, in these parts - that hung well past her shoulder blades. At her belt, a short sword with an ornate black hilt rested comfortably, moving with her smooth stride as though it was part of her. Her youthful face might have been considered pretty - perhaps even beautiful - were it not for the strange way that her luminous blue eyes seemed to focus and unfocus at random intervals. Her entrance caused the mass of people in the tavern to withdraw from the centre of the room, and whispers could already be heard from the crowd.

"That’s the mad-woman that they say is visiting all the taverns around here," a young man whispered fearfully to his newly-wed wife.

"They say she’s some sort of crazy prophet . . .she keeps raving about how the end is near," said a tough-looking man to his group of friends.

"Stay away from her. They say she’s not right in the head," came the hushed voice of one of the barmaids, as the group of young serving girls stood huddled in a corner.

Apparently oblivious to the whispering voices of the crowd, the young woman strode boldly to the largest table and slammed her fists down on it with a loud thud. Her strange blue eyes peered around at all the table’s occupants, though none were brave enough to meet her gaze.

"Please, all of you. You must listen to my story, else you will all find your ways to the grave!"

"You’re crazy, woman! Go back to your swampland shack where you belong!" The jeering voice came from a table of young, well-dressed men, children of the town’s wealthy and elite.

Her blue eyes growing even wider, the golden-haired woman turned her gaze to the side table. "Fools! If you don’t listen to me, you’ll all be killed or taken away as slaves! What will you have to laugh about when this town is ablaze with unholy fire?"

"As long as you’re here, we’ll have plenty to laugh about!" chuckled a handsome, dark-haired youth.

The room suddenly grew silent, the only sound the footfalls of the woman’s boots as she slowly walked over to the rich-boys’ table. Gripping the edge of the table so forcefully that her knuckles went white, she spoke quietly but with such intensity that none could have missed her words.

"In the midst of the Shadowed Blight, a new order is rising. Soon, they will be ready to come forth, and when that happens, woe be to you all! None shall be spared, women and children least of all!" Her eyes had taken on a glassy look, as she seemed to stare right through the wall and see something on the other side. "We must act now if we are to stop them. Please. Save your city. Save your loved ones. Help me."

One of the men, a sandy-haired youth in an expensive gold-studded vest, leaned forward, a half-smile playing on his face. "Oh really? Tell us more about this ‘new order’."

Another man, this one broad-shouldered in a black tuxedo, shot his companion an incredulous look. "C’mon, we don’t need to hear anymore of this crazy whore’s trash. She don’t belong here, so let’s toss her out."

"After all," laughed the dark-haired man, "she asked for our help, and by the Lord, does she need it!"

The woman’s blue eyes, almost glowing now, narrowed into slits at the laughter that spread across the table. Most of the bar’s other patrons had gone back to their drinking and story-telling, paying no heed to the golden-haired stranger’s tale. The only one who might have been watching was a heavily cloaked and hooded man who sat at a table alone, his face lost in the shadows of his dark grey cowl.

Noticing that the woman still stood before their table, the broad-shouldered aristocrat snorted disdainfully and spat on her feet. "Get the hell outta here before I see fit to throw you out myself!"

In a sudden explosion of movement, the woman lashed out and grabbed the offending fellow by his tuxedo. Her eyes widened to an unnatural extent as she easily lifted him out of his seat and stared straight into his bewildered eyes.

"Fool! Dargere will have all your souls!"

With that, she tossed the helpless man atop the table, turned on her heel and stalked out of the tavern into the rainy evening air.

Struggling to his feet, the burly youth stared at the door, obviously outraged. With a nod to his fellow, the darkly handsome man got to his feet.

"Let’s teach her a lesson, boys."

The others, four counting the broad-shouldered man who sat sprawled on the table, gave quick nods and followed their dark-haired leader out the door.

The golden-haired woman had not gone far. Standing in the middle of the street, she stared up at the crying heavens, seemingly oblivious to the rain that fell around her. With a wink to his companions, the dark-haired man motioned them into a side street and called to the female stranger.

"Hey there! We’ve talked about what you said and we want to hear more! Why don’t you come over here?"

Slowly, the woman turned around, her unfocusing eyes staring past the young man who called to her. "Have the Gods heard my plea?" she whispered. Shaking her head, she walked somewhat unsteadily to where the smiling fellow awaited her.

With a sinewy movement, the dark-haired man grabbed her arm and roughly pushed her into the side street. Slamming her against the wall, he grabbed her by the front of her leather jerkin with his other hand.

"Listen, you wench! Nobody treats us like that! We could kill you right here and the police wouldn’t dare touch us! Do you understand that?" The other young men, all except for the sandy-haired one in the vest, who stood by the wall looking somewhat bemused, chuckled darkly. One of them pulled out a switchblade and started running a finger along its edge. The dark-haired leader slammed the woman against the wall again with a snarl. "Do you realize that now?"

The woman responded by bringing her knee up right between the man’s legs. With a howl of pain, he released her and doubled over. In a silvery flash of greased lightning, blood suddenly spurted from the man’s shoulder, as the woman’s sword appeared in her hand.

"Damn you!" screeched the man, as he staggered back against the wall of the convenience store that bordered the side-street. Seeing the steel in the woman’s hand and eyes, the other three men pulled out handguns from their jackets and levelled them at their suddenly dangerous opponent.

Muscles uncoiling like a springing snake, the woman leapt forward, her blade lashing out in front of her. One of the men screamed as his gun-hand fell to the pavement in a spattering of blood. But before the woman could move to strike again, the other two let loose with their firearms. One of the bullets hit the woman in the side and the other struck her shoulder. Flung back against the wall by the force of the blasts, there was a clatter as the woman’s blade fell to the ground. Her teeth were clenched from an obvious effort to stay conscious.

Rising to his feet, the dark-haired leader snarled hatefully at the golden-haired woman, at the same time pulling out his own pistol. "Let’s plug her now, boys!" he growled, levelling his firearm at the woman’s left breast.

"I think not." The dark, sibilant voice came from a figure standing at the head of the narrow street. As one, the three gun-wielding men turned to face the newcomer; their handless companion lay unconscious from the pain and the man in the vest had yet to move, merely standing with a puzzled expression on his face. The lone figure who faced the men was draped in a dark, heavy cloak with a deep hood that concealed his face. It was the same man who had sat alone in the Shik-Rak Tooth.

"And who are you to tell US what to do?" growled the wounded leader. Not wasting any more words, he finished his question with a blast of fiery lead. But instead of a grunt of pain, the only sound that echoed through the streets was a metallic clang as the bullet deflected from the long steel blade that had without warning appeared in the shadowy man’s hand. Stepping forward, the man lowered his hood to reveal a grim, scowling face laced with faded scars. A black headband held back his unruly black hair, and his eyes were glowing orbs of green ice. The young aristocrats acted as one, gasping and cursing in shock and disbelief.

"Damnit! It’s him!"

"The Butcher of Belsin!"

"Impossible!"

"We don’t stand a . . ."

The golden-haired woman may have been fast, but the cloaked figure was lightning incarnate. In less time than it took to squeeze the trigger of a gun, long, broad blades sprang from both his hands, as he effortlessly lobbed off the heads of the handsome young leader and one of his cronies. The broad-shouldered youth, the only one still holding a gun, struggled to find his impossibly fast target, but before he could, his shoulder blades had sprouted long, steel wings that were stained with crimson. The grim-faced swordsman easily withdrew his blades, and turned to the man in the blue-gold vest. The man raised his hands, keeping them well away from the twin handguns that were strapped to his belt.

"I tried to talk them out of it . . ." he began, but the other man had already turned away. Putting a strong arm around the nearly unconscious woman’s shoulder, he slowly helped her back toward the tavern.

"Bring her sword and follow me," the man growled over his shoulder. With a shrug, the sandy-haired aristocrat bent over, picked up the ornate, black-handled blade and hurried to follow the dark-cloaked swordsman.

Apparently, the effort of walking coupled with her ever-rising blood loss was too much for the golden-haired woman, and she passed out before even exiting the side street. The tall swordsman nonetheless seemed to have no trouble supporting her entire weight. Striding quickly across the streets, he shoved open the taverns and stalked in, not even looking back to make sure that the young man in the blue-gold vest was following him. Shrugging once more, the sandy-haired youth was indeed following the swordsman’s directions, but unlike his posture, the gleam in his blue eyes was something far more than indifference.

The swordsman’s entrance, with his face exposed this time, had a marked reaction from the bar’s patrons. Even more so than for the earlier entrance of the golden-haired woman, the crowds seemed to literally retreat into the walls, leaving the centre of the room totally vacant. Even the tough-looking workmen hastily withdrew from their tables at the dark-cloaked man’s entrance. At the same time, terrified whispering could be heard, coming from both everywhere and nowhere.

"It’s him! It really is!"

"Impossible? The Edgemaster . . .here?"

"You must be kidding! He can’t really be here!"

"Ya think I’d make a mistake? It’s him alright!"

"The Butcher of Belsin walks among us . . ."

All of this simply slid off the grim-faced man, just as the dark-haired aristocrat’s bullet had slid off the gleaming metal of his sword. Without slowing his implacable pace, he crossed the bar floor and grabbed the sweaty tavern owner, Grogget, with his free black-gloved hand.

"Get me a room for her. Now!"

His normally beady eyes wide with terror, the barkeeper hurriedly grabbed his keys and almost ran through the door that led to the small, hotel section of his tavern. Sweat running down his flabby face, he opened the door to a vacant room, swallowed, and stepped back, wringing his grubby hands together in a nervous fashion. However, true to the tavern keeper’s silent wishes, the dark-cloaked man strode right by him, as did the young man in the vest. Forgotten, or at least ignored, the innkeeper made good his chance to escape down the hallway.

The young aristocrat softly shut the door behind him as the tall swordsman laid the woman on the room’s rickety bed. Turning from the woman’s unconscious form, the scowling man fixed the sandy-haired youth with his icy green gaze.

"What’s your name?"

Startled, the man simply replied, "Uh . . . Zerek."

"Zerek. Give me your vest."

The young man was too shocked to do anything but comply. Taking the expensive, gold trimmed vest, the black-haired man ripped it in two and went about binding the woman’s wounds. The man named Zerek simply stood watching, a puzzled yet curious look on his face.

Just as the swordsman had finished with the mysterious woman’s injuries, there was a soft knock on the door. Zerek raised an eyebrow in the direction of the swordsman, to which the man merely nodded. Shrugging his shoulders for the fourth or fifth time that evening, Zerek walked to the door and opened it.

"So, do the Gods truly walk among us today?" came a raspy male voice, a voice that dripped with sarcasm and amusement. Entering the room was a strange man dressed in colors of grey and purple. Though his head was shaved entirely bald, the strangest thing about him was the grey blindfold that was tied over his eyes. A smile twitching the man’s lips, he moved his head as if looking about the room, and chuckled softly to himself. "If one were to believe those ignorant peasants, you’d think a giant had just thundered through their commons room."

The dark-cloaked man, on the other hand, did not look amused in the least. Straightening to his full height, he glared down at the strange man, who understandably seemed oblivious to his gaze. "Malaxtres," the taller man muttered darkly.

"Seithgeird the Ravager. I truly never expected to meet you again." The grim-faced man’s menacing tone had apparently done nothing to rifle the blind-folded man. Walking over to the bed, he slowly laid a hand on the unconscious woman’s forehead. "So, Seithgeird, who have we here? I didn’t know you concerned yourself with the problems of young girls."

Face as dark as ever, the black-haired man strode across the room and opened the door. "As soon as she wakes up, I’m sure she’ll explain who she is to both of us. Now come. She needs rest."

With a whisper from his heavy cloak, the tall man disappeared from the room. Still with that infernal grin on his face, the man called Malaxtres quickly followed suit. As they left, though, the young aristocrat stood for a moment, narrow eyes fixed on the golden-haired woman. Finally tearing his gaze away from her, Zerek gently placed the woman’s sword on the dresser, stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him.

* * * * *

"I have seen them with my own eyes!" proclaimed the woman who had introduced herself as Avianne, a feverish glow appearing in her own blue orbs. "If we do not stop them, they will roll over the world like an endless tide of eternal darkness!" The woman sat along with the three men, Zerek, Malaxtres and Seithgeird, at a table in the corner of the Shik-Rak tooth. The bar was empty now, except for Grogget, cleared by the presence of the Edgemaster. The tall swordsman still wore his grey cloak, but the cowl was down, exposing his infamous face for all to see. They had been listening to Avianne’s story for over an hour now, and throughout the tale, the woman’s eyes had grown increasingly feverish.

"If they are not stopped . . . Dargere will have all our souls!" The golden-haired woman, her eyes not quite focused, reached across the table and clutched at the Ravager’s arm. "Please. You have to believe me."

The dark-haired man’s face remained expressionless, his burning green eyes staring at something behind the pleading woman’s face. Finally, after a long silence, he spoke, almost as if to himself. "I’ve been waiting so long . . . Perhaps now, the time has come . . ." He turned his gaze of green fire back to the golden-haired woman. "Take me to this place of which you speak."

A dark chuckle came from the man called Malaxtres. "Well, look who’s decided to play the noble hero!" Despite his blindfold, he somehow seemed to meet the deadly green gaze of the dark-cloaked man. "Then I, too, will accompany you, woman. I can’t let the Ravager have all the glory for this kill."

Her eyes sharp and focused for the first time in a long while, Avianne rose to her feet and scrutinized the two men. "Thank you. We’ll leave immediately."

"Just a moment." Zerek, who had thus far remained silent, finally spoke up. "Don’t count me out. This whole thing might be fun." Seithgeird turned and gave the young aristocrat a disapproving stare, at which the man merely grinned. "Hey, don’t worry. I can take care of myself." The man flipped out one of his twin pistols, casually twirled it around a few times, and flipped it back into place.

Avianne, meanwhile, turned to the sandy-haired man and stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. "But you . . . you were one of . . ."

"Don’t worry," Zerek grinned. "I never really liked any of those guys anyway."

"And thus does the epic begin," chortled Malaxtres, his soft, mocking voice mostly lost to the ears of his newfound companions.

* * * * *

Travel was slow in the fetid lands known as the Shadowed Blight. Hacking through the swamp’s underbrush and sometimes walking miles in the wrong direction to avoid an area of sandtraps cut the distance covered by the four companions in half and more. Not only that, but erecting a campsite in the muddy, dangerous land was a task that took well over an hour, an arduous chore that had to be completed before the sun even started to disappear into the vapors and gasses of the western edge of the marsh.

It was well past midnight now, on the travellers’ first day into the swamp. The swirling mists of the Blight had closed around their small, brush-cleared campsite, trapping them inside a veritable dome of whitish-green. The campfire had burned low, its ruddy orange light mixing strangely with the colors of the swirling mists that had wrapped their fingers around the cleared area. A lone figure sat staring into the fire, his heavy cloak drawn close about him to ward off the damp chill of the swampland nights. Just as its light reflected in the dancing mists, it also flickered in the man’s green eyes, as he sat motionless, his gaze studying the ever-slowing movements of the dying fire.

"Ahh, the Ravager," came a quiet voice from behind the tall, silent man. "Called the Edgemaster by some, the Butcher of Belsin by many more." A figure clothed in grey and purple and wearing a blindfold across his eyes stepped into the flickering light of the fire. "But how many are those who call you Seithgeird?"

Slowly, the grim-faced man turned away from the flames, but he refused to look at the blindfolded man. "What do you want?"

The shorter man walked over and sat down next to the Edgemaster, his lips twitching into a grin. "You and I are much the same, Seithgeird. Both of us wield a power that the world does not understand. A power which gives us strength over others, but at the same time condemns us to our fate." Seithgeird didn’t respond, and instead continued to stare into the glowing embers of the fire. Despite his blindfold, the other man appeared to do the same. Finally, the dark-haired swordsman rose to his feet and walked slowly away from the fire, never once looking back.

"We are the same, Ravager. Remember that." The voice of the man called Malaxtres echoed eerily in the misty dome, following the Edgemaster to the gnarled tree that he sat down next to and well into the world of his dreams.

* * * * *

Despite the swamplands’ cold nights, the days were often hot and humid, drenching the four travellers almost instantaneously in both swampy moisture and their own sweat. Seithgeird led the way through the rotting lands, the blackened bushes, poisonous thorns and often dangerous animals no match for his long steel blades and obvious expertise. Several feet back walked the figure of Malaxtres, and though he did not quite have the swift, implacable pace of the long-legged Seithgeird, his apparent blindness had done nothing to hinder the group’s movement thus far. Following closely behind, her big blue eyes focusing and unfocusing at random intervals, the golden-haired Avianne walked negligently through the swamp, her feet seemingly leading her around any danger of their own accord. Trailing at the back was the young aristocrat, Zerek, who understandably seemed the least accustomed to the rigors of the swamplands. Nevertheless, he managed to keep his own, though his lacy white shirt had been torn by at least a dozen grasping branches.

Totally at home in the heart of the swamplands, some of the glassiness seemed to fade from Avianne’s eyes as she easily caught up to Malaxtres and kept pace with the blind-folded man.

"Malaxtres," she questioned, her voice less feverish than usual. "Why is it that you wear that blindfold? From what I have observed, you seem to be able to see right through it."

Malaxtres chuckled, the infernal grin once again appearing on his face. "Oh, not through it lass. My eyes have long been gone . . . burned out by some foolish villagers who feared the power that I was both blessed and cursed with." His smile broadened, as he ‘looked’ over at the golden-haired woman. "But the mind sees what the eyes cannot, girl. I can no doubt see you more clearly than you have ever seen yourself."

Avianne’s once-delicate features took on a puzzled look. "I don’t understand . . . what is this Power of which you speak?"

Once more, Malaxtres chuckled. "Watch, girl. And learn." He raised his hand and suddenly a swirling globe of green energy appeared inches from his palm. Malaxtres grinned toothily, as the ball rose higher and higher, swirling above his head, until with an abrupt motion of his hand, he sent the globe spinning off to explode against a mire-encrusted boulder. Malaxtres laughed softly as chips of stone flew in all directions from the force of the explosion. "Perhaps now you understand, girl?"

But Avianne no longer appeared to be listening. Instead, her eyes had gone glassy once more, and she stared fixedly at Malaxtres’ still upraised palm. The smile for once disappearing from his lips, Malaxtres’ brow furrowed in confusion. "What’s wrong now, girl?"

"That power . . . that you . . ." Avianne murmured, her eyes still taking on the glassy, far-away look. "Dargere can wield that power."

Malaxtres’ jaw seemed to clench, and his face took on a look of combined shock and horror. "Impossible! I’m the only one who can use it! No one else even knows! No one else is capable!"

Avianne’s eyes regained some of their focus, and she stared at where the blind-folded man’s eyes should have been. "You’re wrong. Dargere knows. He knows all too well." Without waiting for the bald man’s response, she strode off ahead of him into the swamp, seeming to pass right through brush and branches that slowed his own steps.

"Impossible! It can’t be!" Malaxtres’ jaw was still clenched, and a vein was pulsing on his shaved forehead. Angrily, he began burning a path through the brush with the greenish fire that leaped from his hands, easily reducing the tough underbrush to blackened ash. "Who is this Dargere?"

* * * * *

Once again, the companions had had to stop early for the night. Darkness was rapidly devouring the last of their daylight, and the brush was even thicker and tougher this deep into the swamp. They had just barely cleared an area for their campsite when the last rays of the sun disappeared into the carnivorous mist. The four travellers were squatting around the edge of their campfire, finishing off another dry meal of tasteless travel rations.

"Tell me, girl, are there any other than this Dargere who can wield my . . .this Power?" Malaxtres’ face was dark and serious, the infernal smile once more gone. Avianne seemed to ponder his words for a moment, staring into the fire as if its dancing flames held the answer.

"No," she answered uncertainly. "I never saw anyone other than him . . . but . . . he may have taught . . . others."

"Impossible," scoffed Malaxtres, as he clenched and unclenched his fist repeatedly. "It can’t be taught."

"All power can be taught," murmured Seithgeird, as he sat slowly and carefully sharpening one of his blades. "Just as all power can be learned."

Malaxtres appeared to glare darkly at the tall swordsman, a pose made all the more frightening by his apparent lack of vision. "Well, then if you’ll excuse me, I must rest to restore my energies. We will need them if this Dargere is even half as powerful as you claim, girl." The blind-folded man walked several feet away from the fire and settled himself as best he could on the marshy earth.

Meanwhile, Avianne’s glassy blue eyes were still staring into the fire, her gaze entranced by the fire’s exotic dance. Clearing his throat, Zerek spoke up.

"Not to be offensive, Avianne, but how do you think we’ll be able to defeat these men? From what you say, there may be hundreds of them, and there’s only four of us - though admittedly, one of those four is the mightiest warrior to ever walk this planet." The young man grinned humorlessly as he glanced over at Seithgeird.

"We must try," Avianne said simply, her blue eyes not quite focusing on Zerek’s face. "No one else will listen. We must free the people from their darkness . . ." Her hand, which had formerly rested comfortably on the pommel of her sword, now clutched the blade’s hilt in a white-knuckled deathgrip. "Dargere. If nothing else, we must kill him. Perhaps with him dead . . ." Her eyes were wider than ever now, and something darker than the light of the flickering fire danced across their glassy surface. Zerek nodded, emphasizing if not understanding.

"Why don’t you get some rest? You look wasted. Seithgeird and I can split the watch."

As if in a daze, the young woman nodded, and she wandered off until she found a shadowy place where she could be alone with her thoughts. All the while, Zerek’s blue eyes watched her go, his expression unreadable.

The swamp was silent now, except for the crackling of the fire and the metallic grating of Seithgeird sharpening his blade. His expression somewhat puzzled, the young aristocrat turned to the swordsman and spoke in almost a whisper.

"Seithgeird . . .I’ve been wondering. What is it like . . . to have killed?"

It seemed to take the Edgemaster an eternity to raise his eyes from his blade to meet Zerek’s. There was no wind in the murky swamp, and only the black headband kept the warrior’s unruly dark hair from blocking his vision.

"Killing is like the flow of water," he said slowly, his green eyes piercingly intense. "It begins as a trickle. It is nothing, harmless. The trickle flows into a stream, and at first the stream feels pleasant. It is soft, cool and convenient. But further down, the stream narrows and becomes more rapid, its waters rougher, until it becomes a vast, flowing river. The current of the river is fast, almost impossible to escape. Finally, the river empties itself into an endless sea, an ocean that stretches for infinity in all directions. But that is not the end. Slowly, the river will swell the ocean, until eventually it floods your entire consciousness, scouring away your very soul. After that, there is nothing."

Zerek listened intently to the blademaster’s words, every now and then dropping a hand worriedly to the guns that hung on his belt.

"Tell me, Seithgeird. How far is she? She must have killed before." His eyes left no question as to who ‘she’ was.

The man whom many called the Ravager turned his gaze of green fire to where the golden-haired woman tossed restlessly, murmuring something unintelligible in her sleep. "She is still in the stream, but she is at the point where the water starts to become rapid. It will not take much more before her fate is forever set." He frowned, his expression for once more sad than grim. "It’s ironic. She thinks she is hunting him, that she is the one in control. But really, he is pulling her towards him, just as a fisherman reels in his catch. She is powerless to resist, and she doesn’t even know it." Turning once more to Zerek, he raised an dark eyebrow curiously at the sandy-haired aristocrat. "Why are you with us?"

Zerek briefly met Seithgeird’s green-eyed gaze before replying. "Oh, I’m just along for the ride. I could ask the same question of you, though, Ravager."

Seithgeird, however, would not be driven off his topic. "You’re interested in her, aren’t you?" he stated simply. It was not much of a question.

Zerek, however, chuckled under his breath, a dangerous thing to do considering the man he was talking to. "Is that what you think?" His blue eyes narrowed as he looked over at the tall swordsman. "She intrigues me, yes. But you have to agree, she has a nice body. Admit it, even you wouldn’t mind spending a night in the sack with her if you got the chance, Ravager." Zerek grinned broadly, but the Edgemaster’s face merely darkened. Turning away from the young aristocrat, he strode fluidly to where the mists encircled the camp, his eyes somehow cutting through the vaporous wall and seeing what lay beyond.

"Sleep and wake, Zerek."

Catching the hint that the owner of the dark voice wanted to be alone, Zerek shuffled a few feet back from the fire and closed his eyes, his tired body drifting almost immediately into slumber.

Silently, Seithgeird pulled one of his blades from its sheath and held it up before him. He stared at it, seeking solace and answers from the sword that had long served him well. But the only thing he saw in the blade’s gleaming depths were his own two eyes, staring relentlessly back at him.

* * * * *

The heat seemed to grow greater and the humidity more crushing and oppressive as the companions pressed further into the swamp known as the Shadowed Blight. Fetid pools of greenish water bubbled on either side of the narrow path that they cut for themselves, releasing their gasses into the heavy air. The strip of dry land was so narrow, in fact, that they were forced to walk single file, Seithgeird leading the way as always, and Zerek bringing up the rear.

The sandy-haired aristocrat’s shirt, which once was a lacy white, was soaked through with his sweat, and he continually mopped his brow with a now-grimy silk handkerchief. However, he resolutely kept pace with the others, his blue eyes never leaving the woman who walked several paces ahead of him. That being the case, he failed to notice the hand that reached out of a marshy pool until it closed around his ankle.

"Aiiierrrgh!" he screamed, as the hand pulled him with an unearthly strength into the fetid waters and plunged him beneath their surface.

As one, the other companions spun around just in time to see the splash as Zerek disappeared into the murky depths. They had no time to react, however, as the water seemed to explode all around them as a dozen or more dripping, humanoid creatures burst from beneath the swamp’s marshy ground.

They were called the Forgotten. Hapless people whose lives had been taken by the swamp, their souls sucked away leaving only their ragged bodies. However, those soulless bodies made it their purpose to destroy any living being that unwittingly approached their hate-filled beings. Now, the undead creatures shambled forward, hands extended, hungering for the three companions to join them.

With a whisper of steely death, both Seithgeird and Avianne drew their blades from their sheathes, and prepared to face the horde of Forgotten. But before either could move another muscle, greenish fire suddenly fell from the sky, striking to the black, rotting corpses of the horrible creatures and reducing them to ash. As soon as the last of the creatures had fallen, the pillars of rippling fire winked out of the existence, leaving only the blackened remains of the Forgotten and wall of steam that rose from the now-scorched earth in their wake.

"Which power is the greater, Seithgeird?" came the hissing voice of Malaxtres, his tone mocking and contemptuous.

The Edgemaster didn’t respond. Sheathing his blades, he resumed his implacable pace through the swamp. "What’s done is done. And in the wake of destiny, we must move on."

The companions continued their winding way through the ever-watching swamplands. But now they were but three.

* * * * *

Morgoss, Chief Disciple of the Doom Order, almost touched his nose to the floor as he bowed down before the Order’s High Priest. Fifty years had come and gone and the fortress - Doom Fortress, as its creator named it - was virtually complete. In that time, the numbers of the Order had swelled as well, as more and more wandering ruffians were drawn by the growing legacy of the mysterious swampland "bandits", the Fortress itself acting as a magnet on their corrupted souls.

"The Central Altar is all but complete, your Holiness," proclaimed Morgoss humbly, raising his head, if not his eyes. "The Holy Pedestal awaits but your hand for the carving of the Sacred Script."

The High Priest of the Order, however, didn’t even nod his head at the words of his second-in-command. Instead, his dark eyes stared off into space, his expression vacant and distant. Unsure of how to respond to his master’s trance-like state, the black-robed man continued with his report.

"The Disciples are progressing well, Holiness. Their mastery of the holy Arts is exceeding even my expectations. Truly, it must be the hand of the One True God at work."

"At last . . . she is coming," murmured Dargere, his dead eyes still coldly distance. "After all this time, she is returning to me." Morgoss raised his eyes to stare at his master, obviously puzzled by the High Priest’s seemingly meaningless ramblings.

"Master, is there something . . .?"

"She is coming," Dargere interrupted, rising to his feet. His eyes once more found their focus and he stared down at Morgoss, his gaze stern. "Morgoss, we have little time. We will inscribe the Holy Pedestal at once." With a grating sound of steel on stone, the armored man strode out of the room, not even waiting for his Chief Disciple to follow.

"As you command, Holiness," Morgoss murmured. Gathering up his black robes, he scurried eagerly in the footsteps of his master. At long last, the High Priest’s dream would be complete.

* * * * *

It was the final morning. Somehow, she knew. On this day, she would arrive at the fortress. On this day, Dargere would be waiting for her. On this day, her sword would drink its share of his blood.

Avianne awoke groggily from a night plagued by dreams and nightmares. They blurred together in her consciousness, ingraining themselves in her deepest memory. She could recall parts of the dream. The Fortress towered over the rocky plateau, twice as large as she had last seen it. She could see the sky over the Fortress - dark, brooding, the silence before the storm. Most of all, she could see his eyes. That pair of coldly dead eyes that stared so deeply into her very being. She could hear his grating voice as well, echoing through the chambers of her soul and never dying away. Your blood shall run to serve the Lord of the Dark. Those were the two things she could never have forgotten. Wherever she looked she saw his eyes staring back at her, and wherever she went, she could hear his stony voice. Was tonight any different?

Trying to rub the night’s vision from her eyes, Avianne peered up to see the warrior Seithgeird standing several feet away, peering away into the mists. Stretching as she rose, she grasped the black-metal pommel of her sword and moved to join the tall swordsman.

"Where is Malaxtres?" she questioned, her voice sounding hollow and distant, at least to her. Seithgeird turned his eyes to his shorter companion, almost scalding her with their fiery intensity.

"He left during the night. He has gone on alone."

"But how does he . . . why?" Avianne too turned her eyes to the horizon, despite the wall of mist that blocked vision beyond a few dozen feet.

The Edgemaster shrugged his shoulders and raised the cowl of his cloak to shroud his face. "Come. There is nothing to be done. The time is at hand."

Avianne nodded, her shorter legs easily keeping pace with those of the taller bladesmaster as they began climbing the final stretch to the rocky plateau that was the heart of the Shadowed Blight.

The scarred, rocky plain was just as Avianne remembered it, and the now-completed fortress twice as black as the one painted by her memory. This time, though, the fiery crevices and shifting stone posed no problem for the golden-haired girl. The might of the land was as naught next to her iron-clad determination. So intent was she on the fortress that she did not even notice Seithgeird glancing toward her, his eyes full of sorrow and regret. Her time for sorrow and regret was over. It was time for vengeance.

"Avianne." The sound of Seithgeird’s voice finally shook her gaze from the fortress, and she turned the shining blue pools that were her eyes to the Edgemaster. "If your goal is to destroy this Dargere, then so be it. I’ll go in first to draw their attention, and then you can sneak in . . ." His voice trailed off as the young woman nodded. It was a suicidal plan, and he must have known it. But she was beyond caring now. Dargere was all that mattered. Dargere and nothing else.

"May the Gods walk with you, Avianne." Drawing his sword, Seithgeird saluted her once and then began loping towards the fortress, a hunter in his prime element.

"Seithgeird!" The dark-haired man stopped, turning around at the girl’s call. "Seithgeird . . .thank you. For believing."

The grim-faced man nodded once, and with a sweep of his cloak continued his path toward destiny. His green eyes were filled with sorrow, but not for himself. She is so young. She has yet to live. Blades at the ready, the man called the Ravager hurtled toward his meeting with fate, hoping fervently that the Gods would not damn her for his own weakness.

* * * * *

Chaos had reigned and fallen at the entrance to Doom Fortress. Charred bodies littered the stone floor, strewn about like broken rag dolls, their faces gaping and deceivingly innocent in death. At the apex of the destruction lay a crumpled form - a form dressed in grey and purple with a blindfold over his eyes.

However, the figure had not quite breathed its last. Weakly, it raised its head as it heard soft footsteps approaching.

"So . . .you’ve come at last."

Bending down next to the fallen figure, the face of Seithgeird the Ravager was unreadable even to the all-seeing mind of Malaxtres.

"Why?" was the Edgemaster’s only question.

Malaxtres chuckled softly, and the infernal smile somehow found its way to his lips. "Power will consume us all, Ravager. In the end, it always will. For you, as well as for me."

Seithgeird rose, ready to move on, but the fallen figure’s hand grasped weakly at his leg.

"Don’t lie to yourself, Ravager. You aren’t ready to die here. You want to use your power to destroy those who have wronged you. Destroy those who have ridiculed you. Destroy those who have laughed at you!" In a final feat of sheer will, Malaxtres raised his face above the ground and gestured to where his eyes should have been. "I could see once! I didn’t ask for the Power! They gave it to me, and for that they should pay!" His strength gone, his head sagged back once more.

Sadly, Seithgeird looked down at the thin, broken form. "You were wrong, Malaxtres. We were never the same."

The infernal smile broadened, and Malaxtres laughed aloud. "Slay them, Ravager! Slay them all!" The pitch of the beaten man’s laughter rose into a hysterical shriek, as he convulsed helplessly on the scarred stone floor.

Moments later, the man called the Butcher of Belsin strode resolutely through the now-silent corridors. A focused gleam was now in his eye and fresh blood had stained his sword.

* * * * *

It hadn’t taken Seithgeird long to find even more blood for his blade. His warrior’s instinct had lead him through the winding labyrinth to a room where a dozen men with dark steel armor gathered inside a circle of runes, oblivious to the blackness that descended upon them.

The bodies of those dozen men were already growing cold on the floor, but more had come, three times their number and more. In the midst of the dark tide of flesh and steel stood Seithgeird the Ravager, twin blades appearing as one with his arms, as he stepped effortlessly from one kill to the next, never once missing his mark. His blades always seemed to find the exact spot where each suit of armor was weakest, punching right through the rigid steel and sinking into the soft bodies within. The armored men swarmed about him, some clawing at him with their spiked gauntlets, others hurled bolts of bluish energy, and still more hacked with swords, axes and daggers at where the Ravager should have stood. Seithgeird’s swords were a blur of constant motion, deflecting a bolt of energy, turning aside a weapon and sinking into an opponent’s throat at seemingly the same time. Nevertheless, the attackers kept coming, the newcomers trampling callously over their fallen comrades, steel boots grinding flesh and metal alike into the stone floor.

In a whirlwind of blood and steel, Seithgeird spun around again, simultaneously opening the chests of three separate opponents. His heavy cloak had long since been discarded, and sweat had soaked all the way through his black tunic, mixing with the crimson blood that flew all around him. Long had his soul been a castaway in the vast oceans of his mind, and every scarlet drop that he spilled swelled that ocean even further. He could feel the flood rising within himself, crashing against the craggy shorelines of his spirit. There was no way he could stop and no way he could go back. Another man took the place of every one that fell to his blades, and the swarm that waited to face him grew nothing but larger. Dozens of energy globes whirled around him now, some striking home and singeing his skin and the blood that covered his arms and chest was not just that of his enemies’.

So this is what it feels like to be swept away.

The flood was unstoppable now. Slowly, a grin slipped its way onto Seithgeird’s face, just as his blade removed the head of yet another opponent. His swords, molten bolts of polished silver, had only now begun to slow beneath the crushing tide. Seithgeird’s smile broadened and his eyes abruptly lost their sadness.

At last, the time had come.

* * * * *

The yawning hallways lay empty for Avianne as she crept through the giant fortress, ornately carved sword in hand. Apparently, the Edgemaster had lived up to his name, for not a single guard had barred her path since entering the bastion of evil. Her big blue eyes, normally glassy and feverish, were for once as narrow and sharp as the blade she held in front of her. Silent as walking death, she glided through the halls, down a side passage, up a flight of stairs, down another hall, her heart guiding her where her eyes could not. Somehow, she could feel his presence. A dark grin split her lips, and her grip on her sword tightened. Finally, she would silence those eyes!

Suddenly, a dark steel door lay before her. Tentatively, she grasped the handle. Her mind strangely detached from her body, she watched as the door swung open almost of its own accord. The room that lay beyond seemed dark to her eyes, sparsely furnished and with a single glass window set into the far wall. Standing in the centre of the room was a tall figure dressed in tarnished black armor. The figure who for fifty years had haunted her dreams and plagued her vision. Dargere.

Slowly, the High Priest swung his gaze towards her. His eyes were just as she remembered them. Cold, dead and emotionless. His expressionless face seemed even more tired and haggard, and he stood the very image of a man awaiting his fate. Avianne’s eyes widened and she raised her sword. Neither spoke. Neither needed to.

In a seemingly surreal motion, Avianne lunged forward, her gleaming blade leading the way. Dargere still didn’t move. He made no effort to avoid the blow. Somehow, the tip of the sword found a gap in the man’s steel armor, and Avianne pushed the sword with all her considerable strength, sinking it in up to the hilt. Nothing less would kill this man.

Even as the blade pierced his flesh and crimson blood began to leak from his armor, Dargere still did not move. His dark gaze remained locked on Avianne, even as the glimmering light began to fade from his already dead eyes. Not able to tear her eyes away, Avianne stood motionless as her nemesis died in front of her. After an eternity, his form finally crumpled to the stone floor, the tip of her sword protruding from his steel back. His eyes never closed.

"Lord Dargere....NOOOOOO!!!!!" The scream came from the still-open doorway of the room. Turning to face the owner of the voice, Avianne found herself staring at the narrow, black-robed form of Morgoss the Disciple. With a snarl of utter rage, Morgoss flung forth his hand, pure hatred creasing his entire face. A blast of pure black energy slammed into Avianne, knocking her back through the air and right through the room’s single window. The shards of broken glass slashed her viciously as she tumbled helplessly through the portal down toward the black pedestal that lay in the centre of the room below.

Glass and blood fell tinkling to the stone around her as she landed square in the middle of the obsidian altar. Her golden hair still smoldered from the fires of Morgoss’ anger, and her blue eyes stared vacantly at the high domed ceiling of the room. She wanted desperately move, to get up, but her spine had been shattered by the small black bowl that was carved into the top of the pedestal. She opened her mouth. She wanted to call out. But all she could hear was the voice of Dargere.

Her eyes widened in horror as she saw her own blood run down the side of the pedestal, filling the narrow moat that ran around the base of the altar. She tried to scream, but still she heard only his voice.

She threw back her head and screamed again, a look of utter agony crossing her face. It was no use. Her blood continued slowly seeping to the stone floor as she lay dying on the unholy pedestal.

His eyes still watched her, colder than ever. Even from beyond the grave, he watched. She was sobbing now, her hot tears mixing with her blood as it ran into the moat.

It was over now. Dargere had won.

She screamed again, just as the glowing blue light began to fade from her eyes. She knew it was futile, but it was all she could do. And throughout the cold stone fortress, her agonized cries would echo, for eternity, in denial.