Darkness Falls Chapter 15

Anian looked at Tyus, his eyes narrowing for the things they had been told. It seemed an impossible tale to be sure, though both the Midgard and Albion before them were nodding in agreement at each image drawn for their understanding. That such a creature could exist in the realm was beyond belief, but that it was gathering the power of the relics for its own; that it might free itself of this cavernous pit and decimate the realms was a terror they could not entertain.

“I believe them,” Tyus said finally, the druid nodding as he did. “They have spoken only truths that I can see. They saved us from death at the hands of the succubus. For my copper, they are as they say they are.”

Anian nodded, and turned to the paladin that lay yet poisoned, his own head still aching from the battle with the succubus. The wizard knelt in concern for him still, her hand caressing his near-lifeless brow. She had beseeched the Hibernians to aid him, and while Anian had the power to draw the poisons from him, he was not willing until they could be made to understand the whole of their circumstance. Now that his understanding was complete, Anian moved to the paladin and readied his spell. All the others gathered around as well, for the life of the paladin was slipping away to be sure. His death would have been a profound loss to them all, and that they might yet pull him back from the brink of what lay before him was an answer to their prayers, one and all.

Anian lifted his hands to cast his spell when a voice cut through his concentration as his spell would have the poison.

“Not another word, druid, or I shall kill you surely.”

The entire contingency turned to see Jackmode standing with Tyus’ bow in hand, an arrow knocked and aimed in their direction. While the hero was not as well versed in the use of the bow as the ranger, surely, he was more than familiar enough with its aspect to see the deed done, should he desire it. The ranger cursed his own foolishness for leaving his weapon unattended, but the time had passed for self-recrimination.

“Have you both gone mad?” the hero demanded, his voice an enraged thunder through the underdark. “These are the enemy, joined to see us dead, and you would aid their fallen? Go on, villains! Speak your traitorous lies!”

Tyus stepped forward lightly, seeing that the troll and casters we readying their attacks. He motioned them down, and sighed deeply with relief as they seemed to abandon their intention. “Jackmode, it is me. You know me as well as any, and you know I would not risk our lives or our honor for such as these, but you must also know and hear what we now know and have heard. There is a danger here, and we cannot deny it. We cannot avoid it. We can only fight it, and fight it together.”

Jackmode looked to Tyus as though he had truly lost his mind. “I hear only madness in your voice, ranger. I thought I knew you, yes, but this that you seek now is treason! I’ll not have it!”

“He is not treasonous and he is not mad,” Anian argued, his voice a softer cut of reason. “We have watched the tale that these have told, marked for us in pictures and images. There is a greater evil in this place than they represent to us, or we to them. If your words are true, then why do we yet live? Why spare us now when they have the numbers and power to kill us surely?”

Jackmode hesitated, the bow in his hand wavering for his uncertainty. It was true that he had known both Tyus and Anian for a longer than he could recall, and both had always shown themselves to be loyal Hibernians, with no more a calling to treason than he himself, and yet this before him seemed the very picture of insanity. How could he bring himself to battle beside those he had only known to cross swords with in the past?

“Jackmode,” Tyus spoke on, his voice falling to a calmed tone, “let us tell you what they have told us. Let us explain to you, so you can know as we do. If, after hearing this tale, you still doubt, then so be it and we will deal with the situation then as it might be, but for the sake of Hibernia, by the Gods, please at least listen.”

As though a curtain had been raised and light allowed to enter a darkened room, Jackmode softened, at least to the point of willingness to entertain their words. He slowly lowered the bow, and the lifting of the spirits of everyone in the grotto was almost audible.

Would that it could have lasted.

Tyus smiled at Jackmode, the old friends meeting the others gaze. Tyus saw, perhaps more clearly than the rest then, the life’s spark slip from Jackmode’s eyes as the twin daggers of the assassin slid through his armor and buried themselves deeply into his ribs. No sooner has they cut flesh, they were pulled free once more. Before Jackmode could even comprehend the truth of what was happening, one of the daggers was drawn across his throat, his blood spurting freely for all to see.

Each in the room stood dumbfounded, unable to move in time to save the hero. Anian raised his hands to cast a healing enchantment, but it was too late. Jackmode fell to the ground, the light in his eyes fading to gray, the beating of his heart slowing to a stop, his last thoughts those of betrayal wants for vengeance.

By the time Tyus reached him, he was dead.

Helphdane looked on in horror as Eldorad ruthlessly cut down the Hibernian. Assassin and thane caught eyes for a moment, and inside of that instant, Helphdane was chilled to the absolute bone, for in those eyes he saw nothing of the man he had known. He saw only obsession and hatred and death. In those eyes, he saw the end to all that they had planned, and Helphdane, troll thane of Midgard, was afraid.

To the last, save Tyus, all in the chamber drew weapons and spells and moved after Eldorad, cursing his existence and swearing that they would find him and end his threat to all that they were, and all that they sought to do. They chased the assassin out into the main passageway, and each cursed him again when they discovered that he had vanished into the darkness.

Tyus knelt beside Jackmode, the hero’s head cradled in his lap. He watched as the last vestiges of life were bled from him, the hero’s blood staining the ranger’s hands and clothes. Tyus closed his eyes and whispered a prayer that Jackmode would be seen to the glory of the afterlife that the Gods held in reserve for those of honor and righteousness.

Tyus hung his head and let a tear wend its way down his cheek, falling onto Jackmode’s body. The pristine droplet glided across the hero’s flesh, merging with the blood that flowed freely yet. Tyus had to concentrate and keep from going mad as he took in the reality of what had just happened.

Jackmode was dead.

---

Panthius roared its anger across the planes of existence, the very rock beneath him trembling for its rage. It had dispatched the most powerful succubus to be had to destroy the invaders and take from their dead bodies the relics they yet carried. It had been confident that she would not fail him, and yet fail him she had. Its anger was only in part directed at her failure. The remainder of its rage centered around the fact that she was dead, and could not feel its wrath and ire.

Panthius moved to the sconces that held the relics it had in its possession. It could already feel the magical conduits flowing with the raw power the relics provided. It felt stronger than it ever had before, and with that power came the want to exercise that power. It raised its arms above its head, magical energy fairly cracking across its talons and arms. It roared once more, for its frustration at having all that it desired so close and yet be out of reach was more than it could bare.

Long moments passed and finally its howling ceased, though its rage burned ever darker. These that had come to Darkness Falls carried with them that which it sought to the exclusion of all other things. It had been folly to entrust the succubus with the task of gathering the relics.

This time, it mused, it would ensure that the task was completed.

And it would feast on the blood and the bones of those that it sought.

---

Brandt sat up, his head still spinning for the ordeal he had been through. He had come closer to death than he ever had before, the poisons that had wracked his system tearing him from life as surely as the assassin’s dagger, if not quite so quickly. Finally his head cleared, and he looked about him, Errine’s smiling face the first thing that he saw.

“Welcome back, M’lord,” she said joyfully, pleased beyond the knowing of it that Brandt had recovered.

“My thanks, Lady Errine, though I have to wonder at the cause of it. Those poisons should have seen me dead, and yet here I am…”

“We have managed to gather the Hibernians to our cause as well,” she said, the tone in her voice wavering between joy and anguish. “At least, two of them are with us.” Errine proceeded to tell Brandt of all that had transpired, the paladins face twisting in regret as she told him of the hero’s death.

“Where are they?” Brandt asked, a quiet demand in his voice.

Errine stood and helped Brandt to his feet. They walked into the grotto proper, and there he saw the troll, the norsewoman and the two Hibernians, though what caught his vision more was the dead body of the hero, laid upon the stone floor in one corner of the small chamber. Without a word, Brandt walked to the corpse and knelt beside it, offering his prayers that this soul night see the land of the Gods for all that he had sacrificed. He knelt there for long moments, his prayers as fervent and pious as any he had ever offered.

When finally he stood, he saw Tyus gesturing to Errine and Tylaara. He watched the silent exchange for a few moments before Errine turned to him, as Tylaara did to the troll.

“The ranger has asked the norsewoman and I to purge the remains of the Hibernian with mage fire. I think he cannot bare the thought of leaving his fellow’s body here to feed the denizens of this place.”

Brandt nodded slowly. “I think we have been here long enough,” Brandt said. “Cast the spells and let us be off. We have much to do.”

Helphdane, Brandt, Anian and Tyus moved to the chamber exit, leaving Tylaara and Errine standing side by side before them. At Errine’s nod, they both raised their arms and uttered their castings, the magical bolts hurtling from their hands incinerating the remains of the hero in less time than the telling takes. As the clouded smoke cleared, they could see that nothing remained of the hero save those pieces of his garb and weapons that refused to succumb to their magic.

Brandt nodded, spoke one more silent prayer, and then turned. “Let us be off.” His eyes widened in confused disbelief, however, for Tyus was nowhere to be seen. Brandt turned to Anian, who shrugged in confusion, for he had not seen the ranger depart. His attentions too were on the purging of Jackmode’s remains.

Helphdane too saw that the ranger was gone, and cursed a trollish curse. “Damn, Tyl, this isn’t working out at all.”

Tylaara nodded. “Where do you think he went?” she asked, looking at the others in the group but seeing nothing but confusion in their eyes as well.

The troll shrugged. “Who can say. I cannot understand these rogue types. No sense of honor or propriety,” he spat, and while Tylaara could not agree with him completely, she certainly sympathized with his point of view.

“Come my friend,” she said, noticing that Brandt was gesturing them onward. “We best move with the others.”

“And what of Eldorad?” Helph asked, for while he doubted that the assassin would attack them again so soon, he knew that he would attack. “he is one of our own. I think we are responsible to see his madness ended.”

Tylaara gave some thought to the comment, and nodded, though in truth, she had no idea how to go about doing that very thing. “I am open to suggestions, old friend.”

Helphdane was silent, for he had none to offer.

As they left the grotto, Anian walked to the makeshift altar and knelt before it, closing his eyes and offering a final prayer for the soul of his friend and realm mate. As he stood and moved to catch up with the others, his whispered his farewell, and hoped that he could put his grief behind him, for the sake of what they sought to do.

Darkness Falls Chapter 14

Tearor, Deceon and Ronin escorted their lurikeen prisoner back to the Midgard mile gate, though none of them wanted to present themselves in the role of captor. They had come to contact the Hibernians in the hopes of uniting themselves against whatever force this Panthius might be gathering. Instead, they had managed only to kill three Albion warrior and take captive she who might be their only link into Hibernia.

Tearor sighed. Not a particularly auspicious beginning, but then again, what more could he expect? He could not hope to simply erase a lifetime of realm hatred simply because he wished it so. All things being equal, he mused, they were not doing badly.

“Well, now that we have her here,” Ronin sighed, the arrow upon his bow not for an instant drifting from its target, “what do we do with her?”

Deceon’s fingers squeezed the bow string tightly, for it took every bit of strength in his dwarven bones to hold himself back from killing this before him. She was a member of a race that had killed more than he could count of his friends and guild mates. He had every reason on the face of the realms to see her dead, and the Gods forgive him, he wanted to kill her himself. Still, he was a rational dwarf (a character trait uncommon among the realm-hardened race); he knew that they were there to serve a greater purpose, and he would stay true to that purpose, no matter the cost.

Tearor slowly sheathed his weapons, making sure that the Hibernian’s eyes never left his. He then unbuckled his weapons belt and slowly removed it, tossing it lightly to the side, well out of reach.

“Be sure of what ye be doin’ lad,” Deceon warned. “These are bein’ among the fastest and deadliest o’ the realms. I’d be hatin’ to be killin’ her jus’ to be avengin’ ye…”

Tearor nodded at the dwarf’s warning, but continued on. He knew he had to gain her trust, if not her confidence, if they were to have success in what they sought to do. With measured motion, he raised both hands to the Hibernian, palms forward in a gesture of trust. He smiled thinly, though enough that he hoped she would see that he was sincere in his want to peace.

Eurbralgarfha watched the shadowblade before her carefully, her disbelief almost impossible to hide as he disarmed and discarded his weapons. She was temped then to attack him, and while the two arrows pointed her way certainly worked to dissuade her, she held back for another reason entirely.

Curiosity.

What could these Midgard want? They had every opportunity to kill her, and yet they had not. They could have left her to the fate that her Albion pursuers offered, and again, they had not. There was obviously a method to their madness, and she had to admit, she wondered what it might be.

Still, while she was curious, she was not stupid, certainly. She was not about to voluntarily abandon her weapons simply because her captors had made one gesture toward – what? Friendship? A truce? She was confused, and refused to place herself at more of a disadvantage until that confusion was resolved.

Tearor reached into his tunic and pulled free the parchments he had brought with him. They had taken a good deal of time to prepare, but in the end, he hoped that their usefulness would be worth the effort expended.

With careful movements, he unfolded the first parchment and laid it out on the ground before him. The Hibernian, however, refused to take her gaze from his. Her eyes were grounded in distrust, and thus far she had not been given reason enough to abandon it. Tearor shrugged his shoulders questioningly to her, and in answer she threw a knowing look at the hunters behind her. Tearor nodded and spoke a few words that Eurbralgarfha could not understand. The hunters exchanged worries glances, and then did as they were bade. Their weapons were lowered, and each removed the arrow from their bow, placing them in their respective quivers.

Eurbralgarfha was more confused than ever. They had just placed themselves very much in harm’s way, for she had faced worse odds before and come through alive. Were this any other scenario, she would not have hesitated. These would be dead already, but she could not shake the feeling that there was reason at work here.

Her eyes dropped to the parchment on the ground at her feet. Kneeling to get a better look, her eyes closed in pained remembrance, for there was a crudely drawn picture of all six relics, each drawn twice. The first drawing of each showed a glow coming from the artifact, denoting, she assumed, the magical power of the relics. The next picture of each had the glow removed, the relics looking pained and old, as though they had been buried in the very dirt of the realm itself for a thousand or more years.

Eurbralgarfha lowered her head. It was clear that these Midgard were trying to communicate something about the raping of their relics. Her first reaction was that they were somehow at fault, but she dismissed that thought immediately. If these drawings were to be believed, then all of the relics were so affected. No, their reason lay in another direction.

For the next several measures, Tearor laid out carefully drawn parchments communicating all that he knew. He told Eurbralgarfha of the demon, though he could not discern a manner to communicate its name. He told her of the attacks on Midgard, and she in turn made him aware of the like attack in Hibernia. And finally he made clear that the Midgard had sent a contingency into Darkness Falls to find and defeat the Greater Demon. Eurbralgarfha then remembered back to the battle where they had lost Jackmode, Anian and Tyus, and suddenly it made sense. They too have been taken to Darkness Falls.

Eurbralgarfha Shook her head at her own flawed logic. How could she know that? It might as easily have been nothing more than what it appeared; that they had been killed in the demonic attack. Still, she harbored hope; with a demon such as this that the Midgard had described, nothing was impossible.

Finally, Eurbralgarfha was made to understand their reason for taking her in the first place, but she balked at their suggestion. To think that the realms could unite, even under such a circumstance, was unthinkable, though she had to admit, she could think of no better reason to make the effort.

Eurbralgarfha looked at Tearor and turned over one of his parchments, taking from him the burned charcoal he had been using to write. She etched a small picture representing the rising of the sun, and them marked two notches beside it. With a smile, she stood, moved to the edge of the mile gate, and was gone.

Deceon moved to follow, but Tearor stopped him with a hard glance. “She will be back,” he cautioned, his eyes looking out over Emain Macha, wondering if they might actually have done some good.

“In two days, she will be back.”

---

Tyus parried another attack, the succubus growing angrier as the moments passed. She had made several attacks, all of which he had masterfully dodged, but they both knew that his time was running out. He could not defeat her alone, and she had seemingly limitless endurance. Sooner or later, her strike would land, and his life would be over.

The succubus turned sharply in midair, angling toward Tyus unexpectedly. He was taken by complete surprise, and he wondered how death would feel. Its coming would be painful, he knew, but to be held in its embrace must be a wondrous thing indeed. To be beyond the cares of the realm; beyond mortal concerns and worries; what a comfort it must be.

As it turned out, he would have to wait for the experience.

The energy bold and fireball seemed to strike the succubus as one, an eruption of magnificent color and grand effect all but blinding the ranger for its presentation. The succubus screamed and was knocked backward a good distance, and while it tried to remain in the air, its strength had been bled from it by the brutal attack. Another pair of bolts arched gracefully into the demon, and while Tyus had no idea what had happened, he knew an opportunity when it presented itself. His bow was in his hands quicker than he could acknowledge the thought of it. His first arrow met the demon’s chest, almost in time with the magical hammers that seemed to appear over its head and slam down upon it. More magics and countless arrows challenged the succubus, and in the end, there was no doubt as to the outcome. The succubus dropped completely to the ground, dead for the combined attacks.

Not a moment had passed after the death of the demon before Tyus had another arrow knocked and turned to face those that had saved his life. He felt almost a hypocrite for aiming his bow at those that had just spared him the indignity of a painful and bloody death, but he was not about to completely trust anyone.

Into his view came a troll, a norsewoman and an Albion spell caster, each standing in challenge. His bow looked somehow insignificant in context, and Tyus truly wondered for the outcome. His eyes moved from one to the next, each returning his gaze with a sympathetic turn. It was wizard though, whose gaze captured Tyus’ trust. He could not define what it was in her aspect that pulled at his misgivings, but pull it did, until they shifted into something more akin to reserved co-existence. Trust was too much to ask, at least it was so then.

The ranger lowered his bow and walked forward slowly, pleased that he had finally found these that he had sought. Even more pleased that he was able to make contact with them without the influence of Jackmode, for while the hero’s heart was certainly in the right place, his distrust of these would have made such contact impossible.

Tyus continued forward until he was standing in front of the others. A thin grin crossed the ranger’s face, and it was met with a wider smile from the wizard. Tyus shifted uncomfortably under her attentions, and turned to look at the troll. His battle hardened features spoke of the uneasy alliance they had forged, and while Tyus could see that this one would certainly by an asset in battle, it was equally clear that he had misgivings about their current situation.

Tyus chucked.

He could live with that.

The norsewoman offered the ranger her hand in friendship, and Tyus found himself suddenly nervous. He was about to flaunt a thousand years of history and Hibernian pride; trample the respect he had for all those who fought and died fighting these in years passed. Still, he knew his own heart and he knew right when he saw it.

The ranger gripped hands with the norsewoman, and somehow he felt vindicated.

Tyus then moved to kneel beside Jackmode, the hero still not recovered from his wounds. He lay unconscious, unmoving as though death had taken him. Anian was the same, though Tyus was confident that they would both recover, given rest and opportunity. He motioned to the others, and each moved forward, helping the ranger move his realm mates from the open chamber to the small grotto where Brandt lay poisoned still, death pressing at him yet.

---

Jackmode dreamed.

At first it was visions of home and hearth; of his time with his family and the joys of his youth. He could not know how long that dream had lasted, but he knew that he would have been content to have lived within that dream for the rest of always. As with all things, it faded too soon and moved through the cycle of his life, as though he were looking through a magical recall stone, and being allowed to relive the best of the life he had left behind. They were dreams of comfort and happiness, and he wondered why he had ever left such a life behind.

Soon, however, the nightmares intruded.

Demons haunted his dreams, wreaking the havoc in this thoughts that they did when they invaded Hibernia. He battled them in his dreams as he had at the keep. They were unstoppable however, and his began to thrash about in his sleep, wanting nothing more than to awaken and be away from such images.

Suddenly, the demons began to shift their aspect, and each took on the look of a Midgard or an Albion. He thrashed even more, determined to see his enemies dead for the sake of those friends that these might kill. In his mind’s eye, he killed them by the thousands and still they came, all with the same aspect of death undelivered; anguish unanswered.

Suddenly his eyes were open, and he closed them quickly, trying to make sense of the jumbled images that washed through his mind unchecked.
Where was he?

How had he come to be there?

He could hear sounds about him, though in truth they seemed innocuous enough. There was the sounds of armored feet crossing a stone floor; light breathing and talking, though the words spoken were beyond him.

With a carefully determined motion, Jackmode opened his eyes again, though he wished for all the realm that he had kept them closed. There stood Tyus and Anian, kneeling on the ground and etching what looked like the oddest drawings into the floor of the grotto with a troll and norsewoman.

Jackmode reached for his weapon but could not locate it. He was livid with anger at the betrayal of his realm mates, and he would kill them as easily and with as much joy as any he had known before if they had indeed sided against Hibernia.

He lay there quietly and unmoved, his very soul screaming out for release from this place, for what madness had forced the sheep to lay with the wolves?

He could not know the answer, but he swore on the grave of every Hibernian that had died during the realm wars, he would find out.

Remembrances

Wargolem's Goodbye

He held his small son on one knee as he opened the huge tome, the words on the page exploding out at him with the drama and the anger and the passion that had inspired them. His name was Walton, and he was a norseman, who had made his home on the shores of the river that ran through Camelot Hills. He had lived in Mularn most of his life, but when he had met and fallen in love with an Avalonian maiden, his heart and his soul was turned to Albion. After their son was born, they decided that the more temperate climes of Albion suited him best, and so they had moved their lives across the realms, finding a home at last.

Destria, his wife, came into the room and sat by the fire. She so loved to watch her husband and their son as they played together, though she had to admit she was not so fond when she saw him take that book down from the shelf. She knew well enough that his great-great-great-grand parents had been in the realm wars, and that he held a certain reverence for those times, but the wars had been over for more than two centuries. She would prefer to have let the atrocities of the past die sit unremembered. The stories the book contained may have been accurate historical accounts of the wars and those who took part in them, but to her it was nothing more than a withered remembrance of a time best left forgotten.

Still, she could not deny that Walton loved the history, and that he loved as much their son, and sharing those moments with him. If the vessel of their closeness was sometimes the histories of the war, then so be it. It was something she could learn to live with.

“…and the Hibernian forces fought bravely, but the rage of the Midgard warriors proved to be too much for them to hold back. The keep was taken, and the relic was returned to its home, where it sat for years, waiting for another realm so bold as to make the effort to take it again.”

Walton smiled as he reached the end of the tale, folding the tome closed. He ran his hands over the rich leather binding, his eyes drinking in the vastness of the book; not only its size but the things that it held; the stories it told and the glories it offered.

“Daddy,” the child whispered, for he knew that his mother did not like their talks of the realm wars. It made her sad, and he wanted to spare her that pain. “Why are the realm wars over?”

Walton paused a moment before answering. He had to admit that he was a prisoner of the glories and the romance of the history, though he wondered seriously if anyone could truly know what it was like to have actually lived through them. When he read to his son from the book, he was, of course, careful to make sure that he did not read of the blood letting and the atrocities of which the book spoke. They were almost too much for him to take, let alone his son. No, there was no need for his son to know the harshest realities of war.

“A lot of people died during those wars, son,” he said, laying the book aside and pulling his child close. “War is not a good thing, you have to remember. So many people get hurt, and so many die. There is pain and death, and while it oftimes brings out the best in us all, it can also bring out the worst. In the end, all three realms finally realized that there was more to be gained from peace than from war.”

The child sat thoughtful for a moment. “Is that why the relics were taken from the keeps?”

Walton laughed, impressed that his son remembered. “Yes it is. They knew that as long as the relics existed, there would be reason for the wars to continue, so they took them all into Darkness Falls and cast them into the lava pits, one at a time. Once the relics were gone, so was the need for the wars.”

“I’m glad there is no more war,” Walton’s son said innocently. Walton smiled ironically, for his son had spoken an eternal truth, no matter that his child’s mind could not see it.

“So am I, my son,” he said, hugging him tightly, “so am I.”

Destria stood and walked to her husband, caressing his face lovingly before lifting their son into her arms. “Its time for bed, young one,” she smiled. The child wriggled out of her arms and dropped lightly to the ground. Before he followed her want to his bedroom, he ran to the huge portrait that hung across one entire wall of the small house. He hugged the picture as though the image within were real, and then scurried off to his room, Destria close behind.

Walton stood and walked to the portrait and smiled. He remember the fight he and his wife suffered when he had it commissioned. She wanted no part of it, for she had said that he who was captured upon the canvas was one she could not respect. She could not allow his likeness to be so much a part of their lives, no matter that he was Walton’s distant relation. It had taken weeks of persuading before Walton had finally convinced her to relent. She could not know how proud he was of his ancestor, for he had lived and fought and died for the greatness of Midgard. He had led troops into battle and had commanded some of the greatest victories the realm had known. To simply forget him in the reality of history seemed wrong, somehow. The picture might not be much; it was, after all, nothing more than paint and canvas, but to Walton, it was a monument to all the Midgard had been, and all that it had become.

Walton lit a pipe and breathed the smoke in deeply as he looked reverently at the man captured there. In many ways, he wished he had been alive during the realm wars, or that his long dead relative was alive today. What was he like? What did he hold dear? What were his passions, his sorrows, his pains? How did he come to command so well, and cause such a ripple in the history of the realm?

Walton sighed, for he knew these were questions that were lost to time and to history. Still, as long as he breathed and could speak, the man in the portrait would never be forgotten.

As he turned to leave the room for their bed chamber, Walton stopped and looked at the portrait one last time. As he spoke, he felt in part the fool, but he felt as well that perhaps somehow, someway, his ancestor might hear his words.

“You may be gone, Wargolem, but rest in eternity, for know that you shall always be remembered.”

Darkness Falls Part 13

Tearor, Ronin and Deceon moved through the light copse of trees and open grasslands of Emain Macha. Each was cloaked in the shadows of the terrain, their natural hiding skills protecting them from the venom of the enemies they might encounter.

Tearor looked about him as they moved, memories of the bloody battles held in these lands washing over him like an unbearably cold rain. He had seen much bloodshed in his life to be sure, and he had spilled more than his share of it. He had hunted the enemy with passion, and had killed with regret when he was forced to do so. He had lost count of the lives he had taken, and while there existed a very real part of him that regretted each life he had extinguished, he knew as well that he had acted, and acted rightly. Still, he could not move past the irony that the current situation lay upon him. With the number of times he had come to this place as a killer, how mad was it then that he had come now as a emissary of cooperation?

The shadowblade shook his head. This was not the time for self-indulgent musings. There were matters about requiring attention, and a lapse in his concentration could see them all dead.

Emain was still, the softest of breezes blowing across the hills and flatlands, and for an instant, the threesome threatened to forget the import of their task, and lose themselves in the gentle hues and calming shade around them.

A scream from the west tore their fantasy asunder, and each turned to follow the sounds and see what was to be seen. Tearor led the way, his weapons pulled free and his heart pounding, though battle was not that which took him to heart this day; it was the opportunity that he hoped would present itself to them.

As they crested the hill that spilled into the flatlands in front of the Albion Mile Gate, all three stopped as they witnessed three Albion warriors pursuing a Hibernian, their swords raised and their intentions only too apparent. The Hibernian was clearly injured, her steps faltering the shadow of pain, and the Albion attackers had obviously no compunction about killing a wounded enemy.

“Our chance,” Tearor whispered loudly, nodding to Ronin and Deceon. The Hibernian was running toward them in an effort to reach Dun Craunchon, though they could see that even she knew that it was beyond her reach. Tearor vanished, moving off out of sight, leaving Ronin and Deceon to do what they must.

Deceon raised his bow, sighting his arrow. “Be sayin’ when,” he almost spat, his dwarven nature coming to bare in light of the circumstances they faced. Ronin lifted his bow as well, both hunters waiting with baited breath for the signal that would loose their arrows into their intended targets.

---

Eurbralgarfha ran as she had never run before.

She had been dispatched to Emain Macha to discover anything she could about enemy incursions into Hibernian territory. With the relics bled of their power, and the people of Hibernia bled of their passion, they all realized that the other realms might well take advantage of their weakened state, and seek to invade. Surely the attack by the demons was some kind of forerunner to a full scale invasion, at least many of the Hibernian leaders felt that such was so. Eurbralgarfha was not so sure. Hibernia had been crippled by the loss of their relics, and had not the Midgard relic that they had captured been so affected as well? It made no sense to her that the other realms would attack them while they themselves suffered the same fate? Still, she was not the maker of realm policy, she was simply a tool of that policy.

She had arrived at the Albion Mile gate uneventfully enough, her form hidden from view. She had stationed herself on top of the gate and simply waited, her eyes as keen as her senses, until finally, three of her enemy finally chose to arrive. Her weapons were in her hands as quickly as she could hope, though her thoughts were not on her defenses. She merely sought to stay hidden from sight until she could determine how many more there might be. If these three were the entire contingent of the Albion force, then she could happily report back to her superiors that all was well in the frontier.

She could not be sure how they had managed to discover her presence. Perhaps it had been a fateful reflection of the sun, or maybe one of those that she spied upon had heard an errant sound that had carried her to their attention.

It mattered little. She had been revealed, her life was in very real peril.

Eurbralgarfha had jumped from the top of the Mile Gate, landing with the grace that her profession had offered. She ran then, faster than she had thought she was able, for her enemies were not satisfied with her discovery. They were out for her blood, and would be happy with nothing less.

She ran toward Dun Craunchon, knowing that the fort was her only hope for salvation, and while she was tiring quickly, she knew that she had enough of a lead on her pursuers to see her to her destination safely. She knew then that she was safe. Her thoughts of freedom were torn from her, however, when the cross-bow bolt suddenly appeared in her right leg. She staggered, stifling a scream of pain, but pushed on, more determined than ever to reach a place of relative safety.

Suddenly, two Midgard hunters appeared before her, their bows raised and drawn. She thought for an instant that she was dead, until she noticed that the bows were not aimed in her direction. Before she could react, they had loosed their arrows, the shafts arching past her, and if the screams could be judged as evidence of such, into her Albion attackers. She risked a turn over her shoulder and saw that two had been felled with the arrows, and a third Midgard engaged the last of the Albions, his axe and blade cutting deeply into the Albion’s intentions. Before a breath was taken it was over, the Albion laying dead beside his compatriots, and Eurbralgarfha eager to be away from the entire situation. She turned to finish her run to Dun Craunchon, intending to offer a nod of thanks, when she found herself facing down the two hunters, their bows at full draw, though this time the arrows were most decidedly pointed at her.

The lurikeen held her ground, knowing that she was most likely dead, though all doubt would have been removed had she attacked. She was outnumbered and stood not a chance in this fight, should one arise, and escaping was a dream she dare not indulge. She was forced to simply stand, and wait.

---

Brandt coughed up another mouthful of blood, Errine looking more and more concerned as the time passed. She had lost track of how long they had traveled, though it was long enough that even the troll was tiring, and they found their way to a quiet grotto, hoping upon hope that it was out of the way enough that they would not be disturbed.

The wizard watched as the norsewoman knelt beside her and brushed Brandt’s hair from his eyes, and smiled at Errine with a smile of confidence, sincerity and most telling, trust. The wizard only nodded back, and retuned to her wok of caring for the paladin. She had no idea what lay ahead, but she prayed that whatever the future would bring, that it would see fit to cure Brandt of the malady that had possessed him.

Tylaara moved back to stand with Helphdane, who had taken rest near the entrance to the small cave, his eyes never leaving the path that they had followed. He had seen enough of this place to know that they were never safe, though he was damned if he was going to allow these in his charge suffer for that circumstance.

“How is he?” the troll asked, his concern for the paladin all too real. In truth, his concern was not a personal thing, but a means to an end. They needed these that they traveled with in full measure if they were to see their task through, and the paladin’s death would be a crippling blow to be sure.

Tylaara shook her head as she approached him. “He breaths. He is warm. For now that is all that he can claim. I know nothing of the deeper effects of Eldorad’s poisons. Only the Gods know how long the effects will last. They may even kill him, if nothing is done.”

Helphdane slammed his fist into the wall, his anger spilling across his usually even temperament. “And the only one of us that might have been able to heal him, Eldorad chose to kill. Damn him and his blades…”

Tylaara fell silent, for she knew her friend’s anger, and knew it well. The assassin may very well have doomed them all with his prejudices. She had hoped that his attacking Dreadkane Dwarfeater was an act of desperation by a man eager to side with his fellows in a task that was both necessary and potentially lethal. More, she was learning, it was Eldorad’s hatred of the enemies of Midgard that had guided his hand, and with those enemies held so close, he would be trying for their lives again, she knew.

“We can’t stay here,” she said finally, as though she were telling Helphdane something that he did not know. The troll simply nodded slowly in response, and took a step toward the fallen paladin. As though to accentuate the point the Tylaara had made, a low rumbling seemed to drift upward from beneath them. It was soft at first, as though some great being were shifting the rock from a thousand leagues below. It grew louder as the moments passed however, and before long it was as though it were in the chamber with them, its voice demanding attention and its intentions nothing like clear. After a few moments it died away again, leaving the threesome with a lingering emotional after-effect. It might not have been a sound they recognized, but it was an emotion they knew all too well.

Helplessness.

---

Tyus listened at the entrance to the grotto, his form as still as the rock, his attention as focused as the concern within. It had been easy enough a task to track the Midgard and Albion wandering about, at least it was so for a ranger as experienced as Tyus. Jackmode and Anian held their place behind a rock formation a good way behind him, awaiting his report. As the moments passed, he gathered what little information that he could and made his way back to the others.

“What word?” Jackmode asked hurriedly, as though his life hung in the answer he sought.

Tyus looked back from where he had come, to ensure that none followed. “There are four, two Midgard and two Albion. One of the Albion, a paladin I think, is injured badly. It looked as though he had been poisoned, though I cannot be sure.”

Jackmode grinned at this last piece of information. “Excellent. If he dies, then perhaps a rift might grow in their ranks. It must already be a winsome union. Perhaps this is what we need to gain our advantage.”

Tyus sighed.

He knew that Jackmode was a vengeful sort, and that his hatred garnered through the realm wars real enough, but he had hoped he would come to the understanding of their need for the others if they were to see themselves free.

“Jackmode,” Tyus spoke slowly, measuring his words with care, “are you sure that fighting these we follow is what we wish to do?”

Jackmode threw Tyus an expression of both anger and confusion, though the ranger knew that anger ruled the moment. “What are you talking about? What madness is this?” The spear bearer fairly spat his words at the ranger, his ire raging forward for the implication.

Tyus almost regretted having said anything at all, but he simply could not stand and watch as their collective fates were sealed. “Can you not see? They are as trapped here as we, though in truth I sense that they know more of this place than we. If we antagonize them now, kill them so that not one is left standing, then we lose everything that they have learned. We blindly push by an opportunity to understand what they understand, and for what? For the spilling of more blood!”

Jackmode let the thought filter through him for a moment. To ally with an enemy realm was death back in Hibernia, and he had, until that moment, discounted the possibility, simply for the madness of it all. Still, he could not deny that Tyus was right. If they were to learn anything as fast as they needed to know it, then the chance at hand might be more than worth the risk.

The roar that called to their attention pulled them from their thoughts, and brought their consideration to that which they assumed would be their deaths. A succubus, standing better than seven foot high at the shoulder, hovered in the air behind them, its worn and weathered wings beating with the confidence of a killer who had found at last, her pray. She held a look of motivated loathing, saliva dripping freely from her mouth. It ran down across her chest and legs, and her wings began to beat with eager anticipation.

It was an anticipation it would not have to suffer for long.

Tyus moved first, throwing himself over the cover stones and rolling to his feet a good way from his comrades. His bow fairly jumped into his hands, as eager for the fight as Tyus himself. He waited a moment, giving Jackmode the chance to do what he knew the hero would. Surely enough, a moment later, Jackmode threw himself from the relative safety of the rocks and into the arms of the succubus, his spear leading the way. The instant that the demon’s attention was on Jackmode, Tyus released his arrow, not even watching it fly before knocking and firing another.

Jackmode felt his spear sink into the thigh of the succubus, causing her to fly back several turns, out of his reach. She hissed her anger for her wounding and lashed out with her left wing. She seemed to reach out impossibly far, and struck the hero across the side of the face, sending him reeling. Jackmode dropped his spear as he feel, landing hard, and had he the capacity to think such things, he would have wondered if he would ever see he light of day again.

The she-demon turned her attentions to the ranger then, for the third in the party had done little but try to heal Jackmode, and had not garnered the beast’s attentions. It moved on Tyus with a stalwart resolution that the ranger had to admire. He dropped his bow and drew his swords, for it was clear that this would not be settled with bow and arrow, but with talon and steel.

The succubus dropped to the ground and jumped at Tyus. The ranger managed to side step the attack, and swipe at the she-demon as it passed him by. He had thought that he was clear of attack, but the succubus lashed out with her leg as she passed, striking the ranger solidly across the chest. As he staggered back, Tyus was thankful indeed that it had been a glancing blow, for even as such, he had felt the impact indeed. A more focused attack would have seen him to his maker, of that he had no doubt.

The succubus righted herself and immediately began to stalk her prey, her clawed hands opening and closing in anticipation. The clicking of her talons on the stone floor send a chill through all who had the misfortune to hear it, and her eyes screamed for the blood she knew she would shed. Anian settled in to aid Tyus, casting a healing enchantment. The ranger nodded his appreciation and moved to close with the she-demon once more, determined that the fight would be his. Anian pulled free his mace and joined with Tyus, the sight of Jackmode prone on the stone floor fueling his anger and his want for revenge.

The succubus snarled her anger and her pleasure at the confrontation, her right had lashing out at the druid as they closed the distance. Anian dodged the attack, though the succubus was as skilled in the ways of battle as she was in the ways of death. As the druid moved, a spell leaped from her hands, Anian catching the full impact of the magical blast in the chest. He staggered back, dropping to one knee, for the blow had been vicious indeed. Blood dripped from a thousand small gashes in his chest, and his breath drew short. He lifted his eyes and looked on as Tyus made to cross blades with the succubus once more. Anian whispered a prayer as best he could, and wondered if the Gods could even hear him in such a place.

Tyus parried an attack from the succubus, but knew in his heart this his time may very well have come. He had seen both Anian and Jackmode fall, with the succubus barely injured at all for the battle. This was an evil he had never known before, and while his pretended bravado had carried him into the fray, the painful reality was what threatened to see him dead for it.

The succubus flexed her wings and took flight, circling the ranger slowly, with but one painfully obvious thought on her mind, and Tyus seriously wondered if he could save his own life in what was to come.

As the succubus angled toward him, talons extended, Tyus readied his stance. He might die this day, but it would not be without the blood of the she-demon on his blades.

Cold comfort, he knew, but it was all he had. His blades warmed in his hand, his thoughts offered prayer to his realm mates and the understanding he was leaving behind, and then the succubus attacked.

Darkness Falls Part 12

Tyus moved through the halls of Darkness Falls, invisible to any that might be skulking about. He had passed demons and succubus’, familiars and more, and for the first time in his life, he knew true fear. These were not the same beasts and monsters that inhabited the home he had been taken from, certainly. This was a new breed of terror, one that he was not sure that he and his realm mates would survive. He had thought and thought again on Jackmode’s tirade. Yes he had aided the Albion and Midgard that they had come across, his first instinct having been that they were as imprisoned in this place as he; that perhaps cooperation was most sensible means to freedom, and that perhaps laying the groundwork for a truce of sorts was a strategically sound idea. Jackmode had obviously disagreed, but with the vile beasts that he passed in his trek through the pit, Tyus realized more and more that his heart had guided him well. He had made the right decision, and peaceful sleep would come to him surely, comforted by that face alone.

All he needed to do then was convince Jackmode and Anian. The druid was not a concern, for Tyus knew him to be a level headed sort, and while he did not know him well, his limited experience was enough to convince him that Anian would see the light.

Jackmode was another matter.

Still, Tyus knew that he had to make the effort, no matter how fruitless such an effort might be. He turned and started the trek back, his thoughts consumed with the confrontation that awaited him when he arrived.

He had not taken more then four steps to return to his compatriots when the scraping of talons on stone captured his attention. He halted all movement, his fingers closing tightly around his knocked arrow. He might die this day to one of the denizens of this horrific place, but he would not, he swore, die alone.

He turned his head slowly, only to see a daemoness, hovering in the air a few feet above the ground, its right hand clawing marks into the stone itself. It was female, that much was obvious, though it was hideous in the extreme. It reminded the ranger of the pixie’s of home, though this was a far more malevolent breed than he was used to. His eyes settled on the talons for a moment, the wicked claws raking deep gouges in the stone. He could only imagine what such strength could do to his flesh, and in truth, he had no desire to know the truth of it.

More than that, however, he was unnerved by the fact that the beast stared directly at him, as though it could see him through his invisibility. He pushed the thought out of his head and moved on, for manner of monster could see through that which held him from sight?

A step further, and it was made all to clear to him that the daemoness could indeed see through him, despite his abilities. She screeched her rage to the under-realm and flew directly at him, her talons outstretched before her. Tyus raised his bow and pulled it to full draw, knowing beyond knowing that, once loosed, the arrow would surely hit its mark, and yet, something held his hand. Perhaps it was the tilt of the beast as she came to him, or perhaps it was something less tangible. He could not know, and in the end, it mattered little. Tyus trusted his instinct and held his arrow, hoping upon hope that he would live long enough to know if he had made the right decision.

The daemoness hurtled by him, her talons only a hair’s breadth form his face. The demonic familiar that was her target took her talons full in the face, blood spattering across the stonework of the underdark. The familiar reared on its hinds legs and made an effort to return the assault, but the daemoness had flown out of reach, the blood of her victim still dripping from her talons. The ranger could barely comprehend what had happened, for the daemoness had indeed saved his life.

Tyus made the most of the opportunity, and loosed his arrow. If flew true, imbedding itself in familiar’s chest as it reared, and the beast toppled over, as dead as Tyus would have been without the daemoness’ intervention. The she-demon flew in a small circle above the ranger, her eyes upon him, though he could not interpret her intention. He readied another arrow, though he held back drawing the bow, at least until he could be more certain of her want.

She circled a few more times, flying almost lazily, and then landed a short distance away from the ranger. Her eyes lay across Tyus, a thin smiled crossing her face. Tyus took in the entirety of her aspect. She was just a hand shorter than he, her wings looking as though they were made of the same leather that he wore. Her legs were bent in the same orientation as a bird, though they were well muscled, the talons accompanying still thick with the blood of the familiar. Her torso and face were that of a woman, and if Tyus were true to himself, a beautiful woman at that. Her eyes looked through his countenance and touched him, though he could define precisely how. Her face held a bearing of great sadness, and more than fear, and Tyus felt a certain sympathy.

The daemoness opened her mouth, the sound emanating from her wafting to him gently, though he could understand none of it. More akin to a whispered whistling than the spoken word, her voice communicated to him the same melancholy as her eyes, and his heart went out to her all the more.

“Are you a prisoner here as well?” he asked out loud, though he did not receive nor expect a response. “Are you alone?”

The daemoness tilted her head quizzically, chirped a response that was beyond his comprehension, and then she was gone, her wings carrying her to the shadowed heights of the passageway. Tyus’ eyes followed her for as long as he was able, but soon enough she was gone, even the sound of her wings fading into the blackened depths before him.

Confused and more than a little mystified, Tyus stealthed once again, and made his way back toward Jackmode and Anian.

---

Brandt Ironwolf had known anger before in his life, but the worst of that was dwarfed by his absolute rage this day. They had met with the Midgard, and had forged something of a mutual agreement, if not complete trust. He had come to meet them in the spirit of cooperation, with hopes that they were more than their reputations demanded; that they would see the futility of carrying on aggressions when the world they found themselves within offered enough for all. His hopes had been buoyed at their meeting, for they seemed as eager as he for a truce, and all that seemingly remained was the details of their alliance.

And then they had murdered Gabryl.

Both he and Errine had heard the struggle, and, after retrieving his sword from the ground at his feet, they ran to investigate, the Midgard close behind. They rounded the stone behind which Gabryl had hidden, only to see his lifeless body prone on the ground, his skin already turning blue for the blood that had been stripped from him. His eyes lay open in stark confusion and accusation, and upon seeing him there, Brandt felt guilt and anger, but more than this, he felt the demand for vengeance.

The paladin whirled about, his fist clenching and his sword rising before him.

“Deceivers!” he screamed, his rage only too evident in his voice. “I trusted you and this is how you repay my trust?” Her ranted on, and while the Midgard could not understand what he was saying, they could read well enough his tone.

Helphdane, having taken back his hammer as well, lifted it before him in defense, for he could only assume that Brandt was on the attack. “Damn Eldorad!” he screamed, for it was obvious that the shadowblade had perpetrated the attack on the cleric. His hammer deflected the slash of the blade, sparks flying for the attack. He stepped forward and returned the attack, though his response was half-hearted at best. He could only imagine how he would feel and react if he had found one of his own murdered by those he had hoped to ally with. His hammer was blocked by the paladin, but the trolls immense strength had staggered him. Helphdane stood back several paces, refusing to advance the attack. Enough damage had been done by Eldorad and his foolish actions. The thane was damned is he was going to be party to making a bad situation worse.

Errine saw Brandt attack, and immediately a spell came to her lips. She raised her staff and looked to the norsewoman, knowing the she had to kill the caster if she was to ably support Brandt. As her eyes fell across her target, she found the spell dissipating, almost of its own accord, for the look she saw in the eyes of her enemy told her a world of truths. She saw there remorse and pain for the death suffered; she saw anguish over the battle that had ensued, and more than anything, she saw hopelessness, for Brandt had been right. These Midgard knew well enough the price of failure, and without aiding each other, that failure was assured.

Errine nodded at Tylaara and smiled weakly, turning her attention to Brandt and the troll. Helphdane worked to merely parry the attacks, while Brandt was blinded by rage and sought only the death of those he called betrayer.

Suddenly Brandt screamed in agony, a pair of daggers plunging deeply into his ribs. The wicked blades slipped expertly between the pates of his armor, the wielder an practiced in avoiding the nuisances that even the heaviest armor can provide. Helphdane had seen Eldorad appear behind the paladin, but was unable to do anything but watch as the assassin plied his trade once more, seeking the death of another enemy of his realm.

Brandt dropped to his knees, the agony more than he could ever have imagined. Was this was Gabryl felt before he had died? The paladin whispered a prayer for the soul of his friend, for if he had departed the realm in this pain, he was pitiable indeed.

Errine stood as still as a statue, her eyes widened in horror, and she cursed herself for being taken so by surprise. She screamed, a terror she had never known swallowing her whole, to the point that she knew was too stunned by the circumstance to aid her friend.

As fate would have it, she would not have to.

It was impossible to say which hit the assassin first, the magical bolt that Tylaara had loosed, or the hammer that Helphdane had thrown in rage and in disgust. Which struck first hardly mattered to the point. The assassin took both attacks to the chest, and was hurtled backward, stopping only at the discretion of the stone wall behind him. He sank to the floor, unconscious before he had hit the wall.

Errine was to Brandt’s side in an instant, working to free him of the armor he wore. With Tylaara’s help, his breast plate was on the ground finally, the wizard tearing pieces of cloth from her tunic in an effort to stem the flow of blood from the wounds. They were deep, that much was clear, but the depth of the wounds was not what worried her.

It was the poison.

Already the flesh around the wounds had begun to turn a dim shade of green, and Errine had seen enough of the assassins to know the foul workings of their toxins. In but a few measures, Brandt’s entire body would be given over to the foul venom that ran through him, and with a healer of impressive ability, there was nothing they could do to stop it. The paladin lay unconscious, his body having given in to the inevitability of the attack. Errine lifted her head and looked to Tylaara pleadingly.

“We have to help him,” she said sternly, though she felt the fool for talking at all. The norsewoman could not understand her certainly, but Errine hoped that she understood well enough.

Helphdane moved to where Eldorad lay unconscious on the ground, his body twisted at a painful angle. He lay his trollish hand before the kobold’s face, breathing a sigh of relief that the assassin yet lived.

“Foolish kobold,” Helphdane whispered, his head hanging low for the circumstance that Eldorad’s blades had out them in. “Why so much hate…so much rage…to make you abandon our reason for being here, simply to sate your anger?” The troll spoke as though he expected the kobold to answer. Instead, he simply lay there, his injuries holding him to silence.

“Helphdane, Tylaara called out, bringing the troll back to Brandt’s prone form. “Eldorad poisoned him with those damned blades of his. Without a healer, he will die for certain.”

Helphdane looked to both Errine and Tylaara, though he had no words of comfort to offer, no phrases of reassurance to buoy their spirits. All he had, all each of them had, was a whisper of hope that their time in this place would not be wasted.

The troll stood and lifted the paladin across his shoulders, careful not to aggravate his already serious wounds.

Errine looked with a near panicked expression as the troll hoisted her realm mate onto his massive frame. Tylaara spoke with worry as well, for while she trusted Helphdane, she had no idea what he planned.

“What are you doing? Know you a place to cure him?”

Helphdane shook his head. “No, I do not, but I do know where the cure will not be found, and that is here. Whatever our destiny, it lay in the heart of this place.” With a calming smile, Tylaara assuaged any fears that Errine might have had, though both runemaster and wizard knew that she would worry non-the-less. With that, the troll turned to call Tylaara to bring Eldorad along with them, but the sight that greeted him froze him to the bone, for the assassin was gone.

The three companions exchanged worried glances, for there was another danger that would haunted them in the underdark, and this one was by far more dangerous than the demons.

This one could think.

This one could kill, and kill easily.

This one was Eldorad.

---

As the three some moved off down the tunnels with Brandt weighing tightly across Helphdane’s shoulders, Jackmode, Anian and Tyus looked out after them.

“We should kill them now,” Anian spoke softly, for while he was by nature a less violent man, he knew an advantage when he saw one.

Jackmode stared for a time, then shook his head. “If they are allied, and it seems that this is likely given what we have just seen, then we best bide our time. An open fight would teach us nothing. These have allied for a reason, and we best find out what that reason is if we are to be victorious.”

The three moved off through the tunnels, eager to discover the secret behind the apparent alliance that Midgard and Albion shared. Tyus quietly moved ahead, hiding himself from the prying eyes that lay before him.

“I will know their hearts,” Jackmode hissed quietly, or I shall surely feast upon them.”

Tyus heard his vow, and grimaced inwardly. He was still convinced that their path out of this place lay with those they followed. He would find a way to do what he knew he must, no matter if Jackmode spoke otherwise. Tyus would do what he must to see them home again, and if that meant waltzing with the enemy, so be it.

He would see them all home.

Or he would die in the trying.

Darkness Falls Part 11

Brandt took his place at the entrance to the chamber where they had encountered the demons and the Midgard. It had been a hard task indeed to convince his fellows that trying to side with those they warred with above was in their best interest, but in the end both Errine and Gabryl had come to see the logic, if not the desirability in his plan. Of course, he would have preferred their enthusiasm, but if he could not have that, then their agreement would have to be enough.

“Are you sure they will come?” Errine asked, concealed behind the same rock that hid her compatriots. “What makes you think they will return here?”

Brandt answered without taking his eyes from the exit that the Midgard had taken. “I am assuming that they have intelligence beyond bloodlust. They have to know of Panthius as well; what other reason could bring them here? Reason holds that we need each other. I am hoping that they see this as well, and if so, they would do well to search for us where last we saw each other.” The paladin turned to Errine, the concern in her eyes only too clear. “Worry not, M’lady. It is a fine line we walk between betrayal and salvation, but know in your heart that what we do is right.”

“Bah!” spat Gabryl, as hating of this plan as Brandt was confident. “Even if they do return, it will not be with words of welcome and alliances on their lips, but with hatred and anger, make no mistake. They have not the wisdom to know right from wrong, or even sensibility from foolhardiness. Then again,” he muttered, his voice falling to an almost unreadable pitch, “neither do we.”

Brandt ignored the cleric’s anger and jaded response, his own understanding of those they awaited telling him that Gabryl was wrong. Midgard, as with Hibernia as well, were peopled with those gifted enough with common sense to know danger when they saw it, and, he hoped, opportunity as well. Still, he had to admit that Gabryl’s concerns were not completely unfounded. There was indeed potential for disaster in the plans they had laid. Death and worse awaited them in the depths of Darkness Falls to be sure; was it folly to invite confrontation with their enemies as well? The paladin sighed as he stood watch. They would, he surmised, find out soon enough.

“It has been half a measure already that we have wasted here, Brandt. When do we say enough? How long do we postpone our purposes here for a hope that was dead before it was spoken?” Gabryl was growing more and more restless and anxious, his voice reflecting the frustration he was feeling. “Let us move on and be about our intention here.”

Brandt was about to respond, when a shadow from across the chamber pulled a smile to his face instead. The norsewoman that had been upon the altar entered the room cautiously, followed by her troll companion. They moved exactly as he might, given their circumstance; cautious, their hands upon their weapon and staff, should the need to defend themselves defend themselves present itself.

A nod was all that was needed to call Errine and Gabryl’s attention to their arrival, though Gabryl received the news with something less than aplomb. He snarled his derision and moved a hand to him hammer, a spell moving across his lips. Brandt hissed a warning to the cleric, concerned that the rash reactions of any one of them could see this meeting to an unfortunate end.

“Gabryl, you will wait here. Errine, you and I will greet them.”

Before the cleric could protest, Brandt calmed is angst. “There are but two of them as well, my friend. I don’t want to appear confrontational. And if the matter does turn to bloodshed, we will need you well hidden and ready.”

Gabryl seemed skeptical, but accepted the explanation well enough. He moved to take Brandt’s vantage point as he and the wizard moved out into view, though not for an instant did his untrusting eyes leave the Midgard.

Brandt brazenly stepped into plain sight, his hand tightly on the hilt of his sword. He could hear Errine whispering the words of a spell, and he relaxed that much more, for her magic and his sword made an imposing challenge indeed.

The huge troll was the first of the two Midgard to see him, and he turned to face them directly, a threatening howl leaving his beastly lips. The norsewoman with him turned as well, her hands and staff raising in the beginnings of the casting of a spell. “Well,” Brandt said with a thin smile, “here we are.”

Errine nodded, and wondered, as did he, what the next step in their interaction might be. In truth, Brandt had no idea what to do next, for while he knew this to be a necessary alliance, how they would forge it from the steel of their mutual mistrust he had no idea. Added to that the fact that they could not speak to each other, and his confidence in his plan began to waver.

The paladin took a full step forward, the troll matching his movements exactly. The huge beast had drawn his war hammer at the same moment that the paladin had his sword, and while Errine knew that Brandt was a master with his blade, she had to admit that the troll looked intimidating all the more. Brandt felt a cold bead of sweat run the length of his head and neck as he approached the troll. They came together in the middle of the chamber, each knowing that their casters were at the ready, and each praying the they would not be needed. As they moved within striking distance, both thane and paladin stopped, their eyes meeting, partly in challenge and partly in hope. How long they stood there, looking into the face of the enemy, neither could know, though it was the paladin that grew weary of the stand off first. With his eyes not moving from the troll’s, he bent at the knees and placed his sword on the ground at the foot of his huge adversary. The thane looked down to see the gesture, and when the paladin stood again, he matched the movement again, both weapons laying on the ground in silent testament to the miracle that had just occurred. Midgard and Albion had meet on neutral ground, and no blood had been spilled.

Errine smiled widely at the happening, for in truth it was more than she had expected. She was simply pleased that initial communication had been made, though how they would move forward remained to be seen. Her eyes moved to those of the caster across the chamber, and the two women dropped their spells, a sigh of relief almost audible across the chamber from all involved.

Both Errine and Tylaara moved to join their fellows in the middle of the chamber. As they came together, Brandt gestured to the troll, his hand raised, palm forward.

“What are you doing?” Errine asked, trying to make her voice as calm as she knew it needed to be.

“We have to let them know that Gabryl is here as well. We don’t want any surprises that might risk what little be we accomplished. Gabryl!! Come forward!”

The cleric heard the command clearly enough, though in truth he was loathe to respond. He had hoped that the situation would turn hostile, for he could not see himself, nor his countrymen, siding with these before him. It was too much to ask of any man; siding with their mortal enemy, no matter the righteousness of the cause. Trolls were evil by nature, and norsemen could not be trusted. No, he swore to himself, He would not have any part of this, no matter the command of his better.

As though fate had ordained it, the choice was taken from him.

He sensed the stabbing pain in his sides, his eyes opening widely in surprise and panic. Before he felt anything further, he felt the poison enter his system, and begin to spread through him as though it were a palpable presence. His hands whirled about him in the releasing of a spell, though his attacker made sure that the spell would never be cast. Another expertly crafted strike took the blade of a dagger across his throat, and Gabryl felt his life’s blood slipping from him. He tried to call out; to warm Brandt and Errine, but there was no use of it. His voice was gone with the cut to his throat, as was, ultimately, his life. His vision swam before him and he slipped into death, his end coming without even the dignity of seeing the face of his killer. Still, his last thoughts were not of himself, nor even of Brandt and Errine, but instead of his realm. He let his prayer for his home wander through his mind for an instant, and then he was dead.

---

Tearor stood at the teleport pad, the magical necklace draped across his throat. He raised a hand to scratch what felt like an itch there, but it passed as quickly as it had come, and his thoughts moved on to the task at hand.

“Are we doing the right thing?” he asked out loud, the two hunters standing with him shaking their heads, almost in tandem.

“Hard to say,” Ronin whispered, his bow held across his knees as he sat patiently awaiting the spell that would see them to their destination. “But you are right in one thing, old friend. We must do something, for we cannot expect Tylaara and Helphdane to succeed alone. And without the approval of the Alliance Council, we stand in this unaided.”

“The norse be right, lad,” Deceon said, his dwarven voice as the very rock of his homeland. “There be no doubtin’ that we have to be doin’ something. If what we be doin’ be the right of it, alls the better. If not…”

The dwarf did not have to finish the sentence, for Tearor knew only too well what awaited them all if they failed. A future history of torment at the hands of Panthius for the realm, certainly, and death for them at the hands of their enemy, likely.

The Gothi readied their spells, their hands and voices rising in arcane ritual. “Here we go…” Tearor whispered, firming his resolve.

“And may the Gods go with us,” Ronin added as their bodies faded to the magics and vanished completely from sight.

Darkness Falls Part 9 & 10

The darkened passageway seemed to go on forever, the roughhewn walls throwing terrifying shadows across the path of the trio as they made their way through the horrific place. The stench that filled the halls was overpowering, and not one did not feel the want to wretch at the very smell of it. It was as thick as the stone it seemed, and pushing through it was a daunting task indeed, for what could lay ahead if not more of the same, or worse, if such was possible. Along with the horrid reek was the very air itself; a haze of doom seemed to hang in the call of it, a tangible mist that covered the threesome as they pushed onward.

Brandt Ironwolf coughed, his eyes watering for the foulness of their travel. In truth he had not been surprised when he had been informed by the Council that he would accompany the fellowship into the pit, for he knew they would never allow such an outing without Church representation. He had lifted an eye at their decision to include Gabryl as well, for while the cleric was certainly able and devout, he was not one to easily travel with those he considered outside of the Church grace.

This brought him to Errine. He looked over at her as they traveled, Merlin’s Staff held firmly in her hand. It looked innocuous enough, as though it were nothing more than a common walking stick, but she held it with the reverence and respect due an artifact of its innate power and potential. As for Errine herself, her hair was matted and confused, the length of her robes tattering for the stone upon which they traveled. She looked haggard and spent, her caster’s constitution unused to the rigors and hardships of such a place. Brandt had to admit, if only to himself, that he was hardly more suited to it, though his training offered him some resiliency to such things.

“How fare you, M’lady?” he asked, his words cutting a sympathetic swath through the haze of the passageway. “Are you well?”

Errine lifted her eyes for only a moment to look at him squarely. She could not afford to hold her gaze upon him any longer, for the footing on the passageway floor was treacherous at best. “I do what I must,” she whispered, her distress only too evident in her voice. “I do as the Council decided.” In truth, she had been, and was still ecstatic to be quested with protecting the staff on their journey, though the reality of that circumstance was proving far more challenging than the idea of it.

Gabryl, a sturdier sort of only for his experience in the realm wars, chuckled. “Perhaps if you had followed the dictates and the tenets of the Church, you would be better prepared for the pain of what we now face, woman.”

Errine carried on despite Gabryl’s comment, for while she would never admit as much to him, she herself felt the inadequacies of her calling. She was born to magic, that much had been clear to her from an early age. She had given thought to working in the service of the Church, but her call to the mystic arts had been too strong to ignore. Still, her ties to the Church had been and remained very strong, though she could not help but admit that she felt somewhat inadequate in the company of those she traveled with, and Gabryl’s comments served only to deepen that conviction.

“And perhaps, Gabryl, if you had followed them less devoutly, your arrogance might hold to its own,” Brandt retorted, his sarcasm matching Gabryl’s own. The cleric bridled under the scathing comment, for it had been made only too clear to him that the paladin was in command of this journey, and while he would die before he crossed Church mandates, he did not have to like it.

“Worry not Lady Errine,” Brandt said loudly, “if the worst you have to face in this place is the sting of Gabryl’s foolishness, then so much the better.” Errine smiled thinly at the comment. It was nice to know that she had an ally in a place such as this, to be sure.

The passage seemed to widen out as they moved on, light from ahead cautioning them to slow their progress. As they moved in closer, it was clear that there was a contingency ahead, though none could lay claim to knowing for certain what exactly they faced.

“What is it?” Errine asked, wide-eyed and worried. “Can you see?”

Brandt simply shook his head. “Lets move closer, but be careful where you walk. No sounds. Silence…” The paladin almost chuckled at the irony. It was he who had called for silence, yet moving silently in his plate mail would prove to be something of a challenge in and of itself.

The three moved in to where they could see more clearly, and the sight all but froze the blood in their very veins. Better than a score of demons knelt in a confounded semi-circle about a stone altar. They were minor demons certainly, for they stood no taller than Errine herself. Leathery wings sprouted obscenely from their backs, and they all had their heads bent, to a last, chanting something that neither of the three could understand. Brandt looked more closely to the alter, and there he saw it. Errine’s sharp inhale told him that she had seen it as well, and he wished for all the realm that they hadn’t. Chained to the altar was a woman, alive and struggling mightily against the bonds that held her there. The paladin could see clearly enough that it was a norsewoman they held, and he wondered only briefly how one such as she might have found her way to the demon’s pit.

“Foul Midgard,” Gabryl muttered, almost enjoying the fact that they were about to witness the death of one of their enemies. In his estimation, it was a lucky circumstance indeed. For her part, Errine looked away in disgust and derision, for while the Midgard horde might surely be their enemy, no one deserved to meet such a fate as this.

Another demon, slightly larger than the others, moved to stand in front of the altar, its arms raised in defiant bloodlust. Brandt could see the pink stains on the hands of the executioner, a testament to the sacrifices it had seen in its time, and as it raised its hands on high, Brandt knew that the time was upon him to make a decision.

“Brandt?” Gabryl whispered cautiously, not wishing to disturb his concentration.

The paladin nodded and nudged the Errine, pointing to the larger demon that stood above the norsewoman. It held its talons on high, and screamed something out in its foul and ruthless language. The demons in attendance seem impassioned by the display, and Brandt watched as they begin to pound the very ground with their hands and fists. All in all, it was a frightening scene, and Gabryl cringed, for he knew then how close they were to being discovered. If luck was with them this day, the could ease away without the demons being any the wiser.

“The large one,” Brandt whispered, and while his command was for Errine, Gabryl heard it as well. “Get its attention.”

Errine nodded and raised herself to her knees. Gabryl looked on, knowing what she was doing but not able, in the wildest of circumstances, to acknowledge that Brandt would be so foolish as to risk their lives for the enemy before them.

“Have you taken leave of your senses, paladin?” He hissed quietly, his rage obvious enough, though he had presence of mind to soften his words so that only they would hear. “One spell from her and every demon there would be upon us as darkness upon the night! Let her die! One less enemy to deal with!”

Brandt ignore the cleric’s words, nodding to Errine. She pulled her self to almost her full height and raised the staff before her, her lips whispering the magical phrase that would send the spell on its way. Before she could release her magics, though, Gabryl jumped in front of her, effectively blocking her line of sight. Errine hissed and held her spell, not wanting to release her magics for fear of killing the interfering cleric. She looked to Brandt for direction, and Brandt’s response was as quick as it was decisive. Faster then the eye could follow, Brandt drove his plated fist into Gabryl’s stomach, doubling the cleric over and allowing Errine to cast. The spell was away, and they all watched as the incantation soared across the cavern and blasted the taller of the demons off the altar and into the stone wall behind it.

Gabryl was more shocked than injured. How could Brandt, a brother in the Church, lay violent hands upon one of his own, especially to see a member of an enemy realm spared? It was unthinkable, but there it had happened.

Brandt and Errine stood to their full height, the paladin drawing his sword and readying his stance. The demons would be upon them before long, and there was precious little time for the preparing of it. “To arms!” the paladin screamed at Gabryl, the cleric slow to respond, though the sight of the maddened demons descending on them convincing him of the wisdom of Brandt’s command. He stood tall, pulled free his hammer and cast his spells, along with Errine. With the Gods of luck at their heels, they might see a few of the demons dead for their casting. Once the atrocities reached them, however, there would be no doubt of it. They could simply not stand against the numbers they would face.

As they set themselves to the fight, Gabryl hoped that the pit of Hel would hold a special place for Brandt Ironwolf, for it was he that was responsible for the death they were to know.

---

Helphdane watched from a side passageway as the demon sacrificer made ready to offer Tylaara to the dark lords it served. His eyes were wide with fear, only that Eldorad would not reach her in time. They had awoken to hear Tylaara taken captive, and while they had hastened to see her free, they had been able to do nothing more than follow her trail to this chamber, only to find her where she then lay, awaiting a death that none should be forced to suffer.

Before he could utter a word, Eldorad had slipped into invisibility and made his way forward, sure that he could reach the demon before the deed was done. Helphdane knew it was an insane plan, for even if they could kill the sacrificer, the rest of the demons would surely tear them from life for the doing of it. Still, the scene was unfolding, and the huge troll pulled free his hammer, ready to die in the defense of his guild mates.

An ironic ending to their quest, he thought bitterly as Eldorad suddenly appeared directly behind the demon. The troll watched as the assassin lay its blades into the beast, though the magical explosion upon the chest of the monster took his attention completely. The demon struck the wall behind it and was dead, if not for the blades in its sides then for the charred flesh upon its chest. Helphdane looked out across the mass of demons as they turned and moved to attack three lone figures set into a grotto at the rear of the chamber. Helphdane had been in the realm wars long enough to know his enemy when he saw them, and these were from Albion, of that there was no doubt.

Eldorad recovered form the shock of the magical attack quickly, and set to trying to free Tylaara. His lock picks worked as quickly as his poisons, and soon she was loose, smiling at the shadowblade as she had gathered herself. Helphdane moved to join them, and together they turned to face the throng of demons as they rushed the Albions that had saved her life.

Without a thought, Tylaara raised her hands and sent a magical attack smoldering into the rear of the mass, a few demons screaming their denial for any to hear. They turned and moved to attack the Midgards, and in truth she could expect no more. As for the rest of the demon, those from Albion were on their own, to be sure.

In all, seven turned back upon Tylaara, Helphdane and Eldorad. Two more spells saw that number drop to three, and as they reached them, Eldorad and Helphdane went about their grim business. They had almost expected the same power from these as they had met from the demons that had attacked Gna Faste, but such was not the case. The three that attacked were dead quicker than the wishing of it, their blood spilled across the altar that had held Tylaara.

“We best be off,” Helphdane called out, looking over at the Albions as they fought their adversaries with courage and conviction.

“Cant we help them?” Tylaara asked, her want to repay these for saving her life strong within her. Though the question was asked to neither in particular, it was Eldorad that answered.

“We already have, Tyl. If they are outmatched, then so be it. We cannot risk them finding us here. Enough blood has been spilled this day. We best get to beyond harm’s way.” As he spoke, Eldorad let the image of the Albions sear into his memory. There were few things in the realm that he truly hated, but those of the enemy realms certainly were among those few. He swore to himself that he would see these dead, that was sure, for their presence was a harbinger of doom. Their doom, he though with a twisted sneer, as he and his fellows moved from the chamber and were gone.

---

Brandt felt another demon fall beneath his blade, the paladin glad for the battle, if the truth be known. He had been frustrated with the relic deaths from the start, and this release offered him opportunity to rain his vengeance on those who deserved it certainly.

At first look, he had been sure that they were heavily outnumbered; that they were seriously outmatched. He had hoped that some aid might come from the caster they had saved, or the troll he had managed to glimpse in the side chamber. As the Gods would have it, such was the case, and they then found themselves facing more reasonable odds. Even so, he was surprised to see that the last one he felled was the last of them all. More than twenty demons lay dead before them, their own breathless gasps the only sound in a chamber that, only moments before, had been the sight of a battle greater and more profound than any in the realm wars.

The paladin was pulled from his revelry by Gabryl, the cleric’s face a clear depiction of his absolute rage. “You aided her! I cannot believe the betrayal!”

Brandt sighed deeply. “Calm, Gabryl. There is a method to my madness, trust. I will explain the whole of it to you both, but for now, lets us away before more of these come to see what ails them.”

As Errine, Brandt and Gabryl made ready to move back down the passageway, hoping that they could find another path through the depths of Darkness Falls, the paladin paused and looked back over the body of the demons that littered the floor. As though by design, he noticed something he hadn’t before, though the seeing of it then brought a wondering to his thoughts. There in the body of several of the demons, lay feathered arrows, as responsible for the defeat of the demons as any steel or spell, though silent in their effect and almost unnoticed in their presence. He had seen arrows such as these only too often through the realm wars, and knew well enough their origin.

It seemed that the Midgard and Albion were not the only realms represented.

Brandt turned and made to be away from the carnage, though both Gabryl and Errine wondered for the odd smile that had etched itself across his face.

---

Part 10

Tearor walked the streets of Jordheim, his thoughts in confusion, his aspect reflecting every bit of it. It had been a full day since Helphdane, Tylaara and the arachite had left Gna Faste, and since their parting, he had grown more and more anxious. He knew that they were as capable as any in the realm, if not more-so, to attend to the matters at hand, in the truth of the matter, was it the right decision? What chance had they against this Panthius, with no more than three warriors to face him down? It had seemed like the sensible, the only alternative, and maybe it was, but to lay all of their hopes, and the hopes of the entire realm, at their feet seemed foolish, if not completely insane.

The sun was dropping below the western corner of the city, and Tearor hurried his pace. He was to meet with the alliance council in but a short while, and while he was anxious to do so, he knew in his heart what their reaction would be to the plan he was to suggest. Still, he could not in all conscience, move ahead with his plan without at least attempting to convince the Alliance Council that his concerns were valid and his solution the only one that made any sense. He chuckled as he walked, for there could be no mistaking how they would react. Still, he knew, it was the only choice, though in truth he was already thinking about how he would move ahead when he was denied by the council.

Some might call it pessimism.

Tearor called it good planning.

Either way, he knew what must be done, and council support or not, he would see to the doing of it.

---

“It was foolish and it was against my command,” Jackmode all but screamed. He paced the small circle of stones, the fire within burning warmly despite his rant. “Those demons could have as easily turned on us! And when has it become our way to side with an enemy, no matter the circumstance?”

Tyus sat and listened to the tirade for as long as he was able. He knew that he had been in the right in aiding those against the demons, and his conscience was as sharp and as clear as his aim. He stood, taking his bow with him, and moved off into one of the side tunnels, slipping into invisibility as he did. He left without answering or even acknowledging Jackmode’s outrage, which served only to anger him further.

“Damn him and his arrogance! We don’t even know where we are, or how to get out, and he goes his own way, without concern or conscience!”

Anian nodded lightly, his voice as calm as Jackmode’s was enraged. “He has always been so, or so his reputation calls. You are right though in that we are trapped here. We best learn to get along. Accept who he is, Jackmode. Learn to work with him, as he must with us. All of our lives will be made easier.”

Jackmode snarled his anger in response, though in truth he realized that the druid was right. If they did not learn to work as one; to watch out for each other as well as themselves, they would not survive long in this pit. None of them had known where they had found themselves, all of their memories of their coming to this place the same. They remember the assault on the keep, and rushing the demons. They recalled the magics cast and being struck, but waking in this hellish place was the next thing any of the remembered. Within moments of their awakening demonic beasts had set them upon, and while they had managed to dispatch them in short order, it served to illustrate very definitely that there were dangers within to terrify them to their very core.

Where once might have stood curiosity then only lay fear, and a want to be home as quickly as they could.

Adding to his consternation was the fact that, when they had awoken, they had found the Cauldron of Dagda laying beside them. How the dead relic had managed to follow them to wherever it was they lay, or why, was beyond them all, but it served to heighten their feelings of confusion and more, responsibility. Not only were their lives in jeopardy, but one of the sacred relics was theirs for the protecting. Their lives, the realm could sacrifice. The relic, it could not. Jackmode worked to fashion a harness, strapping the great relic across his back. They may not have had opportunity to affect their coming to this place, but he was damned if he would allow the Cauldron to come to harm. Not as long as he lived, he swore, would they fall from the hands of his own.

As they waited for Tyus to return from his scouting, their angst grew unchecked.

Jackmode stood and leaned heavily on the wall of the grotto as he looked around the small chamber. Even without demons to fight, the chamber settled a sense of doom over them both.

Jackmode sighed.

Where in the nine hells were they??

---

Helphdane and Tylaara moved through the tunnels of Darkness Falls, their thoughts on the encounter they had only narrowly escaped. Tylaara’s hands were still shaking for the memories of the altar, and the near sacrifice she had been forced to endure. She had faced death a hundred times before, but never so clearly; never with so much a sense of premeditation. She knew that the demons has orchestrated her sacrifice, though she had no idea as to what they sought to gain through her death.

Power of some kind?

Vengeance for a wrong committed that she was not aware of?

Perverse pleasure?

She shook her head as she walked, trying to clear the memories of the incident away. It had been painful and humiliating enough to endure once, and she would rather not have to endure it through memory as well.

Helphdane fumed in silent anger and frustration. It had been bad enough to awaken within the pits of Darkness Falls to find Tylaara abducted, but to have had such a brutal and immediate an introduction to the denizens of the place had unsettled them all. Granted, finding that Eldorad had taken the arachite’s life and had joined them in his stead was gratifying in the extreme, but the joy of that happening was understated by the fact that Eldorad had vanished shortly after leaving the chamber wherein they had battled the demons. The thane hoped that Eldorad was simply scouting; that he would return to them in a short line and report the happenings about them, but in his heart he felt as though that was not the case. He was not sure what Eldorad was about, and all he could do was hope that the assassin was wise enough to keep in mind their purpose.

“We should find them,” Tylaara said finally, the thoughts running through her head too much to hold inside.

Helphdane stopped, his shoulders dropping in assumed understanding. “Find the Albions…” he said matter-of-factly, knowing the truth of her statement before she had spoken it.

The runemaster turned to face the troll, her eyes turned in a sympathetic aspect. “I know how you feel about them, Helph. They had attacked us and killed our own throughout the realm wars, as we have theirs. That is the heart of war, old friend, but we have to look past that now. You know what this Panthius is, or at least, what he is reputed to be. We cannot simply hope that we discover a manner of defeating him alone. We need the Albions. As they need us.”

Helphdane sighed deeply, sounding more like a bellow than a sigh. “How, then? We cannot even talk to them, Tyl. Their language is as foul and foreign to us as ours is to them. What chance is there that we can gather their understanding, let alone their aid?”

Tylaara shrugged helplessly. “The only thought that carries me now is, what are they doing here? Is it mere coincidence that they have found passage into this place at the same moment as we? Are their relics not affected as well? No, Helph, they are here for same reasons we are here. Where is the logic in fighting each other when a common foe darkens all of our lives?”

Helphdane muttered his response, though Tylaara heard him none-the-less. “I have yet to meet an Albion who could claim reason as a long suit.”

“Lets be honest,” she countered, “You have yet to meet an Albion, period.”

Helphdane chuckled and nodded. “Fair enough. Where do we start looking? I would hate to veer from our present path until we find Eldorad. He may not be able to find us again.”

This time, it was Tylaara’s turn to chuckle. “I have never known him to be lost, by any definition. Worry not, my friend. I am sure he will find us, when he decides the time is right. As for how to find the Albs, I would think that the chamber we met them within would be a good beginning.”

Helphdane nodded and they backtracked, retracing their steps to the spot they first encountered their Albion counterparts. As confident as they were that they were doing the right thing, they were not so sure that those they sought would see the right of it as well. A paladin’s blade between their shoulders was not something either looked forward to. Still, they pushed on, hope guiding their steps.

As they moved off, the shadow that had once stood with them then only followed. He had been suspicious that they would speak this madness, and seek to ally with the Albions.

He smiled wickedly. Perhaps they saw the logic in seeking out their enemy. He, for one, did not, but if they would lead him to the Albion throats, he would gladly slit them.

With the softest steps of an assassin on the hunt, he followed.

---

Panthius stood motionless, its great eyes closed, the enchantment it had cast bringing images of wondrous joy to the demons mind. The foolish mortals had actually come to it, bringing with them the relics it had gone to so much trouble to find! It would be a ridiculously easy task to gather them, and the greater demon had to pause for a moment and wonder to the foolishness and hubris of these. Had they all not lost hundreds of their own in battle with the demons it had dispatched to gather the relics? Had they not themselves seen the power it commanded? What madness then, in sending their own into its domain? The sublime arrogance!! That they would think that a handful of their own could hope to defeat a power that had seen hundreds of their brethren decimated?

The demon let the images go. If they chose to be so foolish, so accommodating, then it was not about to question its good fortune.

Finally its eyes opened and it made the slightest motion with its taloned hand. A succubus scurried out of the shadows and stood at its great cloven hooves, cowered in abject fear and subservience. “What isssss it that you wissssshhhhh, masssssster?”

The demon reached out and took the succubus in its mammoth hand and lifted her to its forehead. At the instant the succubus touched his head, a thousand images exploded into her mind, threatening to drive her completely mad with their insistence and their effect. A long moment passed, and the succubus felt for certain that her time upon the realm had ended.

Finally, mercifully, the images slowed and receded, leaving the succubus with a very clear understanding of what was expected, and more, what would befall her should she fail.

“Take all that you need, toad, and return to me with the relics.” The demon all but hurtled the succubus from its presence, sending her on her way to do its bidding.

Once she was gone, it let its gaze fall to the three relics that it had managed to claim thus far, and its lips curled into a bizarre and terrifying, hideous grin. It would have the relics, that much he knew. To soak them in the blood of their own, however, was a treat it had not expected, but reveled within none-the-less.

It would be a sweet victory indeed.

Darkness Falls Part 8

Tyus moved about the relic keep, watching the demons battle his realm mates to a stand still, each side as refusing as the other to embrace defeat. He had witnessed the assault from the beginning, and while he knew it was too late to save Lugs Spear of Lightning (that loss made all the more poignant for the face that The Horn of Valhalla had been taken with it), the Hibernians rallied around the keep holding the Cauldron of Dagda, for they could not hold to losing it as well. The demons had already breached the keep and had captured the Cauldron when the Hibernian forces had arrived, and the battle raged on to see the demons dead before they could make good their escape.

The ranger stealthed about the battle scene, trying to gather advantage and wielding his bow when the opportunity presented itself. The demons had rallied and were fighting hard the Hibernians, Tyus almost choking for the deaths he had witnessed. Several of his realm mates had been torn asunder without remorse or even thought, and others had fallen to the magics that the demons wielded. He could see the demon that carried the relic, and it was this enemy that the forces concentrated their attacks upon. The demon seemed empowered by the dead relic, for while both fought with a ferocity unmatched, this one seemed to battle with a frenzied mania, his spells deadlier and his physical attacks more intense than his counterpart, to be sure.

“Rally!! Pull to the trees and regroup!!”

Tyus heard Jackmode’s command carry through the fighting, the confidence exuded in the timber of his voice filling all who heard it with renewed vigor and hope. The Hibernians did as they were bade, moving to the copse of trees and readying themselves. The demons seemed content for the respite as well, holding at the keep walls and taking the opportunity to rest. These Hibernians had battled valiantly, more-so than they had expected, and it would take some doing indeed to see themselves free of this realm and back to the pit where they so longed to be.

Jackmode let his eyes wander across the battlefield, taking in the carnage that had been wrought thus far. How many dead? Twenty? A hundred? It hardly mattered for the moment, for the death toll was nothing compared to the misery and moral suffering the realm would know if the demons made good their attempt to see the relics taken. “Bards and druids, heal as you can! Everyone that can fight must be on their feet and ready to do so before a measure has passed! To it, all!”

Magics swirled in the air, wounds closed over and endurance returned. Slowly, too slowly for the liking of the leader of the Pretend Heroes, champions and heroes, bards and wardens rose to their feet, exhausted but ready to fight on. “Tyus!” Jackmode called out, the ranger appearing almost directly in front of him. “Scout the demons. Get as close as you can, and try to divine their condition. We need to hit them soonest if we are to win this day, but I want to know their readiness.”

Tyus nodded and was away, more than eager to have his part in the defeat of these monstrosities. As he moved off, Anian Barkskin moved to stand with Jackmode. “Have we a prayer?” he asked, his eyes not moving from the sight of the demons at the face of their beloved keep.

Jackmode sighed. In truth, he had no understanding of their chances in the fight. He had never faced such as these before, and while their strength and power were obvious, their shortcomings were not. It would be a fight to the death no doubt, and the Gods only knew how many more Hibernians would pay the ultimate price. Still, he knew well enough that the Hibernians were on the side of the angels, and would fight to the last.

His only hope was that would be enough.

Tyus crept toward the demons, using what little cover was available to the best advantage. They seemed not to notice him, or if they did, took no concern with his presence. The ranger stopped at the base of the hill upon which the keep stood, the demons clearly in sight. He felt a knot build in his stomach, for this proximity to such evil, to such vile intentions and malicious wants was almost too much for him. Still, he had been given a task and he would see that task completed.

The demons stood at the ready, neither willing, it seemed, to be caught off guard by the Hibernians attack. They were wounded, that much was certain. Demon-blood oozed from several vicious gouges in their flesh, and they looked as exhausted and battle-weary as they Hibernians they fought. Tyus smiled, for it would be a wondrous victory indeed to see these put down, and the likelihood seemed all the greater for the wounds they had suffered. With a thingyy arrogance that had both served him and damned him in the past, Tyus dissolved his invisibility and ran back to the tree line to rejoin his fellows. As he related what he had seen, Jackmode smiled and turned to the army that awaited his command.

“The time is now!” he screamed, raised his weapon in defiance. “The demons have been weakened and are suffering! Now is our advantage! To arms! It is time to end this siege!!”

A rallying cry when up through the forces, and all surged forward, ready to do what they had come here this day to do. All eyes were on the demons as they attacked, though in their hearts, they had won the day already.

Jackmode led the charge, with Tyus and Anian close behind. The rest of the Hibernians followed, the moment of truth approaching quickly, though not quickly enough for most. Their realm had been invaded, and blood would be spilled in response.

As they reached the hill, Jackmode looked on as they demon carrying the relic stood tall, raising the Cauldron high over its head. Few in the coming army did not see the gesture, though not a one knew for certain its intent.

They found out all too soon.

The dead relic suddenly glowed a bright and blinding crimson, the army slowing to a crawl at the sight. This was a magic they had not known, and in truth, feared. The demon howled its rage to the realm, screaming its hatred and its malice for all to hear. “Forward!” Jackmode scream above the sounds of magical energies crackling before them. The army surged again, this time their resolve unstoppable.

Suddenly, like lightning from a storming sky, a bolt of magical energy ripped from the Cauldron and slammed into the oncoming army. Jackmode, Tyus and Anian took the brunt of the force, the second line of the army muted in disbelief as their bodied simply vanished, destroyed, they knew, for the power of the relic. Anguished screams erupted through the army as they reached the demons, all more wanting than the next to see the demons dead and dying for the crime they all witnessed.

The demons battled as they could, but the onslaught of the Hibernians was too much to defy. The demons fell finally, under a hundred swords and spells and arrows, their task a failure and their lives forfeit for it.

It would be many measures indeed before any of the remaining army would notice that the very relic they had come to defend had vanished in the confusion. They would search for it surely, wasted effort though it was. It was gone from the realm, they would eventually come to assume, though the truth of its destination was one that not any among them might guess, even in their most vivid nightmares.

They had lost many of their comrades this day, as well as they relics that would carry them through the times ahead.

The days were dark for Hibernia indeed.

---

Darkness swirled around her head, holding her to unconsciousness as tightly as chains might hold her to a dungeon wall. Images danced in her head, of demons and of death, of suffering and a realm enslaved. She recoiled from the icons before her as though they were anathema, her very soul shuddering in horror for the scenarios played out in her mind’s eye.

Slowly, painfully slowly, the images faded slightly, as though they were ghosts, on the edge of reality though demanding yet to be heard. A dim and illuminating spark tried to force its way through the darkness, as though it were alive and intent on reaching her. She looked though the darkened horizons before her and made to reach out to the light, but it eluded her, a lover toying with her wants and desires. It taunted and teased her, beckoning and rebuking her advances. She wanted to cry out in frustration, for never in her life had she wanted anything as badly as she did to reach what was before her.

As though in answer to her want, the light danced within her reach, but as she laid her hand upon it, it suddenly rushed to her, as though it had wanted her as badly as she had it. Her mind was filled with blinding consciousness, the light forcing her eyes to open and the pain her reality to wash over her, taking from her the warmth and comfort that her unconsciousness had offered.

Tylaara opened her eyes gingerly, afraid for the pain that she knew lingered without. She breathed a sigh of relief when the pain receded, and she was able to look fully about her and see what fate she had been called to.

Helphdane lay close by, his huge troll form laying unmoving, having succumbed to the same malady that had affected Tylaara. She hoped that he would return to consciousness as well, for without his strength and his support, she had little hope that she would long survive.

Her eyes moved through the darkness to the form that lay across from them both. It was a smallish figure to be sure, and as she ventured to move closer, a familiar face greeted her in silent oblivion. She remember as best she could back to the casting that had sent her there, and then she knew. Someone had entered the casting circle, and attacked Dreadkane Dwarfeater. She remembered feeling panic course through her, for what if the interference should alter the spell? She had wanted to try and aid the arachite, but she could not bring herself to release the Hammer, for exactly the same reasons. The spell took effect before she could know the effect, but the sight of Eldorad laying before her told her well enough the truth of it. She shook her head, not sure if she was angry or pleased for his interference, though she put such reactions aside. It mattered little. They were there, and there was no use in lamenting the certainty of it.

Tylaara turned from her fallen comrades and looked about the cavern. It was near black with only enough light to see by, though she knew not where such light might originate. Crystals lined parts of the walls, and the cavern itself was roughly cut from rock, without shape nor function nor style. She wondered if this place was a natural grotto, or if some greater force had hollowed it out for its own purposes.

As though by design, Tylaara recalled the relic, and looked about frantically for it. She breathed a deep sigh of relief as she spied it laying several feel off from where she had awoken. She moved to it and claimed it once more, her hope buoyed by its presence.

It was an evil hiss that called her attention, and she looked up from where she had gathered the relic. A winged creature hovered in the air, no more than fifteen feet from where she stood. It was yellowish-orange in hue, with small misshapen wings sprouting from its misbegotten form. Tufts of black hair sprouted from its head, and while it was perhaps half her height, it held the aspect of a beast that she could never hope to best. It was without fear and without remorse, without compassion and conscience. It was there to see her dead, that much she knew in her heart.

If she had any doubt previsouly, they were washed away in the instant she met its gaze.

She was in Darkness Falls.

She wondered briefly if she would ever live to walk free.

The smallish creature howled and attacked, its deadly talons leading the way as it move toward Tylaara with frightening resolve. At that instant, she knew that she was dead.

Her life had been a glorious moment in time. As she felt the beast’s talons sink into the flesh of her shoulder, she closed her eyes to the pain, and moved to protect herself.

She knew the truth, as well as did her attacker.

Her defense, as heartfelt and defiant as it might be, would never be enough.

Darkness Falls Part 7

Brandt Ironwolf sat at the head of the round table, his sword unsheathed and laid on the table before him. Never in the history of the realm had there been such an uproar from every corner of Albion, save perhaps with the death of Arthur himself. When Friar Ephraim had reported the purging of the relics, the Church had sent a contingency to ensure that his words were true, and surely enough it was so.

More than this though was the appearance of the demons.

They had attacked the relic keep without warning, with the keep all but completely undefended. The demons had made short work of the guards within, those sent for the gathering the Scabbard of Excalibur meeting success, though their fellows were unable to gather Merlin’s Staff. The Albion forces that waited for them as they came for the Staff numbered more than three hundred, and while the toll in life taken by the demons was horrendous indeed, the demons finally fell to their combined might. The army celebrated its victory wildly, though the festivities were abruptly ended at the news that the Scabbard of Excalibur had been taken, and more than a hundred had died in its defense.

The appearance of these monstrosities attempting to take the relics for their own sent a wave of terror sweeping through the lands. The Church had called its highest advisors together to determine the path to be taken, and the worrisome situation was causing tempers to flare and anger to reign in place of reason.

The Church had commanded that the last relic be brought to Camelot for safe keeping, and it had been entrusted to Errine, Guild Mistress of the Legion of Doom and one of the most respected and proficient wizards in the realm. That decision alone had sent ripples of discontentment through the Church, for she was a wizard, and while an ally to be sure, she was not one of them. Brandt had been given the task of watching her, for ally though she might be, in this that she carried, there were those who refused to trust her. She sat at the round table beside Brandt, Merlin’s Staff lain on the table before her in reverence. While she followed the conversation passionately, her eyes rarely left the Staff, for she took her role of protector of the artifact seriously. She would die before it left her sight, to man or demon.

“So what then are we to do?” Friar Durman spoke out, his own anger reflected in the eyes of his fellows. “If we think that these demons will abandon their want to see the relic taken, then we fool ourselves too easily.”

Brandt raised a hand, silencing the council that had been called to meet. “Good friar, I don’t for a moment think that this is the last we shall see of the demons, but more it is their master that I fear.”

“Their master?” Morgase asked, her lute and drum sitting unobtrusively on the table before her. In truth she had been surprised, to say that least, that she had been invited to the council session, for while she had aided the Church in the past, she was hardly of a nature to be included in such proceedings. Still, her curiosity and playful disposition had gotten the better of her, though the seriousness of the matters at hand did little to amuse her.

Brandt nodded. “These are not the sort of beasts to wander free of their realm. They have neither the power nor the want to see themselves without. Someone sent them here, though for what reason I cannot see, beyond the want for the relics. What need would anyone have for them? With their power gone, what use?”

Errine stood slowly, her voice unsure and removed in the face of Brandt’s stern aspect. “I have been studying the relic lore and this relic specifically since it was entrusted to us. I think I know why the demons want of them.”

A tangible silence fell over the assemblage, and Errine looked to the parchments she had gathered to further her claims.

“Speak woman!” Savanna Lionheart called out, her pole-arm striking the floor with resounding effect. Errine was jolted all but out of her armor, she concentration broken for the interruption.

“Savanna,” Brandt spoke in lowered tones, the intent in his voice obvious, “hold your seat, that weapon and your tongue. We shall hear from Errine when she is prepared.”

“What are they doing here, anyway?” called out Gabryl, standing in opposition to what he saw as conflict of interest. “These at this session are some not of the Church! Do we allow heathens among us to counter the word of God and see us to our doom? Have we not enough concern? And by what right does she, a wizard no less, carry the Staff?”

Brandt sighed as a chorus of sympathetic murmurs arose through the council. True, it was unprecedented, save at Arthur’s death, to have non-members of the Church in attendance, but this matter was different. There was too much at stake and too many affected to keep the council to Church members only.

“Very well then Gabryl,” Brandt spoke, his words as biting as his meaning, “If you would see these removed, perhaps you can enlighten us as to the histories of the relics and the want the demons have for them.” His challenge was well delivered, for while Gabryl was strong in conviction, he had not the knowledge nor background to understand the complexities of what was discussed. He sat down, silenced and bitter for while he was forced to admit that there was a need beyond the knowledge of the Church in this, he did not have to like it. “And for the rest of you who would whine and moan in this regard, know that these seated here this day are here at the word of the Church Council. If you would have another way of it, you are welcome to make the effort.” Brandt’s words were not softly received, which suited him well. He had not offered them to sate their passions or to renew friendships. The matters they discussed were far too important to allow pettiness and class prejudice hold sway in the face of the true danger.

Brant slowly sat again, motioning to Errine as he did. “M’lady, when you are ready.”

Errine nodded and looked to the assemblage. She was hesitant, for she knew well enough that there were few would like what she had to offer.

“Its name is Panthius…” she began, relating the demon’s history and his want for the relics. It was Panthius, she explained, who had purged the relics of their power. It was the greater demon who had sent its minions into Albion to see the relics themselves taken.

“Why?” Savanna called out, her voice echoing off the stone-worked walls with impressive effect. “What need has one such as this Panthius for dead relics?”

Errine paused a moment, not sure she could bring herself to speak the words. “Because it seeks passage into these realms once more.”

The murmuring that had been echoing through the hall grew to a heated challenge. Swords were raised in defiance; shields were pounded in boldness.

“Let this monster come!” a voice screamed out, carrying above the din. “We shall see it back to Hel as easily as we did its minions!” A cheer went up through the hall at this words, for all of Albion was outraged at the demon’s attack, and apparently putting them down was not enough to sate their bloodlust.

Brandt sighed and smiled thinly. He had seen this raw courage before, on many occasions, and always had it raised in him pride in his realm and in his realm-mates. This time, however, it only served to frustrate him.

Rising to his feet, Brandt raised his hands and crowd quieted, all eagerly expecting to hear the paladin speaks words that would send them to the battle, their blood pounding and their pride swelling.

“I salute you all, and the bravery you demonstrate, but I fear my friends that brass and blade will not carry this day. The two demons we have defeated killed better than two hundred of our number. How high shall the bodies pile when their master comes to call?”

A stunned silence fell over the assemblage, for while Brandt may have been right, these were not the words they wanted, nor expected to hear.

“Then what?” called out Gabryl, his aspect as stout and hardened as his shield. “Shall we simply stand in wait, and allow this Panthius free reign of Albion?”

Brandt looked to Errine, who spoke as loud as she could, though even so she was barely audible over the din. “Our best chance for success lies in the same want that Panthius has for the relics.” At these words the room fell silent, every ear turned to wizard as she spoke. “If he manages to acquire all the relics, from all three realms, he can combine their inherent power and break free of the prison that holds him. We can use our one remaining relic to send three of us within.”

Again silence reigned. Her words were madness, they all knew.

“Into Darkness Falls?” Savanna called out, her voice fairly quivering in disbelief. Her parents had told her horrific tales of the pit when she was a child. They claimed that it had been a stopover on the road to Hel itself, and while Savanna might not have believed the heart of the stories, she learned well enough the dangers within. “You said it yourself, Brandt,” Savanna continued, her anger growing at the absurdity of the proposition, “more than two hundred of our number lay dead after battle with its minions. What chance might but three have against the demon itself?”

Brandt nodded slowly, for that very question had not been far from his own mind as well. “What choice do we face? If we do not seek out this Panthius and end his intention, then all we can do is wait for it to come to us. More minions will come, mark it, and when they do, they will come in numbers we cannot defeat. So then, the choice is ours. Shall we wait and see what Hel looks like upon the realms? Or shall we polish our brass and sharpen our blades and take the fight to Panthius?”

His words had been intended to inspire, but instead the silence remained. Finally Friar Ephraim, who had been silent through it all, lifted his voice in support of Brandt Ironwolf. “Well, the Lord hates a coward,” he called out, his voice edged only slightly with the ale he had tasted since the battle with the demons. “If we are to face Panthius, I say we face it on its own soil, and teach it the error of its ways!”

A cheer went up through the great hall, and Brandt sighed in relief. They knew what had to be done. All that was needed was the going of it. “We have one more matter to discuss,” he shouted, his voice carrying through the enthusiastic cheers. “Errine, do you know the casting to take us to Panthius?”

Errine paused again, for while she had discovered the spell through her studies in the great library, she was leery of the casting itself. The spell was old by centuries, the slightest miscast could have disastrous effect. Still, she knew that she had a better chance than any, and the risk had to be taken. She nodded solemnly at Brandt, who seemed to read her trepidation, but did not pursue it.

“Then all we need decide is who will go…” Brandt’s voice trailed off into the brine of conflict, for there were obviously many who sought the challenge, and the glory. Brant raised his hands to calm the voices hurtled in acceptance across the hall. “I shall speak with the elders on this. All of you are of stout heart, I am certain, and all would make fine additions to the party, but only three can make the journey. I will depart and speak on this with the elders. I will return in short order, with their blessings and their choices.”

As he walked out of the Great Hall and went to meet with the Church Elders, Brandt wondered how much of their enthusiasm was an honest want to confront the demon, and how much was bravado and foolish warrior pride. He chuckled to himself as he ascended the marble staircase that would take him to the elders chambers. In truth, it mattered little. Either would do in the face of the adversity before them, though he had to wonder in truth if either would be enough.

Darkness Falls Part 6

Editors note: Apparently the Darkness Falls story now exceeds the maximum post size for Blogger so from this point forward it will be posted in seperate parts


“This is madness if ever I have heard it!” Helphdane’s voice resounded through the small room, the guard tower in Galplen having been commandeered as a temporary meeting hall for the leadership of Shadowfire. “An arachite! And this one, at that!”

Dreadkane Dwarfeater hissed his challenge to the troll, as eager as he ever had been to taste the impudent beasts blood. As much as he was tempted, however, he held himself in check, for there were greater issues to be addressed than his appetites.

Those, the arachite reasoned, could wait until later.

Tylaara looked around the room, her head spinning from the tale of the defeat of the demons. She had been overjoyed to see that most has survived, including Rokks and Zandra and the other members of Shadowfire, all having been taken from the brink of death by the talented healers and shaman of the reinforcements that had turned the tide of the battle. She stood slowly, her conviction in the matter at hand accented by her countenance.

“I understand as well as you, Helph, and to a large degree I share your feelings, but in truth what choice have we but to at least listen? Is the arachite’s presence here not evidence of the truth of at least some of what you have heard? Given the circumstance we face, can we truly afford to ignore the opportunity presented to us?”

Tearor nodded. “Tylaara is right. We have heard nothing to explain the madness of the past several days, save what this Gerik has offered. We cannot afford to let this opportunity pass us by.”

Rokks was quiet until this point, the injuries that he had sustained in the battle getting the better of him, though he could not hold silent any longer. “So then we are to offer the last relic held by us to a stranger, on his word and his word alone? I am in agreement with Helphdane. The arachite only serves to deepen my suspicion. My vote is that we…”

“That we what?” Tearor cut in, his impatience gathering the better of him. “That we sit on our swords and wait for another demon to make himself known? To guess and guile and hope that we stumble upon the answer? No, my friends. This is far too important, and I will not allow this chance to slip through our fingers. We need risk only two of our number. We will hold enough here to ensure that we are protected in case we are wrong. I see madness here, yes, but that madness lays in allowing an opportunity such as this to wander by untended.”

Helphdane and Rokks both held silent, their opinions held firm certainly, but neither could they deny the truth of Tearor’s words. Yes it was a risk, to both life and relic, but given the circumstance, what better choices had presented themselves? With a resigned nod, both Rokks and Helphdane conceded the point, though neither could claim confidence in the decision.

“All right then,” Tearor continued on, his concession in his voice reflecting his own hesitation, “all we need do is choose who will accompany Dreadkane into this…Darkness Falls.”

At this point, the arachite moved forward, his talons clicking across the floor as he moved. It was an unnerving sound to say the least, and he was only too well aware of the effect it had. “We need’en peoples of power, know for’en sure. It is your’en to choose, but know that there’en be no two ways of it. Send the weak, and watch’en them dies.”

Tearor offered the arachite a look of derision, he own frustration with the situation exacerbated by the arrogance of the arachite leader. “We know well enough the situation, arachite. The choice will be ours to make.”

The arachite nodded, but spoke on. “I see’en power in the runemaster,” he hissed, his eyes turning to Tylaara. “Fools be you’en if leave’en her behind.”

While he was frustrated with the arachites intrusive comments, he could not help but think that he was right. Tylaara was a fine choice, though her position on the council made her presence on the journey a liability for the guild, to be sure.

“What say you, Tyl?”

The runemaster sat, the relic still strapped to her back. She had carried it this far, and if she were completely honest with herself, she would have to admit that she had intentions of accompanying the party from the moment Gerik had proposed the idea. With a nod of anticipation, she spoke. “I don’t know if Gerik is right or not, but I do know that if we do not take the chance as it comes to us, we allow our own defeat. I will go.”

Tearor smiled thinly, for while he had every confidence in her abilities, the guild would be something less foe her absence. “We need one more,” he spoke slowly. There were many who were qualified, he knew, and many more that would want to go should they make the plan common knowledge. They had to be sure that, whoever they chose, would be one to carry the banner of their intentions close to their heart.

Helphdane slowly rose, his massive form suddenly claiming the attention in the room. “I will go with her. I have known her for a time now, and I honor her skill, and her life. Her husband is my friend. I cannot allow her to walk into the pit knowing that she may not be protected. I will accompany her.”

Tearor grimaced, for while he knew Helphdane was an excellent choice as well, both were members of the council. To lose one to this expedition was unfortunate; to lose both was folly. Still, he reasoned, the good of the guild had to be weighed against the good of the realm, and he had to admit, if only to himself, that having two members of Shadowfire accompany the arachite offered him far more confidence in the success of the outing.

A thin and pained silence washed over the room, until Rokks spoke, his own concerns too intrusive to ignore. “Has anyone given thought to how this Panthius is to be dealt with once you find it? It took the combined force of more than a hundred of our best warriors to see its minions dead, if we can assume that Panthius dispatched the demons. How are the two of you alone going to see this one defeated?”

Again a silence fell over the room, this one far thicker with augury and omen. No one spoke, for there was nothing to be said. Mayhap it was a venture domed to failure, mired in madness and hopeless from the onset, but in the end, there was nowhere else to turn. Their course had been set, and they would sail into the waters ahead, hoping that they would find the strength to deal with each squall as it arose.

Helphdane snarled in frustration and walked from the meeting room. Before he left he turned to Tylaara, his voice heavy with the flavor of desperation. “When?”

Tylaara let the happenings of the last several moments settle over her. They had agreed to walk hand in hand with the worst of realm into the very pit of Hel itself. Helphdane had been right; it was madness, and yet, they were of the mind to see it done. To answer when they would leave to see their own end seemed an irony that Tylaara was not prepared to face.

“First light,” she whispered, though the troll heard her well enough. Tylaara remained in her seat long after the others had left, trying to believe that they were doing the right thing; that they were helping rather than condemning the realm; that their actions would see the realm to prosperity again, rather than consigning it to the mercies of the beasts that lurked in the underdark. Finally she rose to her feet and left the room as well, knowing that all the speculation in the realm would not change what was, nor what would be.

Moments after the room was abandoned, the shadows in the corner began to shift, seemingly of their own accord. Very slowly the shadow moved toward the door, its motion as unobtrusive as the shadow itself. Mayhap the circumstance was beyond all of their control, but this one would see the circumstance turned to their advantage, no matter the cost.

---

Ronin Seryne walked with Tylaara to the edge of Gna Faste. The morning air was cold indeed, and his heart was as heavy as the sense of doom in the air. His wife was to be away, and he was not sure that he would ever see her again. His hand clenched hers tightly as they walked to meet Helphdane and Dreadkane Dwarfeater.

“I wish I could come with you. I trust Helphdane as I would my own brother, but I would feel better if I were with you.”

“I as well,” she answered, letting the tear fall freely from her eye. “I have loved you for all of times. To think that I may never know your touch again…”

Ronin stopped and turned to face her. “We shall see each other again, my love. Know that in this heart I shall live for all of times with you there. If it is not in this lifetime, then in the next, we shall be together.” The hunter looked deeply into her eyes, his heart hanging on each moment they spent together. Letting her go was to be the hardest thing that he had ever done, but they both knew their place, and their duty. Ronin leaned forward and offered her the softest of kisses. Their lips met in passion and paradise, both wanting to do nothing but melt together and forget the troubles that had found them.

Instead, they moved off to meet Helphdane at the edge of Gna Faste. The troll was waiting for them, with Dreadkane Dwarfeater standing a good step off the temperamental troll. “About time you two showed up,” he half-joked. He had known them both for the longest of times, and knew well enough how their hearts were breaking for the matters at hand.

Tylaara squeezed Ronin’s hand a final time and walked into the forest, the arachite matching her step for step. Helphdane turned to face Ronin before moving off. “Worry not old friend. She shall not come to harm.” He gave his old friend a confident smile and hurried to catch them as they went, leaving Ronin to contemplate the future, both his own and that of the realm.

“See that she doesn’t,” he whispered after the troll, “for if she should, I will not rest until those responsible are dead, though not before knowing the reasons of it.” His eyes lingered on the forest long after she has disappeared from sight, as though the want of it could make her return to him.

After a time, he turned and moved back into Gna Faste, eager to try and forget his loneliness and pain, but knowing that he never would, not until Tylaara was back in his arms once again.

---

Gerik’s chamber seemed large enough when it was him alone with the arachite. Even when he had Tylaara there as well, there was room to spare. The moment the troll entered, however, Gerik was sure that the entire room was closing in on him. Helphdane had done little to hide his contempt for the dwarf and his designs, and it was clear early on that the troll would brook no foolishness or deceit from him. Gerik was only too happy to offer the troll some distance, and was pleased that he would soon be gone. Still, as much as he feared the troll, he could not argue that he seemed competent enough for the task at hand.

“Be ready my friends. Make sure you all hold tightly the Hammer, else you be left behind in the traveling.” The old dwarf moved to a locked chest and passed his hand over it, uttering a single, magical phrase. The lid opened of its own volition, and Gerik withdrew a parchment that seemed to glow for the power within. The old dwarf was sure that the magics contained within would be enough to whisk them on their way, if he had studied the casting and the realm histories correctly. A cold chill passed through him as he began to read the incantation. Every few moments he would risk a glance upward to see that they all held the hammer tightly, for if they were to release it while he was in the casting, Gods only knew what the effect might have been. The words came strangely to him, for they were written in the magicians tongue, and it was a language which with he was not wholly familiar, though he did manage speak enough of it to see the incantation to its completion.

Tylaara held the hilt of the hammer tightly as though it were in danger of being ripped from her hands. Helphdane and the arachite held it as well, none of them knowing what to expect from the casting. Suddenly the hammer grew warm to the touch and then hotter, almost to the point of actual physical pain. Tylaara cried out, but refused to relinquish her hold. As quickly as it had come, the heat seemed to vanish, replaced with a dim light that rapidly grew brighter. It did not become so intense that they could not see for it, though it was not far from that to be sure.

Gerik’s voice reached a mournful pitch, making her wish that he would simply complete the passage, regardless of the cost, if for no other reason than to silence the dwarf (no small task in and of itself, she thought with a bemused turn). As the spell went on, a large, red glowing circle seemed to etch itself into the floor of the chamber, encircling the three who sought to reach Darkness Falls. Tylaara could feel her body being pulled in a thousand different directions at once. Pain tore through her as though euphoric for its freedom, and she cried out several times, though never did she relinquish her grip on the hammer.

Gerik looked on with almost surprised fascination as he uttered the final words of the spell, for in truth even he was not sure that the incantation would function. When the travel circle appeared on the floor and encircled them, Gerik noticed a suspicious shadow moving along the floor, but gave it little more than a passing interest. The shadow seemed to dissipate for a moment upon entering the circle, but an instant later it returned, though its form had shifted to its native state as quickly as thought might be enacted. It was a kobold to be sure, and an assassin if Gerik recalled the profession correctly. Before there was even time for a moments respite, twin daggers appeared and were buried in the sides of Dreadkane Dwarfeater. The arachite screamed his denial to the realms, all four of its clawed hands releasing its grip on the relic.

“NO!!” screamed Gerik, realizing only too well the danger that this madman presented. The spell was not yet complete, and to have it toyed with invited death and disaster and worse. He contemplated rushing forward and engaging the assassin, but restrained himself, for to introduce another disruption in the lines of the spell could only make matters worse. He was consigned to simply watch and pray that his plans would not unfold completely.

The assassin jumped high into the air and spun about, its right foot connecting with the arachite’s face as he did. Dreadkane stumbled back out of the circle, knocked senseless for the attack. Gerik was helpless beyond observation as the kobold grabbed hold of the hammer in the arachite’s place. A instant later and it was over, the circle having vanished along with the runemaster, the thane and the unnamed assassin. Gerik looked to the arachite, his hands fairly trembling in frustration, the twin daggers of the assassin having done their work with admirable precision. Dreadkane Dwarfeater was dead, and Gerik’s time among the arachites was done, for surely the others would blame him for the death of their leader, no matter the truth, and see him torn asunder for it. In truth the death of the arachite was one that he would not mourn, but his sense of self-preservation bid him leave, and he was only too willing to do so, considering the alternative.

More than this, however, he mourned the assassin’s attack, for the Gods only knew what effect it might have. They had all been sent to Darkness Falls, or so he assumed for in truth he could not know for certain, but what would befall them once there? Was the assassin’s intention for good or ill?

Gerik sighed. There was nothing to be done, save flee the caverns, and wait to see if what he had set in motion would bring his plans to fruition. The very fact that an assassin had usurped the proceedings gave him cause to wonder if he had not sealed the fate of the realm, rather than saving it.