The Bloodstone of Cerillion

By Jonathan Peace
 Copyright © Mantic Entertainment 2013

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or arrangement is copyright of Mantic Entertainment Ltd., or has been granted for use by
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Reproduction is prohibited.

Story edited by James M. Hewitt

Editing and proofreading by Tsu Woodside
Additional editing by Matt Gilbert and Andrew Thornway
Cover art by Stef Kopinski
 Table of Contents

Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
 Prologue

The dwarfen stronghold of Mox stood on the southern edge of the Alandar Mountains,
nestled in the cleft between two crags. It seemed to grow from the rock itself, spires jutting
upward in grey columns that were spotted with fern and moss. It had taken Dwarf smiths four
decades to carve the structure and another four to work their craft on the many thousands of
corridors, rooms and great halls that were spread throughout the interior. Its maze-like
passageways riddled the Alandar range, but it was its great curtain wall that inspired the most
awe in visiting travellers. An innovative design borne of the Dwarfs’ need for settlement, the
stronghold of Mox was one of the few Dwarf cities that still remained within the realm of
Elvenholme.
Holk Gungerson walked the wall, his war hammer strapped to his back and a pipe clenched
between his teeth. The pungent smell of ackleaf hung in a cloud about his head as he looked
out over the surrounding forests. The tree line ended only a few hundred yards from the
curtain wall, a fact that always made him uneasy. If it had been up to him they would have
stripped back every tree within a mile of the wall, but situated as they were in the Elves’
homeland, such a move would hardly have been wise. He gave a derisive grunt and tapped
out his pipe against the battlements.
“Cold one again,” came a voice from behind him. Holk turned to see a finely clad Dwarf in
the red tabard of Clan Stronghelm, the afternoon light glinting off the golden crown at his
brow.
“Afternoon, Balek,” Holk grunted.
Balek Stronghelm, Lord of Mox, rolled his eyes with a sigh, “I’d point out that you’re
supposed to refer to me as Lord if I thought it would do any good.”
“It might be threescore years since your father passed on, but you’re still the same Balek I
marched next to at Hadros Port,” he gestured upwards with his pipe, “Crown or no crown.”
Balek gave a small shrug, yielding the point. The two of them stood in silence for several
seconds, gazing out across the trees. They made a strange pair; the noble with his finery and
the gemstones braided into his red hair, and the soldier with his fighter’s garb and close-
cropped beard.
“How has the watch been these last few weeks?” the lord asked.
Holk’s eyes narrowed. “We had a couple of broken bones when Grimril fell down the west
stairs, two sprained wrists – don't ask – and one of the mastiffs choked on a rat. Nothing
serious.”
“And the guards in the Vault?”
“Rotated on an hourly basis as per your orders. They don't go near that place, closer than
they must anyways. The lads tell me they, well, they hear things from behind the door.” Holk
paused, weighing up his place to say more.
“If you’ve got something to say, Holk, say it.”
“Very well. We shouldn't have taken that stone from the Elves. It is a problem of their own
making, let them deal with the consequences. All we've done is invite death into Mox.”
 “You know full well they couldn't care for it in Ithris, or any of the villages for that matter,
not now that it’s awake. One way or another it would have found its way into the hands of the
enemy for certain.” He sighed, “It can’t stay here forever, though. I’ve sent an envoy to Ithris,
to see what Cerillion proposes as a long-term solution. Until then, we will guard their
mistake.”
“But why does it have to be here?”
“If not here... then where?”
“Gods be damned, that isn't my concern. I’m just afraid I’ll die for an Elf's folly.”
Balek turned, favouring Holk with a level stare: “This crown was a gift from the Cerillions,
you know. Generations ago, before the time of our fathers, before petty rivalries got in the
way of old alliances. We’ve enough enemies in the world without holding to old grudges, and
attitudes like yours aren’t helping.”
Holk bit back a response, lowering his head instead. Balek continued, “This is the best
place for the blasted thing, at least for now. The walls of Mox have stood for generations, and
the Vault’s the safest place on the continent. No one in their right mind would dare try to take
it.”
Holk pursed his lips and nodded solemnly, but in his heart he only wished he could share
his lord’s confidence.
 One

For six weeks the elven patrol had ridden the forests around Ithris, moving between the
scattered settlements like ghosts. They left little evidence of their passing, a trait
indoctrinated into every Elf from an early age. Too great a mark had already been scoured
into the land by the Elves of old, and now they fought to correct their mistakes.
Some fight more readily than others, Brim Cerillion considered as he guided his horse
along an overgrown forest path. Despite the speed at which they were travelling he
maintained a noble bearing, his golden hair streaming out from beneath his green helm and
his plate armour shining in the dappled sunlight. Beside him his brother Athuen swore as he
swerved his horse to avoid a gnarled root.
“Why in the Seven Shades did we come this way?” he called, brushing a leaf from his
armour, “The Kethaleon Pass would have been quicker and easier.”
“Quicker and easier are shortcuts to disaster,” Brim replied, “or have you learned nothing
from history?”
Athuen looked nothing like his older brother; his hair was dark, like their sister's, and his
features were considerably softer than Brim’s. He wore the same green tunic as the score of
Elves that rode with them.
“Another lecture, brother? You’re beginning to sound like father.” He grinned
mischievously, “Come to think of it, you’re beginning to sound worse.”
Brim gave his brother a stern glare: “Our father is Lord of Ithris, and deserves the respect
of his subjects. That includes us both, as you’d do well to remember.”
Athuen’s response was cut short by a call from behind them. It was Loreth, commander of
the Sea Guard regiment that rode with them. They halted their steeds, their men doing the
same. Before they could ask the keen-eyed Elf what he could see, they spied it for
themselves. Following his gaze through a gap in the canopy to their left, they could clearly
see black smoke rising into the grey afternoon sky.

***
Hours before, Kael had been a place of joy and laughter, its inhabitants celebrating the
Renewal Ceremony with feasting and dancing. Now, the village burned. Acrid fumes lazed
skywards in huge, thick columns. Elven bodies smouldered alongside buildings and in the
remains of vegetation: man, woman and child; none had been spared from the brutality. They
lay like scattered dolls, limbs twisted or hacked away. Blood had turned the ground a muddy
red. Carrion crows soared above the ravaged settlement, while swarms of flies buzzed in
clouds above the corpses. Movement shuffled in the shadows. From between two buildings,
the green hulk of an Orc appeared.
Standing nearly as tall as a horse, the creature was a mass of muscle. It effortlessly dragged
a young Elf girl into the bloodied street, releasing her into the dirt, then barked skywards in
its harsh language – beckoning its kin. They stopped what they were doing amidst the ruined
town, seeing the potential for cruel sport, and approached. They carried a variety of wicked
looking axes, shields decorated with crude symbols slung across several of their backs.
The Orcs gathered around the terrified girl. She tried to run, but a hefty fist sent her
sprawling in the mud as the beasts howled with pleasure and clashed their axes together. One
of the larger warriors lumbered forward, a brutal double-headed axe sheathed at his back,
stepped into the circle. He bent down and eyed her greedily.
The pounding of axe against axe became louder, the crashes sounding like thunder.
Although frightened beyond terror the girl still had the courage to lash out at the Orc, but her
blows struck his toughened skin with no effect. He made a strange barking sound; she
realised to her horror that the creature was laughing at her. She went limp as gnarled fingers
fastened about her shoulders and began to lift her up.
A sharp hiss sang through the air, then silenced suddenly as an arrow bit deep into the
beast's neck. The Orc reeled back, releasing the girl and clawing at the shaft protruding from
his throat through a river of greenish-brown blood; he pawed at it with stumpy fingers like a
man stung by a wasp, wheezing blood through thick, stained teeth.
The girl managed to roll aside just in time as the brute collapsed on the floor. She
scrambled to her feet, using the distraction to duck between her captors as all eyes turned
towards the arrow’s source. Looking over her shoulder as she made for cover she saw,
standing atop the hill, two tall figures. One was clad in heavy plate armour, holding a
longsword in a practised stance, while the other drew a fresh green-fletched arrow from a
quiver at his back.
Brim nodded to his younger brother: “Good aim.”
Athuen gave a fierce grin, drawing and loosing again. The arrow flew true and caught its
target full in the chest, pitching an Orc backwards under his own weight into a pile of
corpses. Its fellows roared in response, coming to their senses and starting towards the Elves.
Brim raised his blade in a swordsman’s salute, the sun catching the amethyst set at its
pommel. “For Ithris!” he shouted, and charged forward. Athuen stood where he was, nocking
a third arrow.
The Orc raiders growled their own battle cry, axes waving about their heads, their shields
jagged and pointed. Powerful muscles heaved them up the hill, thirty against one. The green
of their skin glistened with sweat or dripped with vile fluids from the earlier massacre, in
stark contrast to their foe’s pristine plate armour. They brayed for his death in their guttural
tongue, already able to taste soft Elf noble flesh.
There came a whistling sound from on high as a shower of arrows descended on the
rampaging Orcs, finding their targets with ease. A dozen fell dead from the volley, while
others tripped over their fallen comrades and crashed heavily into the earth. The Sea Guard
had stepped up to stand level with Athuen on the hill’s crest, strings already drawn to loose a
second volley.
Brim ran on heedless to the bow fire, safe in the knowledge that his kin would aim true. He
reached the Orc ranks and ducked the first swing that came his way, slicing his attacker open
across the midriff as he passed. The second Orc in his path fell to a decapitating strike, and a
third lost its axe arm to a heavy overhead swing.
Most of the Orcs, seeing new targets, hurried past Brim and continued towards the hill.
Loreth loosed one final arrow then gave a curt command. As one, the archers stowed their
bows and cast their left arms straight down. The short shields that had sat at their shoulders
dropped forward with an audible clack and lengthened as hidden segments slid forth. Each
Elf drew forth a short spear from where it had been strapped next to his quiver. The unit had
snapped to a ready stance in mere moments, the ranks of bowmen now forming a solid
spearwall. Athuen was the last to keep his bow in hand, maintaining a steady hail of arrows
until the Orcs had reached the Sea Guard. Only then did he draw his sword; it was less ornate
than his brother’s but no less deadly, and he was keen to demonstrate this fact.
The Orcs’ charge was brutal but inelegant. Loreth took a glancing swing to the shield
strapped to his forearm, the blow so powerful it staggered him backwards. Without hesitation
he spun his spear, opening the beast up from neck to belly before moving onto his next
opponent, a rangy Orc with long scar running down across its right eye. Loreth brought
symmetry to the creature’s face with a downwards swipe of his shield’s sharpened edge,
ducking under its wild return swing as the creature slashed, turned and swung again
blindly, lodging its blade in another Orc's skull like a watermelon.
Brim was locked in combat with a giant of an Orc. Clearly the leader, it carried twin axes,
swinging them with a speed that seemed impossible for something so large. Despite the
chieftain’s skill, the Elf blocked each strike, either with well-timed parries or by dodging
aside. The Orc snarled its fury, a wave of putrid breath sweeping over the deft warrior,
stinging his eyes. He did not dare to close them, even for a second to blink away the tears: to
do so would have meant certain death.
He locked his blade against the axes and gave a push, forcing his foe back a step. As his
opponent staggered he twisted his sword aside, spinning it above his helm and back into a
ready position. The beast lunged at him, axes scissoring towards Brim’s head, but he was
ready. He dropped into a roll, bringing his sword around in a smooth motion as he rose and
cleanly severing the Orc’s legs at the knees. His foe crashed face-first to the ground, blood
fountaining from twin stumps. Brim’s sword spun in his hands and he brought the point down
and through the creature’s neck, severing its spine. Its limbs jerked twice before it stilled.
He snapped his head up and took stock of the battle. It barely deserved to be called such; it
was a massacre. The Orcs may have been brutal, but they had been unprepared and had posed
no great threat to the Sea Guard. He watched as his brother spun his own sword to fell the last
Orc standing before it could bring its axe down on one of his kin. The brothers’ eyes met, and
Athuen gave a feral grin. Along the slope of the hill, Elves were putting wounded greenskins
to the spear. The battle was won. Brim wiped his sword clean and sheathed it, heading back
towards the younger Cerillion lord.
The Sea Guard commander saw him approaching and walked to join him, plucking an
arrow from a corpse and wiping it clean with a handful of grass before returning it to his
quiver.
“Loreth,” Brim said, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Your Sea Guard lived up to their
reputation once again. You have my thanks.”
The commander looked around the village. Elves were starting to emerge from the
buildings that were still standing. They were a sorry group, their clothing tattered and tears in
their eyes. Many rushed to help the long-dead fallen but most stared blankly at the carnage
around them.
“We should have been here sooner my lord,” Loreth said.
“We’re lucky we were able to intervene at all. If you hadn’t halted us, we might have
ridden straight past.”
Loreth gestured to the burning town: “Evil walks this land, lord, and yet we seem to be the
only ones willing to fight it.” His tone was bitter, and a scowl darkened his features, “It’s no
different than it ever was. The Dwarfs hide in their mountain holds like they did when we
fought Winter alone, and Antonius’ heirs are little better, in their great golden city...”
“My friend, the men of Basilea have their own wars to the north, and we don’t concern
ourselves with them, do we?” Brim interjected with a curt gesture, “These are our lands. Who
else would we expect to patrol them?”
“The Dwarfs of Mox, maybe? Their stronghold is within our borders, within this very
forest, yet their warriors only patrol the paths that lead directly to their gate.”
“My father is working to build their trust, Loreth, but it’s a long path to reconciliation.
They see themselves as surrounded on all sides by potential enemies. Tell me: if you found
yourself living in Abercarr, how would you feel?”
Athuen walked past them, giving Brim an impatient glare: “If you’re done talking politics,
brother, I imagine these folk could use our help.”
 Two

Kael lay in ruin, the joy of Renewal Day forgotten. Blood soaked the soil and Brim
doubted whether the village would ever recover. More likely, its folk would scatter to other
settlements. Many would come to Ithris, where they would be welcomed and cared for.
Whether they would ever feel safe again, and whether they would ever enjoy another
sleepless night, was doubtful.
He stood over a freshly covered grave, aligned north-to-south as per tradition. He bowed
his head and quietly spoke the words of prayer that he had first learned at his mother’s
graveside. He had been so young, barely six summers, and to this day could not remember
her face – just that silent afternoon by her graveside, Athuen clinging to their nurse’s leg,
Morrig cradled in her arms. The scene always came back to him when he buried the dead,
along with the frustration at his inability to conjure his mother’s image.
His brother was stripped to the waist, his muscular form glistening as he joined the Sea
Guard in digging another row of graves. Brim could see the younger Cerillion’s anger in his
every movement. Loreth’s ire was less obvious, but still visible to one who knew him well
enough. He was the same age as Athuen and was the son of a lesser noble, not sufficiently
highborn to ever rule but high enough to be considered a suitable companion for two
lordlings. He had been present through their formative years, his quiet, understated manner
ever an ideal foil to both Brim’s stoic idealism and Athuen’s brash intensity. His anger as he
dug graves for the folk of Kael was uncharacteristic, but Brim understood that he somehow
blamed himself for not having seen the pall of smoke sooner.
Brim finished speaking the rite of passing. That was the last of the villagers that they had
buried; there were still half a dozen more, but nothing could be done for them until the graves
had been dug. He suspected that the remaining villagers could do the job, but it would not
have been right to leave them to it. Their focus should be grief for their loved ones, not
manual labour. He brushed dirt from his hands and walked over to where his companions
were digging. He stopped by Athuen, stooping so that the two were level.
“Brother, you understand-“
“That you feel our time is better spent digging graves that taking vengeance, yes. I
understand that perfectly well.” Athuen drove the shovel into the wet earth, not raising his
eyes to meet his brother’s. Brim saw Loreth pause from the corner of his eye, but their
companion knew better than to intervene.
“These people need our help. You said so yourself.”
At this, his brother stopped digging, cocking his head as he straightened. Lips pressed into
a thin line, he rounded on his older brother. “Thank you, Brim. Yes, I did say that they would
appreciate our help, but perhaps I should have made myself clearer. By help, I meant finding
the scum that did this and putting an end to their miserable lives.”
Brim held his gaze steadily, “We killed the Orcs, every one of them.” He raised an open
palm, gesturing to the ugly pyre a short distance from the tree line where the bestial corpses
were being burned on a mound of planks recycled from the downed houses in the village.
 Athuen scowled, his normally handsome features rendered entirely ugly by the expression.
“Three dozen Orcs, working by themselves and attacking a village with such ferocity? I’ve
never heard of such numbers in these parts banding together. I’m sorry, brother, did you take
a blow to the head during the ambush? Use your brain. They were sent here and, mark my
words, they’ll have a larger force nearby. We could take them before nightfall and come back
to bury the dead then.” His eyes flashed with impatience, “What do you say?”
“I say we finish our task here, and we help these people back to Ithris. It’s not safe for
them here, and what if we ride off in the wrong direction? If you’re right, the Orcs could send
reinforcements to check on the ones that didn’t return. Then what?”
Athuen fell silent, shovelling earth without a word. Loreth looked up, catching Brim’s eye,
but his expression was unreadable.
A shadow fell over the brothers. Brim turned, straightening up, and saw the young maiden
who owed her life to their timely intervention. Her kirtle was soaked with blood, but she did
not seem to be severely wounded herself.
“Please, you have to come quickly. Master Luthis has asked for you.”
Brim glanced back at Athuen, meaning to ask him to come along, but his brother was still
digging in uncomfortable silence. He gave the girl a brief nod. “Lead the way.”

***
Luthis was the village’s elder, a word which, considering the almost interminable life span
of the Elves, meant he might be older than some of the tall trees in the forest. In health he had
been fresh-faced and quick to smile, but Brim Cerillion never got to see him in such a state.
He was laid on one of the tables that had ringed the Renewal Day tree, his hands clasped on
his chest. Brim followed the girl to his makeshift bedside, brushing past worried villagers and
nodding his thanks to the healers as they moved aside.
The old Elf had suffered badly at the hands of the Orcs. At a glance, Brim could see that
one of his ears had been crudely sliced off, and the fingers of his right hand had been broken
into a purple pulp. The tale these injuries told was clear: he had known something the
attackers had wanted to find out. The ugly wound in his belly implied that he had been far
from forthcoming.
The elder’s eyes were dim, but they fixed Brim with an even stare. “You’re Daeril’s heir?”
His voice was unwavering despite his injuries, “I’m glad to meet you, although I regret that
it’s not under better circumstances.”
“I only wish we could have been here sooner.”
“Did you hesitate once you saw that we were in peril? Did you tether your mounts on the
forest road and hold a council to decide your course of action?” he smiled weakly at the
young lord, “You did the best you could have.”
Brim gave a sad smile, “I’ll pass that along to my companions. I’m not sure they agree.”
Luthis dismissed this with a wave of his hand: “Enough about that. My time is coming to a
close, but I have more to say, and it is vital that you hear it.” The weak Elf raised his voice,
addressing the healers that waited at the foot of the table: “Leave me alone with the prince, if
you please. I shall brook no argument.” His authority still held, and within seconds Brim was
alone by his side.
“Tell me, Brim Cerillion,” his voice was hushed, “what do you know of the Bloodstone?”
 The younger Elf’s blank expression gave him his answer before any words could, and
Luthis continued before he could reply. “Never mind, then. All you need to know is that it
was here, and it’s what the Orcs were seeking. I told them the truth – that it hasn’t resided
here for some weeks now – and as you can see, they weren’t happy with that answer.”
Brim shook his head, trying to catch up. “But… what is it?”
“That’s the wrong question.” Luthis coughed, a rattling wheeze that shook his entire body.
“Where would be more pertinent.”
“Then… where is it?”
“It wasn’t safe here, not once it awoke. We had to move it.” The last words came out as a
gasp as the dying Elf was wracked by another fit of coughs.
“But where is it? Where did you take it?”
Luthis looked confused for a moment, then squeezed his eyes shut. Brim could see that he
likely wouldn’t open them again.
The word came out as a whisper, and Brim had to lean close to hear it.
“Mox.”

***
Athuen watched Brim from the grave he was digging as his brother spoke to the dying
elder. He bit his lip thoughtfully: “Loreth,” he began. The Sea Guard commander looked up
at him. “Why do I let my head run away with my heart?”
His friend couldn’t help the smile that came to his lips at such an oddly poetic turn of
phrase. “I beg your pardon?”
“Brim’s right. This is the right thing, but I put on that childish display for him. Now he’s
over there, doing the important things, and…” He spread his arms to indicate the grave he
was digging. “I’m such a…”
“Second son?” The other Elf ventured.
Athuen nodded. Across the square, Brim was leaning in close to hear what the old Elf was
saying. Suddenly his brother straightened up, looking either aghast or surprised, or some
combination of the two – Athuen couldn’t be sure at this distance.
One thing that he could see, however, was the strange purple light emanating from the
Renewal Tree at just above head height. No one else seemed to have noticed it; Brim’s eyes
were fixed on the elder, and everyone else was being busy elsewhere. Something felt wrong
about the light. It was a sickly light, and it painted everything around it with a waxy sheen.
Athuen was considering reaching for his bow when the tree’s boughs exploded into
motion. A great bird, the size of a buzzard and black as night, let out a wicked caw as it
launched from the tree. Looking at it, Athuen realised that you could almost see through it. It
was no natural creature, and his own words came back to him; those Orcs were sent here.
The bird was already taking flight, heading for the open sky above the tree line. Athuen
vaulted up from the grave, grabbing his bow and quiver as he did so. He selected an arrow,
draw back the string and let fly, but the bird was too quick. His arrow fell short. He dashed
after the creature, loosing again. This shot was on-target, but the bird wheeled away at the
last second before disappearing beyond the boughs.
 Loreth watched it go. “What was that?”
Athuen frowned.
“Nothing good, that’s for certain.”

***
In a forest clearing not far from Kael stood a gnarled figure that almost looked human,
swathed in a musty cloak that might have been any colour before decades of grime had turned
it grey-brown. Aged skin, as fragile-looking as wet parchment, was stretched across his
frame, the bones prominent and jutting beneath. The few teeth he had were yellowed and
rotting, and sparse strands of white hair slipped forward from the shadows of his hood,
ending below his shoulders. He leaned heavily on a wooden staff carved with intricate
traceries of arcane symbolism. An undead creature stood behind him, clad in ornate armour
that was as pitted and age-marked as its tattered flesh. From the look of what remained of its
garb, it had been a great warrior, maybe even a king. A broadsword was strapped across the
Revenant’s back, and in its hand it clutched a crimson-hued banner. At the tree line, a number
of spectral forms dressed in tattered cloth robes awaited instructions. These wraiths, the
product of an eternity of soul-slavery and torture, stared straight ahead, scythes and curved
scimitars clutched in their bony hands.
Kronos the Undying, master necromancer, spoke with an impressive strength and clarity
considering his seemingly decrepit physical state.
“The death of your warriors isn’t my concern, Grogut. Their failure to retrieve the
Bloodstone is.” Several feet away from him stood a massive Orc, arms folded across his
scarred and tattooed chest. Three others of his kind, almost as large, stood ready behind him.
The beast replied in a voice like the rumble of thunder.
“Bloodstone wasn’t there. Elf warriors were there, slaughtered my Ax. Was meant to be
easy, attacking defenceless village. Not what happened, Kronos.”
“If your warriors can’t hold their own against a small elven force, then—“
Grogut moved like lightning, drawing the massive double-bladed axe from the sheath at his
back and taking a step forward almost as quickly as Kronos could blink. Behind him, the
Revenant drove the banner into the ground and stepped forward into a ready position,
drawing its massive sword.
“Make a move, I dare you,” called the necromancer, “Strike me down and Heryk will
destroy you. Unless you also possess mastery over death, I wouldn’t recommend it.”
The Orc glanced at the necromancer’s guardian, considered for a moment, then shrugged
and buried his axe haft-up in the grass.
“So how you repay us?”
The necromancer was about to reply when a rusty caw sounded above them. Grogut
watched uneasily as a great bird flapped down and came to rest on Kronos’ outstretched arm.
It seemed almost comically large next to his feeble frame, but there was nothing else even
remotely amusing about it. Its jet-black eyes seemed to ooze malice.
Kronos simpered at Grogut. “A moment, if you please.”
 The Orc’s arms folded once more, and he looked to his lieutenants, saying something in
Orcish. The largest of them gave a throaty laugh and responded with something equally
unintelligible.
The necromancer listened carefully as the bird began chattering. It was not birdsong, and it
was not quite any human tongue; it fell somewhere between the two. By the time the bird had
finished, a wide grin had split the elderly necromancer’s features.
“Grogut, it appears we have a solution to our situation. Would you care to have a dwarfen
stronghold to yourself?”
“Mox? You mean Mox?”
Kronos nodded amiably. “I want something inside it, but beyond that I don’t care for the
place. You’re welcome to it, as well as all the sport you wish with any Dwarf prisoners that
survive my attack.”
Grogut squinted, his mouth twisting into an incredulous grimace. “You, take Mox? Many
armies tried before. Strong walls, cannons, full army of Dwarfs.”
The necromancer turned, beckoning the wraiths at the tree line. “It’s not the first fortress
I’ve besieged, Grogut. It’s no different to opening any lock; you simply need the right key…”
 Three

The spires of Ithris were the first thing that came into view as the trade caravan crested the
last hill. Azad Ironson had ridden with them for almost two days, hitching a lift on the back
of a grain wagon. It wasn’t the most dignified way to travel, but he’d had much worse and the
conversation had been good at least.
Azad was a burly Dwarf of advancing age, and had been travelling the roads of
Elvenholme for almost a decade now as an envoy to the great stronghold of Mox. He had
been as far west as Walldeep, a journey which had taken weeks, so Ithris was little more than
a short trip. Of course his business there was no small matter, which is why he had taken the
opportunity to travel with the caravan rather than walking. Besides, he reasoned, his legs
weren’t as quick as they used to be, and his girth only slowed him down further.
Despite the years of travel, it was an oddity that he had never been to Ithris, though it had
ever been visible from his chambers in the great keep of Mox. It stood on a hill not far
beyond the reaches of the Darklin Forest, and was the centre of a swathe of elven villages and
townships that stretched out for miles in each direction. Although it was nowhere near as
expansive as his home, Azad saw it for what it was – a shining hub of trade. A river ran north
to the Infant Sea, along which came barges laden with salted fish and goods from
Primovantor and the Successor Kingdoms. Spices and silks came up the road from the south,
in caravans guided by Elves from the Southern Kindred. Grains and crops came in from
farms in all directions. There had been a time when armoured wagons had brought precious
metals and gemstones from Mox but those days were long gone, lost to bickering and petty
disputes.
The caravan made its way over the last bridge before the city’s tall gates and the envoy
took a moment to reflect on his place in the world. It wasn’t a bad life for a retired warrior.
His children were grown and had sons and daughters of their own; they now ruled the family
hearth, leaving him unburdened. Diplomacy had always come easily to him, and when old
Durek had passed on the Lord of Mox had seen fit to let Azad fill his shoes. He had spent
most of his time since then maintaining trade links with distant settlements, and he was
content with that. Still, on some level he missed the thrill of battle, and some nights
(especially when wine cellars had been thrown open to him) he wished he could trade in his
walking-staff and once again take up an axe or hammer.
They pulled up in the courtyard, a wide space inside the main gate set aside for receiving
visitors before letting them through to the city proper. It was thronged with Elves, along with
a scattering of Dwarfs and Men, and it would be some time before the traders made it
through. Azad passed a small pouch of gold to the wagoner and hopped down, taking up his
knapsack and staff of dark, intricately-carved wood and iron. He stretched expansively, his
gut sticking out before him as he pushed his shoulders back and grunted with exertion.
He opened his eyes to find an Elf maiden staring at him with visible distaste. She was
clearly of noble birth; that much he could tell without even looking at the embroidered silk
doublet and ankle-length skirt she wore, or the bejewelled green ribbon holding her dark hair
back. His mud-spattered travelling clothes must have made quite a contrast.
 “Apologies, my lady,” he said with a weary smile. She scoffed at his apology, but he
continued quickly before she could take any more offence at whatever his imagined slight
was: “The road was hard and the journey was long. Could you direct me to a bath-house?”
“Why’s that, can’t you find them yourself? Are the signs too high up?”
Azad was about to come back at her when an older Elf, dressed in the white and green
robes of a Mage-Queen, stepped out from the crowd behind her and clipped her around the
ear with an open hand.
“Morrig, is that any way to speak to a visitor to our city?” She bowed to Azad, hands
clasped before her, and he mirrored the gesture with a gracious smile.
“We were all young once, my lady.”
The maiden made to speak, but stopped herself when the other Elf lifted her hand: “I am
sure that Morrig here has just remembered that, rather than dawdling her in the courtyard, she
should have been spending the morning expanding her mind. I’m sure the realisation was
more than enough to drive her to such heights of rudeness.”
Azad gave a good-natured laugh and shook his head. “We dwarfs need no apology.”
Morrig hung her head.
“The nearest bath-house is just within the city proper. You can’t miss it, although it might
be rather busy this morning.”
The Dwarf gave another deep bow. “That suits my purposes perfectly. I have business to
attend to, but I must refresh myself before my audience.”
He shouldered his pack and took up his staff, pressing into the crowd. Faelan Weirt gave
her student an exasperated look: “If you insist on taking after one of your brothers, girl, why
does it have to be Athuen?”

***
Morrig Cerillion leant on the balcony rail of the highest tower of Ithris, looking out into the
late afternoon sun as Faelan Weirt finished preparing the final lesson of the day. The
Mountains of Alandar rode the horizon, the dark outline of the forest filling the distance
before them. Through the drizzle that was starting to fall, a thin pall of smoke hung over the
treetops several leagues distant, and the maiden watched it intently.
“I swear, if you spent as much time on your studies as you do daydreaming, I could have
handed you your staff long before now.”
“Something’s going on in the forest, Faelan. That smoke from earlier hasn’t stopped.”
Her tutor, knowing full well that she would achieve nothing until she complied, stepped out
onto the balcony. Morrig pointed out across the treetops: “There, you see it? Do you think the
Dwarfs are down from their mountain again?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Master Rellian said the Dwarfs are always trouble when they come to the forest. They
hew down trees without replacing them, they start fires and they don’t respect the land.”
“Oh, so Rellian’s to blame for that nonsense in the courtyard this morning? Not everything
he says is as truthful as he’d have you believe, especially when it comes to Dwarfs. He isn’t
the only one to hold such views, sadly, but that’s no reason for you to take the same attitude.
Now, as much as I respect your duty as Captain of the Watch, could we perhaps complete the
day’s lessons?” A faint smile broke through Faelan’s stern demeanour, and Morrig assented.
They walked inside and Faelan indicated a jar of violet liquid on the desk. Occasional
bubbled drifted to its surface, and a faint wisp of smoke drifted from the neck, turning a
rainbow dance as it rose into the fading light.
“What do you make of this preparation?”
Morrig looked at it for less than a second: “Essence of Dranva leaf,” she said in a matter-
of-fact tone. Faelan gestured for her to continue and she stifled a sigh as she repeated her
scrolls in sing-song, “Used as a healing salve for burns and inflammations. Taken from the
plant Dranvakitan, found only in the depths of Darklin Forest or on Bloodmire Moor to the
north, beyond the Dwarf city of Mox.”
As she talked, Morrig walked about the desk, running a finger across the assorted jars and
bottles racked up on the wall. None of them bore labels or markings. Faelan watched her
calmly, showing neither approval nor censure as her pupil continued. “The gradient colour of
the vapour tells us how potent the potion truly is.” She picked up the jar, holding it to the
light and turning it slightly, “This one is sub-par, as evidenced by the extreme pallor of its
hue.”
She put the flask down and returned to the racking, picking up a large vial that contained a
pearlescent solution.
“I know that many Mage-Queens let their potion lore grow stale and stagnant once they
take their staff, choosing to focus on the arcane arts and magical artefacts, but I have no
intention of doing so. There’s so much we can learn from the plants of the forest.” The cork
came from the vial with a large sucking pop. Morrig wafted the vial under her nose, “The
scent of stale firegrapes mixed with the tang of copper. Salamander bile, without a doubt.
Toxic by itself but a proven catalyst.”
She hovered the vial over the flask of dravana. Faelan winced slightly, but stayed silent.
Morrig tilted her hand and allowed several drops to fall into the bubbling jar. The effect was
instant. The liquid turned a lurid green, foaming up like a putrid volcano. Morrig leapt
backwards with a cry of alarm as the jar began to shake violently, tipping more of the noxious
foam out onto the desk. It ate at the wood with a serpentine hiss, forming a ragged hole.
Faelan stepped to the racking and took down a light blue flask. She upended it over the
bubbling mess, calming it immediately. She looked up at her pupil, who wore a sheepish
expression.
“How many times do I have to tell you, Morrig,” she said quietly, “there are no shortcuts,
no matter how strong the desire. Shortcuts only lead to destruction and pain.”
“I-”
“Let me finish, girl, please. You’re one of the strongest pupils I’ve known. Magic flows in
your blood, but you need to learn finesse. That applies to all aspects of your study. Tell me,
did you read Aben’s Herbalism?”
Morrig looked away, flushing. “I… I read most of it, yes.”
Faelan looked her straight in the eye, placing a hand on her shoulder: “There are no
shortcuts. Please, for the sake of your family, tell me that you’ll remember that.”
Morrig’s response was interrupted by a horn blast that sounded up from the courtyard. Her
face lit up; at that Faelan could see that the lesson was truly over.
 “That’s the gatesman! One long blast, that means a returning party. Athuen and Brim are
back!”
The tutor nodded, letting out a sigh, “Go to them, girl. But at least while you’re descending
the tower steps, think on what I said to you.”
Morrig leapt for the door, laughing as she went.
“Oh, I shall, Faelan! I certainly shall.”

***
Brim Cerillion strode down the long corridor towards the lord’s chambers, his brother at
his side. Both of them were streaked in blood and dirt, and Brim’s golden hair looked almost
black thanks to the rain that had plastered it to his scalp. He spoke in a low whisper as they
approached the great doors.
“Stay your hand, and let me speak first. You know what father’s like.” Athuen bit his
tongue to hold back a harsh response. He had been silent for most of their return journey,
angry at the situation but unable to pinpoint the source of his frustration.
Two Palace Guard flanked the doors, their lavish armour polished to a mirrored sheen and
glaives held smartly to attention. The one on the left stepped forward as they approached,
addressing them without turning his head to look at them.
“Lord Cerillion is not accepting visitors at this time.”
“You’d bar us from seeing our father? Just who do you think you-” Athuen had taken half
a step forward before Brim placed a hand on his chest and restrained him.
“Please forgive my brother. It’s… Halaen, isn’t it?” The sentry did not respond, “Halaen,
we have dire news, it is of the utmost importance that we speak with our father immediately.”
“Please accept my apologies, young lord, but Lord Cerillion is in talks with an envoy from
the Dwarf stronghold of Mox. He has given orders that he is not to be disturbed under any
circumstances.”
“Mox?” Brim was taken aback by this, “Our news concerns Mox, and it would do well to
have one of their ambassadors present while we deliver it.”
Athuen pushed past his brother, coming face-to-face with the guardsman. “You’re not
going to bar our entry. Many lives have been lost today,” if the guard flinched at his words, it
was not visible beneath the helmet.
“Athuen! Brim!” a delighted voice came from behind them, and the two princes turned.
Morrig was running down the corridor, but the smile dropped from her face when she saw
their blood-stained clothes and sombre expressions. Athuen greeted her with a small smile,
but it did not reach his eyes. Brim turned back to the guard with his hot-headed brother
distracted.
“All three of the lord’s offspring are here to see him, and as I’ve already said, we have dire
tidings that cannot wait. Now, will you let us in?”

***
The throne room was as opulent as would be expected for a lord of the Elves. Walls of
pristine marble curved up to a high ceiling bearing a painstakingly detailed fresco; windows
of pattered crystal made the waning light dance in swirling patterns on the floor. Sconces held
lanterns fuelled by pure magic, their bright glow leaving no shadows in the room.
The throne was currently empty. Daeril Cerillion sat at a table off to one side of the
chamber, across from Azad Ironson. A plate lay by the portly Dwarf’s left hand, holding
nothing but crumbs. They both looked up in surprise as the great doors opened and Daeril’s
heir strode into the room, followed by Halaen of the Guard. Behind them came Athuen and
Morrig. Halaen managed to get ahead of Brim, and dropped to one knee before the table.
“My Lord, please accept my apologies. I tried to halt them at the door, but-”
Cerillion’s face was like thunder, but Brim cut in before he could respond, “Father, Halaen
did his best to hold us back, but could not have done so without bloodshed. We have news,
and you need to hear it as soon as possible.”
“News that couldn’t wait? Is the city under attack? Or has your sister caused another
diplomatic incident that I need to smooth over?”
He gestured to Azad, and Morrig threw a hand to her mouth as she recognised him. The
Dwarf’s sudden bark of laughter masked her stammered apology.
“Oh, don’t worry about it, lass. Your father’s exaggerating. I’d hardly be any use as an
envoy if I took offence every time someone called me short, would I?” she nodded and
mumbled thanks, her cheeks flushed, as the Dwarf gestured languidly back to the elder Elf,
“Lord Cerillion, we’re getting nowhere very quickly. If your son has news, let him speak.”
After a moment’s consideration, the lord nodded at Halaen. “Take your place outside the
door and, please, no more intrusions.”

***
All the while Brim was talking, Athuen paced the room behind him. Morrig sat at the table,
three seats down from her father, watching the elder of her brother speak of Orcs and
ambushes. She wished she had been there to see it for herself.
Brim finished his tale and fixed their father with a hard stare.
“My only question is this: what is the Bloodstone?”
Daeril Cerillion was silent for a moment, taking in his son’s words. He glanced over at
Azad. Twice during the tale the Dwarf had crossed to a long bench across the room and
refilled his plate from the platters arrayed there. Now he sat in silence.
“It was an artefact wielded by the vampiress Maegana the Red, in the time before my
father’s father.” Brim nodded, recalling the history lessons he had taken as a boy: the artefact
may have slipped his memory but the lessons about Maegana's tyranny had not.
“Vaelan Cerillion led a great army against her at Bloodmire Moor. Elves of many houses,
including our own.”
“She was a blight on the lands we call home. We overthrew her reign of evil, but not
without taking severe losses. She commanded an army unlike any we had seen and the
Bloodstone was key to her victory, magnifying her powers and making her almost
unstoppable. When Vaelan defeated her, the Cerillion house took custodianship of the stone,
knowing that it could not be allowed to fall back into evil hands. We’ve hidden it for
centuries, most recently in the village of Kael. It lay dormant until several weeks ago. Master
Luthis reported that a feeling of malevolence had started to emanate from the stone and the
dreams of the villages were disturbed. We met in secret, and discussed what we would do
with it.”
“That’s where my lord, Balek Stronghelm, came in,” said Azad, “When your father
brought the stone to Mox, he agreed to keep it safe. I doubt your history books say as much,
but his family stood at Bloodmire Moor with your ancestors, and I think he saw it as his
duty.”
Athuen had stopped pacing, and had come to lean on the back of Morrig’s chair, “Why
can’t we destroy the Bloodstone if it’s such a threat?” To everyone’s surprise, it was his sister
who answered.
“Destroying magical artefacts can have unseen consequences, especially ones that have
been used as a focus by a powerful mage. Think of it like a dammed stream that becomes a
lake as more water rushes into it; destroying the dam could send a surge of water rushing
downstream, destroying everything in its path.” Athuen couldn’t stop a smile rising to his
face.
“You’ve been paying attention to your studies, then.” She grinned in response.
“Your sister’s right. That’s why I spoke with the Dwarfs of Mox. Their vault is the safest
place on the entire continent, and there’s nowhere better for it.” The lord placed a heavy
emphasis on the final few words, and Brim saw Azad bristle slightly. The Dwarf did not
speak up, however. “Besides, no one knows the new location of the Bloodstone save the
Dwarfs, and we all know how devoted they are to keeping secrets.”
“What about the bird Athuen saw?” Brim asked.
“What about it?”
“If it heard Master Luthis, it is likely it knows where the Bloodstone is. Its presence is
surely no mere co-incidence. It was there with one purpose only – to spy. We must protect
the stone, father. You said it yourself; the house of Cerillion is charged with this duty.”
Their father stood, his face stern. Morrig knew the look; he was growing impatient of what
he no doubt saw as their childishness.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to achieve. There’s nowhere safer than the Great Vault of
Mox. It’s no simple bank vault and the stronghold's walls have held for centuries against
more than a bird and a rabble of Orcs. Now, if you’re quite done, I’ve heard enough prattle
for one day. I need to conclude my dealings with Master Ironson. I shall see you again at
breakfast, before you ride out to continue your patrols.”
Brim cast his gaze downwards. He knew it was futile to argue any further. As he turned to
go, he caught a sympathetic glance from Azad and an idea began to form in his mind.

***
Azad Ironson sat at the small writing-desk in his assigned quarters, penning a missive to
his lord. He wrote by moonlight, eschewing the ornate candelabra; the bright lights of
Cerillion’s chambers had been more than enough for one day, he may love to travel but every
Dwarf had the shady mines in their blood. Lord Daeril and himself had debated until the sun
had fully set, and then for an hour more.
The Lord of Ithris was stubborn as any Dwarf he’d met, and twice as haughty. He would
send a rider with this letter tonight, get a scant few hours’ sleep and then head back towards
Mox at first light. His meagre chattels were already mostly packed and ready to leave.
 A soft knock came at the door, and Azad rolled his eyes. The Elves had sent him footman
after footman, offering food and wine and scurrying about after his every need. He rose with
a sigh and unbolted the door.
It was no servant that stood before him, but Cerillion’s younger son.
“Master Ironson. I apologise for the intrusion, but might I speak to you in private?”
Azad stood back, intrigued, and held out an arm to usher the lordling in. Athuen had
washed and dressed, but was not wearing house clothes as the Dwarf would have expected.
Instead he wore a fresh green tunic and riding boots, his sword sheathed at his hip. The envoy
closed the door and motioned for the Elf to take a seat as he leant against the edge of the bed.
“I take it you’re not here to plump my pillows and offer me a nightcap?”
“Nothing so tame, I’m afraid. I came to discuss the outcome of your conversation with my
father.”
“I don’t know how much you know about diplomacy,” Azad said carefully, the hint of a
smile playing about his lips, “but it’s not customary for an ambassador to go telling everyone
the details of a private meeting he’s had.”
“I know that, but I also know my father and I’m no fool. I saw the way he was talking. You
came here to discuss moving the Bloodstone, didn’t you?”
“You’re right, you’re no fool,” Azad replied, taking a goblet from the bedside table and
sipping at the contents. He stared into it for a few moments before speaking again. “My lord’s
concerned about the stone. When your father brought it to us, he said that it had awoken, but
he was very cagey about what that meant. Sure enough, within a few days the blasted thing
was whispering away to the guards at the Vault door, trying to convince them to let it out. Of
course, my people aren’t exactly known for being gullible, but it’s a concern all the same.
We’ve been rotating guards as much as we can, just in case it manages to get through to any
of them. The warsmiths have tried to silence it, but all they can do is muffle the sound it
makes. I came here to find out more about it and see if there was anywhere else we could take
the damned thing.”
“And I take it father wasn’t willing to agree to that.”
Azad let out a bitter laugh: “I think I’d have had more chance asking him to walk across
the Infant Sea.”
“That’s why we’re riding to Mox.”
“Now?”
“We need to warn your lord that something might be on its way. More to the point, if
anything tries to attack the stronghold, it’s our place to help defend it. And maybe we can
come up with a solution, some way of ridding the world of the Bloodstone forever.”
A slow grin spread across the Dwarf’s face.
“Our father won’t like it, but he won’t know until morning. Will you ride with us?”
“Just need to gather my things, lad.” Azad crumbled the letter into a pocket, threw the last
of his belongings into his knapsack and closed it shut. He took up a black cloak, the trim
edged with silver and gold: a quick flick and it was draped around him. He lowered a helm of
silver about his head now that he would be travelling with elven lords and not in the back of a
grain cart, jewels of blue and green inlaid to the crest glinting in the moonlight.
 As he took up his carved walking-staff he slipped a hunk of the cheese on his desk into a
cheek and mumbled through it: “We off then?”

***
They arrived at the courtyard just as a light rain began to fall. Brim was already there,
looking over the troops that Loreth had gathered. They waited patiently, their weapons held at
attention. The tiny metallic ping of rain on armour was like a soft hailstorm. A packhorse
whinnied, its hooves clattering on the marble flagstones.
The largest regiment was Laril's Host, forty disciplined warriors who had never broken or
fled the field of battle under the high marshal’s strong leadership. As Brim watched he put
them through another surprise drill, making gestures to indicate ready positions. The sound of
their armour as they snapped their spears to high guard, then low to defence-point, was a
concern to the young lord, but he let them continue. If his father found out, they would ride
anyway. Besides, the host’s constant drilling was key to their unmatched discipline on the
field of battle. He could depend on these men to hold the centre of any line. Another silent
signal from Laril and they raised their shields, up and left, each one protecting the warrior
beside him while keeping their spear arm free.
Brim watched as the Sea Guard arrived, their cloaks blowing in the wind that whipped
around them. The small regiment took their place in the battle line: bows and spears sheathed
at their backs, held in place with straps of fine leather. Loreth gave a curt nod, but no more.
He had expressed concern at going against the lord’s wishes, and despite all of Brim’s
assurances that they were doing the right thing he remained subdued.
Behind the Sea Guard stood two troops of bowmen: Atharond's Nightguard and Jormil’s
Hail of Arrows. The captains were talking with each other in hushed tones and their men
mingled freely, swapping supplies and wishing each other well for the march ahead. Brim
nodded. Soon they would be called into line; it was a long march to Mox, so let them talk for
now while they still could.
Brim's attention turned to the last of his warhost, the Bows of Karis-il-Athon. This
regiment stood still as statues, faces turned to the gateway, their bows unstrung to protect the
strings from the rain. Their captain, Karis, stood centre of the front rank, his noble lineage
unmistakable in his bearing. The regiment carried a banner hung with the favour of house
Athon. Karis was betrothed to their eldest daughter, and the golden lace she had given him
flapped in the wind.
“A hundred men,” Athuen said as he came up behind Brim.
“Men of my own household guard, and mine to do with as I will, if I go by father’s
instruction.”
“Do you think he meant ‘disobey my direct orders’ when he told you that?”
Brim turned to Athuen with a smile, nodding to Azad by way of greeting. He realised with
surprise that Morrig was also stood with them.
“Why are you here?”
She looked at him steadily. “This concerns our family, and I’m not staying home while the
two of you deal with it.”
Brim looked at Athuen, who gave a small shrug: “She’s been training with Faelan. She can
look after herself, Brim.”
 “If our father finds out,” he began, but Morrig didn’t let him get any further.
“He’s going to find out, just like he’s going to find out you went against his wishes and
marched off into the night with an army. Letting me tag along is hardly going to come into
it.”
Brim was about to respond when a stern voice rang out from behind them. They turned to
see Faelan Weirt striding across the courtyard towards them, wearing a hooded cloak.
“Morrig Cerillion?”
The maiden looked aghast, then anger took over, “You can’t stop me from going! This is a
matter for our family to deal with. Father’s stubbornness is going to get people killed over an
artefact we should be taking responsibility for guarding!”
Faelan reached them and threw her cloak back, shaking her head.
“I’m not going to stop you, Morrig.” The three siblings looked as surprised as each other.
Brim was first to speak.
“How did you know we were leaving?”
“Nothing happens in Ithris that I don’t know about,” she turned to Athuen, regarding him
intently, “I can trust you to ensure no harm comes to my pupil? I’d like to have her back in
one piece so her studies can continue.”
“Of course I will, but I don’t understand.”
“She’s of age; it’s hardly my place to tell her where she can and can’t go. I am merely her
instructor. Besides, I feel that some time away from the city might do her some good, and
give her some… perspective.”
Morrig looked at her tutor, disbelief writ large on her face: “What will you tell father?”
“That I was asleep, like any sensible creature at this hour. He knows better than to press me
for answers. Now, before you go, I have something for you.” She reached into a haversack at
her side and took out a leather-bound book, dusty with age. It bore the Cerillion family crest
on its cover. “If you wish to reflect on what we spoke of earlier today, you should read this
book. None have looked through its pages in far too long, and it’s time certain secrets were
put to rest.”
“What do you mean?”
Faelan simply smiled, and handed the book to her. “No shortcuts, Morrig. Now, ride safe.
Return in one piece and prove to me that you’re worthy of your staff.”
They bade her farewell, and Brim signalled for the gatesman to let them pass. Without
another word, the Cerillion warhost headed out into the night.
 Four

"Spear beats your bow," called Grimm Hammerfist, his face dour. Holk grumbled into his
beer and threw two coins into the pile on the table between them. He didn’t mind losing, but
his drinking companion could at least look like he was enjoying himself.
The Copperpot was Mox’s outermost drinking establishment, situated as it was within the
curtain wall. A trio of small windows looked out into the courtyard, giving an impressive
view of the great doors leading into the keep. It was the haunt of off-duty watchmen, who
took great solace in its roaring fireplace after a long shift walking the wall. Even this early in
the morning with the sky still dark it still had several patrons, two of whom were currently
engaged in a game of battle dice and who probably should have left for bed many hours
before.
Holk returned the five dice to his cup and shook it, glowering at Grimm as he rolled them
behind his hand. The grizzled rifleman stared back with his one remaining eye; a faded
leather eye patch covered the ruin of the other, courtesy of an axe belonging to one of their
Abyss-worshipping cousins.
“Dragon,” declared Grimm, revealing his highest-scoring die. Holk thumped the table and
swore, revealing a pair of shields before pushing four more coins in towards the centre.
He was considering calling it a night when he heard the door swing open on old, heavy
hinges. He turned to see Borus Helwinter closing it behind him and nodding to the barmaid
with a grin and a wink. The young artilleryman was covered head to toe in soot and grease,
and as he joined them at the table the reek of oil and black powder was almost overpowering.
“By the Mountain, lad, what have you been doing?”
Borus slumped into one of the high-backed chairs and let out a deep breath, “Just finished
counting stocks in the magazine over at Sixth. It was long overdue, hasn’t been counted in a
season - or cleaned, by the look of it.”
Grimm growled, shaking his head: “Hron’s emplacement? Hardly surprising, the work-shy
layabout.”
“He’s had a lot on his mind after losing his son. We said we’d chip in and help out.”
“Well, mark my words, if Frilik caught one of us slacking off like that, he’d hurl us over
the wall.”
Holk gave a snort of laughter. “I can see him doing it, too. He was like that back in my old
regiment: back before he put away his hammer and took up a crossbow, let alone got given
command of the Ironwatch.”
“According to you, you’ve fought alongside every warrior since Domivar the Unyielding.”
Grimm snorted into his ale, the froth flecking across his wiry, black beard as he downed it to
the dregs.
“I’m not making this up, you miserable bastard,” Holk scowled, then turned to Borus to
finish his tale, “I fought the Elves alongside him, you know. Forty of us there were, against a
force of three times that. Four if you count the Drakons they brought, which I don't. They’re
not much more than overgrown log-lizards as far as I'm concerned. They die as easily as their
riders. Taste better, mind!”
The barmaid arrived with three flagons of ale, and Borus favoured her with a knowing
smile. She gave him her usual half-hearted disapproval and went back to the bar as Holk
carried on.
“Anyway, there we were, the forty of us, on the road back from Hadros Port. You ever
been there?” The younger Dwarf shook his head. “Quite the place, lad. I was stationed there
as part of the garrison for almost a year. They can hold their drink like no one I’ve met, and
they take their dice seriously. Wouldn’t stand for any of this grumpy bugger’s nonsense. Win
like he does and you’d better have a regiment of Shieldbreakers to back you up."
Grimm shook his head silently, sipping at his ale.
“Hadros Port… Don’t know why it needed a garrison, truth be told. The only trouble we
ever had was when we had to chase off an Orc raiding party. Ten of us there were, coming
down from the mountains after celebrating Frad’s promotion to the Ironwatch, when what do
we come across but a bunch of Orcs creeping towards the Port. They saw us and ran for it
like merry hell, trying to get there and plunder it before we could raise the alarm. They gave
us a right merry chase – bear in mind, we’d been at the flagon all afternoon, so none of us
was in a great state to start with.
“Young Frilik was there with us then, and he was ahead of the rest of us like he had
something to prove. He caught up with them, and they decided to turn and fight. By
Fulgaria's frozen backside, what a battle that was! He was on ‘em like a mastiff on a bone
before we caught up…”
The clanging of a great bell halted the tale. It rang deep and hollow, its chimes echoing
through the passageways of the great stronghold. The three looked at each other, all levity
gone as Dwarfs around them hurried to gather up their weapons and head for the door. Out in
the courtyard, Holk could see lanterns being lit.
“Looks like we’ll have to finish the tale another time.”

***
By the time Holk and Grimm made it to the wall, the entire battlement was a surge of
activity. Ironwatch drew back their crossbows, loading bolts into the breach. Braziers were
being carried and placed every ten feet while great boxes of ammunition were being
positioned at regular intervals.
Holk saw the Lord of Mox stood off to the left, in the same place they had spoken the night
before. He made his way towards him as Grimm broke to the right to join his unit, rifle in
hand.
He made it to Balek at the same time as a stocky Dwarf wearing a red helm and cloak. He
carried a short crossbow, loaded and ready to fire, and an axe hung by a battered leather strap
from his belt.
“Evening, Frilik,” Holk said with a nod. The Ironwatch captain ignored him and came to
attention in front of Balek, speaking in his usual no-nonsense tone.
“Movement in the forests. Undead.”
“Are you certain?” replied Balek.
 Frilik nodded, and raised his hand by way of reply. Three dozen crossbow bolts were fired
high into the air, each tipped with phosphor that burned dazzlingly bright in the night sky.
The tiny comets easily cleared the space between the wall and the forest. As they passed the
area was illuminated, and what Balek saw there brought a chill to his heart that even dragon
ale couldn’t have warmed.
Stretched across the clearing was a vast force of skeleton warriors. In the darkness, the red
and blue of their tattered uniforms were as black as the night. Their shields were of ancient
wood, ringed with bands of metal. Stained red, a skull adorned each shield and banner.
Though their weapons were rusted, notched blades of axe and spear, the Dwarfs knew better
than to assume they would break in battle: just like the bare bones of the arms that wielded
them. On either flank ethereal shapes moved in the dark. A mist had formed a few inches
above the ground. The groans of flesh-craving zombies rose and fell in disgusting waves as
they shambled through the ranks of waiting skeletons towards the stronghold. And stood at
the rear, beneath a ripped and gutted banner, was the master of this foul army.
“Stones of the Mountain,” gasped Holk.
Balek shook his head, his face grim. “It’s just the one stone they’re after, I’d wager,” he
turned to the Ironwatch commander. “No warning from our patrols or from the watchtowers.
Frilik, tell your men to cut them down, we have comrades to avenge”
The brawny Dwarf yelled an order, and the guns of Mox opened fire.
Evenly spaced along the length of the wall, eight iron shutters had been rolled back to
reveal cannon emplacements that now spoke out with a series of resounding booms. Scores of
skeletons were blown apart, artillerymen working alongside warsmiths to reload quickly and
place their shots with deadly accuracy: having had decades to train the cannons on the tree
line ahead of them, the gunners didn’t need to clearly see their targets in order to sow
destruction amongst them. Atop the wall a hundred Ironwatch let fly with crossbow bolt and
lead shot. Many shots went wide of their mark, thwarted by the darkness, but many more
found their targets and laid them low.
Balek watched with dour satisfaction, his face lit by brazier fires and the fizzing glow of
phosphor. Holk stood at his shoulder, gripping his axe tightly as he stared into the grotesque
masses of the undead horde.
“Why aren’t they advancing? What are they waiting for?”
Next to them Frilik cocked his head to one side, listening. After a few moments he spoke
up.
“Number five isn’t firing.”
Balek turned, eyebrows raised in question.
“Emplacement five. Unless I’m mistaken it hasn’t fired a single shot.”
Holk cut in. “I was just with Borus. He was heading back there when I left him, I’m sure
he’ll get them moving. Keen as anything, that lad.”

***
Borus rounded the last corner at a full sprint. He’d run half the length of the wall to get
here, heading down the long corridor and ducking past Ironwatch and his fellow artillerymen
to get to his emplacement. The next shift had already started, and would probably be fine
without him, but Larek was fairly inexperienced and Jodr would appreciate all the help he
could get. The sounding of the bells would mean that a warsmith would be joining them, but
any number of things could happen that would make a fourth set of hands useful.
The corridor was mostly dark, lit only by luminescent rocks set into the walls; the only
flames allowed anywhere near the guns were tinder-boxes and slow matches. He came to the
fifth emplacement’s door and lifted the heavy iron knocker, letting it fall three times. No
answer came from within, so he tried again. Still nothing.
He put his ear to the door, knowing as he did so that it was pointless; like all the doors in
this corridor, it was built of thick iron clad in ancient oak wood.
Borus hesitated, considering the possibilities. There was every chance that they hadn’t
answered the door because they were busy preparing the gun. Still, that was only a job for
two, and if the Warsmith wasn’t there yet, why would they not have assumed that he was the
one at the door? He took a key from the loop at his belt and slid it into the lock, turning it
slowly and easing the door open.
It took him a moment to take in the scene that lay before him. Larek lay just in front of the
door, dark blood staining his jerkin and a look of sheer dread frozen on his face. Borus
stepped past him, looking around at the sprays of blood coating the walls in crazed patterns.
Jodr was face-down in a puddle of wet blood, next to an overturned water butt. His right arm
lay several feet away, still clutching a hand-axe.
The door to the powder magazine was slightly ajar, and Borus hurried over to close it, an
action that had become so habitual it was little more than instinct. As he approached he saw a
strange light coming from within, and he paused. The purplish glow was out of place amid
the greenish hue of the glowstones, and his hand went to the axe at his belt as he pushed the
door open.
A grinning spectre stood in the centre of the magazine, facing the door as though it had
been awaiting his arrival. Its face was little more than a skull hung with tattered remnants of
skin like garlands at a mid-winter festival. Its robes seemed to fade as they reached the
ground, and even its ancient bronze armour had a slightly translucent quality. The only thing
about it that looked solid was the lantern in its hand, which glowed with fire the colour of
amethyst.
Borus saw the flame, and his eyes widened. Before he could cry out, the Wraith tossed the
lantern amid the stacked barrels of powder.

***
An almighty explosion rocked the wall, knocking Balek to his knees and throwing the
dwarfen lines into disarray. He picked himself up, brushing Frilik’s proffered hand, only to
be knocked sprawling again as a second explosion followed, then a third. Five more blasts
came in quick succession.
The noise was deafening. Holk, clinging to the parapet, saw Dwarfs pitched backwards into
the courtyard by the force of the explosions. Cracks danced along the ageless stone of the
wall as it suffered stresses unlike anything it had known before and a great section of the wall
fell away, creating a gaping breach in the defences
Frilik was dragging Balek to his feet again, all the while yelling orders to his Ironwatch.
Their king wore a look of shock and confusion.
At the foot of the wall, the undead army began to advance.
 Five

The rain lashed down, soaking the company of Elves as they marched along the banks of
the Wellwater. They walked at the edge of the rutted track, shielded lanterns lit, keeping as
far from edge of the great lake as much as possible. Stories abounded of the Naiads sending
watery beasts against any Surface Folk they deemed a threat to their lands, preying on the
unwary and the foolish, and none of them were keen to linger at its banks, especially at night.
The lake was bordered by the Darklin Forest, and they were moving through thicker and
thicker copses as their journey continued. Soon they would be in the forest proper, where it
was known that Goblins, Orcs and even Trolls made their home. Travellers usually took safer
routes, preferring a longer journey to one that ended in being a Troll’s next meal, but the
warhost were ready for anything that tried to bar their passage.
Brim rode beside his brother near the head of the column, not feeling the rain as it struck
his armoured shoulders. Athuen saw his worried expression in the lamplight from the
spearmen ahead of them, and rode a little closer.
“Looking at you, one might think you’d never gone behind father’s back before.”
“It’s not my place to go behind his back, Ath. I’m his firstborn. It’s my duty to carry out
his orders, to do as he wishes and represent him where necessary. One day I’ll take his place,
but before that I need to prove that I’m worthy.”
“Not meaning to sound trite, but maybe going behind his back to follow something you
believe in is proof enough.”
Brim considered this, trying to find comfort in his brother’s words, but his deeds still
rankled. It had seemed the right thing to do in the still of the night, but here on the road, with
little to do but reflect on his actions, he found himself second-guessing his decision.
Further down the column, as the path veered northwards away from the lake and the forest
grew to fill the right side as well as the left, Morrig brought her horse up alongside Azad. He
was riding a pony, and she thought he handled it surprisingly well for a race not known for its
riders. The Dwarf looked substantially more regal in his jewelled helm and cape than in his
travellers’ garb. He regarded her with a sideways glance, waiting for her to speak first.
“Master Ironson, I…” she struggled to find the right words, “I’m sorry I showed you such
disrespect when you arrived in Ithris. I had no right to do so.”
Azad turned to face her, the faintest smile visible behind his beard: “Go on.”
Morrig’s expression darkened slightly, but she carried on. “It was wrong of me to speak
down upon you. You had no way of knowing I was a Princess of House Cerillion,” she
caught his raised eyebrow, and hurried to continue, “but more importantly, no matter what
my rank or place, it was a failure on my part to speak to a guest of the Elves in such a
manner.”
The sound of footsteps, and the rain pattering off the armour of Laril’s spearmen ahead of
them, was the only sound for a few moments. Then Azad gave a short bark of laughter which
made his pony nicker disapprovingly: “Quite the charmer when you want to be, aren’t you?”
 She flushed, and he silenced her response with a wave of a hand. “Hush, girl. I forgave you
when we sat in your father’s chambers and I'm far too old to repeat myself. Let that be an end
to it, hmm?” He held out a hand to her, a warm smile on his lips. She shook it gratefully.
“Now,” he remarked, “all we need is for this bloody rain to stop.”

***
It took several hours for the skies to clear, and the moon was already dipping in the sky
when they came to a clearing in the forest. The trees opened up to the left of the path and
several blackened circles on the ground marked this as a regular resting place for weary
travellers. The two brothers, not to mention the Sea Guard, had only had a few hours’ rest
since their hard ride from Kael, and pushing on much further would have only risked
exhaustion. Atharond’s Nightguard set up three small campfires and soon the Elves were
stretched out amid the fallen leaves, resting their feet as they listened to the crackle of
burning wood.
Brim walked among them, stooping to talk to the captains and discuss the next morning’s
marching order. Athuen let his brother get on with it, taking a seat on an old tree stump next
to Azad.
“So tell me, Master Ironson, do you ever run into trouble passing through the forest?”
“Oh, I’ve seen my share, lad.”
“I’m surprised you travel alone. Don’t envoys normally have a bodyguard? Orcs and other
vile creatures roam these parts.”
Azad grinned, patting his gut. “I might look like a fat old diplomat, but don’t look so
surprised. In my youth I could have taken on you and any two of your kin without breaking a
sweat! The Orcs don’t trouble me: the ones that roam the forest, at any rate. As you know,
lad, they travel in small groups, picking on the unwary. But take down the biggest of them
and they scarper soon enough.”

***
A little way across the clearing, Morrig was trying to sleep, but she couldn’t get her brain
to stop buzzing. Less than a day ago she’d been wondering when her brothers would come
back; now she was on the road with them. The march had been a sombre affair, nothing like
the excitement she’d imagined, but she realised that this was probably a hangover from the
stories of her youth, when their father regaled them with tales from the battlefield. He’d been
so different to how he was now, more like Athuen than Brim. What had changed? She
supposed the pressures of ruling Ithris had soured his demeanour. Or had he always been that
way, simply putting on an act for them when they were children?
She sat up, deciding that sleep wasn’t going to come to her. After a moment she decided
she would try to read the book that Faelan had given her. If nothing else, maybe the dusty
tome would send her to sleep. She stretched, stood, and crossed to where the horses were
tethered, retrieving the book from her saddle bag. There was a space near one of the
campfires among the Nightguard, and she sat there. The grass was warm and dry, and the
embers gave her just enough light to read by.
The front page of the book gave its title in archaic script: The Cerillion Legacy. Morrig
wondered why she’d never heard of the book before. She flicked forward a few pages,
skimming the text. It was written in plain elvish, the illuminated pages accompanied by
thumbnail portraits of notable Cerillions. It seemed to be little more than a record of their
family history.
Morrig stifled a yawn with her hand. Sure enough, the book was probably dry enough to
send the entire warhost to sleep if she read it out loud. She wondered why Faelan had given it
to her; from the way she’d spoken, it was the key to some great mystery.
She stopped flicking ahead. Something had caught her eye, a name. She thumbed back
through the pages rapidly, trying to find it. When she got to the right page, she could barely
believe what she saw. She was about to stand up, to dash over and tell Athuen all about it,
when there was a sudden cry from one of the sentries.
Her head snapped up as a strange whistling noise filled the air. Something whipped past
her face and buried itself into the ground behind her. It was an arrow.
Morrig vaulted behind a fallen tree, the book forgotten, as elven voices called their kin to
arms. Another arrow thudded into the bark and she cried out in alarm. She saw Vareth, four
years younger than her and only a member of the Nightguard for two moons, collapse as one
of the black-fletched missiles found its mark in his throat. The rest of his unit were rallying,
taking up their bows and returning fire into the trees; however, while the campfire made them
obvious targets, their attackers were masked by the dark of the forest.
Athuen was suddenly at her side, with Azad crouched next to him. The Dwarf was
clutching his staff in a two-handed grip, and for the first time she saw that his badge of office
– with its heavy oaken head and iron-banded haft - could easily double as a weapon. Her
brother laid a hand on her shoulder.
“You’re not hurt?” She shook her head, “We need to-”
He stopped, and his two companions looked aghast at the cruel wooden shaft that seemed
to have sprouted from his chest. His eyes widened and he stared at his sister, his mouth
opening and closing in shock. Before they could react there was a bullish roar, and a pair of
Orcs broke from the tree line behind them.
Morrig stood, turning to take in what had been a serene campsite second before. Across
the clearing, Brim charged to meet three of the brutes at once. Around him, Laril’s Host
brought their spears to bear against Orcs that seemed to be spilling from the trees in an
endless swarm. Loreth’s Sea Guard and the Hail of Arrows were holding off attackers, firing
with such speed and accuracy that not a single Orc crossed the path to the south. It all
seemed to be taking place somewhere else; she couldn’t register that this was happening to
her. There was a strange glow in the trees, a silvery light, that-
She was shaken from her reverie as Azad grabbed her by the arm and pulled her aside. An
Orc axe parted the air she had been occupying. The Dwarf spun his staff overhead, bringing
the head down hard. From the sound it made, and the sudden pained expression on her
attacker’s face, Morrig presumed he had broken the beast’s forearm. The second Orc swung
for Azad’s unprotected shoulder, but he turned and blocked the blow before flicking his staff
back to crack across the first attacker’s knee. He turned his face to her for mere moments
before charging the Orc that was still standing.
“Come on, girl! Snap out of it!”
Regaining her senses, she cast about for a weapon. Athuen was slumped where he had
fallen, his sword next to him. She stooped to pick it up, then plunged it through the heart of
the fallen Orc clumsily, the weapon not weighted for a princess. She pulled the weapon free
with some effort, then dashed to join Azad.
While the Dwarf’s age had not lessened his fighting skill, it was clear that his stamina was
not what it had once been. Years of fine living and soft beds had taken their toll, and his
movements were becoming sluggish. The Orc could see this, and its cruel glee was
unmistakeable. It rained blow after blow against Azad’s defence, not making any effort to get
past his staff. The effort it was taking for the Dwarf to maintain his guard was clear to see on
his face. Morrig leapt at the Orc, Athuen’s blade flashing in the firelight, but her swing was
interrupted at the last second as the beast gave her a derisive glance and back-handed her with
its shield. The wind flew from her as she was battered aside. The sword danced from her
hands. She looked up across the campsite and saw that the Orcs had crossed the path after all;
the Hail of Arrows were being slaughtered, and the Sea Guard were fighting as hard as they
could to protect them. She could not see Brim. There was a strangled cry from her left, and
she looked up to see Azad clutching a bloodied shoulder as the Orc raised its axe for a killing
strike…
…and stopped. Silence reigned.
Morrig pulled herself to her feet, looking around. Nothing was moving. Even the campfire
had frozen, like an artist’s painting. Suddenly, it was all too obvious how slim their chances
were. They were overwhelmed. There was Brim; she could see him clearly now. A massive
beast loomed over him. She’d never seen a Troll, but she recognised it from the tales. An
oversized club was raised in its hand, little more than a rock lashed to a heavy branch. It
would have seemed comical if it hadn’t looked so deadly. Brim’s shield was raised to block
the blow, but it would never hold against such strength. The silvery light that had been in the
trees now seemed to surround everything, and it was becoming more intense. She turned and
saw her brother, sweet Athuen, who had been her best friend since she was a young girl. The
unnatural set of his limbs brought a lump to her throat. The silver light grew, beginning to
hurt her eyes with its intensity. She could feel a growing ache in her stomach, right in the
core of her being. She drew in a sharp breath and squeezed her eyes shut.
The light built, becoming more than light; it was a fire, white-hot and roaring with power.
She could feel it welling up around her, inside her, simply everywhere. Closing her eyes
didn't hold back the scene, the Elves laying ruined (the thick black arrow through Athuen's
chest), it burnt all the way through her eyelids. There was no way she could hold it in. She
threw her eyes open and she cast her head back as she screamed her rage to the sky. She felt
the conflagration burst outwards, fleeing from her like darkness before the rising sun, and
then blackness overcame her and she felt nothing.
 Six

The sound of the crossbows was like a rushing wind, punctuated by the crack of rifles, as
bolt and shot rained down on the horde of skeletons. Some of the skeletons fell where they
stood; others walked on regardless of missing limbs or heads, the arcane energy used to
animate their lifeless corpses holding strong despite the damage. Tendrils of purple-green fire
writhed about the undead as they shambled on towards the weakened Dwarf citadel.
The force had left the cover of the forest now and marched across the open stretch of land
towards the stronghold’s outer walls. In the centre were strong hordes of skeletons, their gait
almost laconic. As the sky to the east began to grey with the first hint of dawn, gruesome
banners fluttered in the early morning air, the flickering fires in the gun emplacements
casting menacing shadows over their gore-streaked sigils: one was a giant, grinning skull, and
great rips in the banner made the torchlight behind come through as bloody tears; another
showed a ripped and torn corpse, the flesh hanging in great strips; another was simply bathed
in blood.
The banners were not the part that concerned Balek; it was the ladders. Long, thin
constructions they might be, but there is little weight to a body with no flesh and there were
countless numbers of the things. It looked as though there was one ladder for every score of
skeletons arrayed before them. The collapse of the upper wall would only make it easier to
scale. Still, there was little they could do about them until the enemy started laying them
against the walls.
Frilik ran along the battlement, giving out orders to his Ironwatch. Dwarf warriors fired
and reloaded time after time around him: the horror of the advancing army was pushed from
their minds by years of training and experience, allowing them to hold where common sense
would have told them to flee before the cold touch of death could reach them. The steady
twang of the crossbows and the crack of rifles was a comfort to the veteran Ironwatch
commander. He took strength in knowing that, no matter what happened in the coming battle,
his men would fight to the end.
Balek Stronghelm watched with a growing sense of pride as a nearby troop readied their
crossbows. Beside the lord, Holk had taken up a fallen crossbow and was cranking it with
powerful, fast turns.
“Damn and blast the thing,” he said as the bolt slid free for the third time to clatter to the
stone walkway. Balek retrieved the bolt, handing it to the Dwarf with a shake of the head:
“Less haste, more speed.”
“You sound like a damned Elf when you spout nonsense like that,” Holk snapped, taking
the bolt. With careful motions he slid it into place, locking it down with a quick snap of the
loading mechanism. This time it stayed put. Balek let the comment pass.
“See?”
“Give me an axe any day,” Holk grumbled as he took aim and loosed the bolt.
The undead were still some distance from the wall when there came a sound like a wildcat
screaming in the night. All movement along the wall stopped for a moment as the Dwarfs
looked to the sky, seeing the purple-green orb streaking towards them. It was Holk who
found his voice first, terror lending his words a desperate edge.
“Balefire! Get down!”
The warning cry came too late; the missile struck the battlements, exploding in a blinding
flash with a terrible roar. The crenelated stone crumbled as though dashed aside by a giant’s
fist, spilling Dwarfs to the rocks below. Arcane fire burned where the deadly missile had
struck, eating into the very rock itself, melting away decades of craftsmanship in moments.
Frilik dusted himself off as he rose to his feet. He could see a trio of catapults just outside
the tree line. “Down there,” he cried out across the broken section of wall, “two fire-teams,
return fire!” Even as he spoke he could see that the war machines were out of range, and two
of them were still yet to fire.
The rest of the Ironwatch let loose another volley of bolts into the oncoming mass.
Skeletons were shattered into pieces, the banner of one horde falling as its bearer was shot
out from under it. A cheer rose from the defenders, but their hearts weren’t in it. It was clear
that the casualties they were causing were nowhere near enough to slow down the relentless
advance.

***
At the rear of the undead force, Kronos stood on a mound of earth. Next to him stood his
warrior-king bodyguard, its armour pitted and scored. The Revenant still held the
necromancer’s personal standard, the end of the pole planted deep into the ground. The
mound upon which they stood writhed with worms, maggots and death-beetles: all wriggling
to get away from the tendrils of evil that seemed to seep from the necromancer’s robes. The
advance was going well, this he could see. The wraiths had done their job; costly as it had
been to bind them to such a task, their sacrifice would be worth it once he had the
Bloodstone. He raised a gnarled hand and dropped it in a chopping motion, and the two
remaining catapults loosed their deadly payload. He watched the missiles arc across the night
sky, their baleful light reflected in his milky eyes.
Moments before they struck, he felt something tugging at the back of his mind, and his
grasp over the army faltered. As one, the entire force took a misstep, like puppets with a
broken string; then it was gone, and he reasserted his will. Somewhere nearby, something
powerful had flared against his magical senses. Not the Bloodstone; he would have known its
touch. No, this was something different.
The almighty booms as the projectiles struck the castle wall was enough to distract him for
now, but he made a note to investigate this disruption once the battle was won.

***
Balek picked himself up, staring in disbelief at the three new gaping holes that now marred
the battlements: the rock fizzed as the unnatural fire spread then ebbed away, leaving the
stone pocked with holes and eroded like limestone under acidic rain. The screams of his
burning kin were deadened after the sound of the balefire hitting the walls, as was the
howling of the unearthly wind that seemed to accompany the attacking army. The first
catapult was already winding back, preparing to loose a second shot, and he wasn’t sure how
many more the wall could survive, especially considering the damage already done by the
exploding magazines. He made his way over to Holk, who was swearing at his crossbow.
 “You said you’d prefer an axe?”
The veteran nodded eagerly. “You’re not suggesting we go out there, are you?”
“With the cannons gone, we’ve got nothing that can hit those catapults. How do you like
the idea of going on the offensive?”
Holk grinned. “I thought you’d never ask!”

***
No dwarfen stronghold is without its secrets. A great curtain wall with a gatehouse is
traditional, and is the most commonly-used entrance, but it would be naïve to assume that it’s
the only one.
So it was that Balek Stronghelm, Holk Gungerson and half a regiment of Ironguard
veterans made their way underground to a hidden door in a forest cave. They emerged
silently a little way behind the undead army, forgoing lanterns or torches in favour of their
natural affinity with the darkness. The Ironguard were armed with sturdy hammers and axes,
each weapon responsible for countless slain foes. They were experts in the art of war, Balek
had personally fought alongside each of them enough times to know their strengths. Now, as
they advanced towards the rear of the attacking force, Balek felt a fierce pride in his heart.
Through the trees ahead they could see flickering firelight, both natural and arcane, and
heard – almost felt – another deafening report as a balefire projectile struck the wall. It had
not taken them long to get into position, but they knew that each minute would make a
difference.
They neared the edge of the trees, and suddenly the catapults were ahead of them. Three of
them, bizarre contraptions of wood, steel and bone. The crew were wearing the tattered
remains of an ancient artillery crew, and moved with jerky motions as they reloaded their
engines of destruction. Holk cursed under his breath as he saw that the projectiles being
loaded into catapults were bleached skulls; he could just pick out arcane sigils etched into the
bone.
Balek looked around at his men, not needing to say a word to see that they were ready. He
directed them with short hand gestures, and they went to work.
Half of the Ironguard split to the left, led by Farund, the unit’s captain. He was strong as an
ox and just as mean-tempered, and he led from the front. He swung hard at the nearest foe, a
skeletal warrior winding back the long arm of the war machine. After the slightest moment of
resistance the magical aura animating the creature was sundered with a flare of purple light.
The skeleton was already collapsing as his hammer struck the skull from its shoulders,
knocking it away into the darkness. Thorak, the newest addition to the unit, charged past him
and into a skeleton that clutched what could only be the rested remains of a sextant. The
young Dwarf raised his shield at the last second, barrelling straight through the undead
crewman and scattering its bones. The remaining three members of the group fell to the
catapult itself, hacking at ropes and splitting beams. Meanwhile, their counterparts dealt a
similar fate to the rightmost war machine.
Holk knew he would clear the distance to the central catapult in six long strides. Well
practised in his years of battle, he raised his axe at the fourth step, swung it back at the fifth,
and brought it down on the sixth. His target was bending to take a skull from the battered
crate sitting in the wet grass, and the blow shattered its spine and pelvis. Balek had already
taken out the legs of the final crewman, and was pounding its skull to dust with his hammer.
Within seconds, all three war machines had been silenced.
An awful keening rose from their right, and Balek looked up as his men reformed around
him. Less than fifty feet from them stood a tattered figure atop a writhing mound of earth, a
twisted staff clutched in its bony fingers. Its other hand was pointed towards them, and it
wore a look of hatred and fury on its face. The sound – surely too unnatural to be produced
by a mortal man – was riding from its throat, seemingly borne of frustration and outrage. The
figure raised its arms, holding the staff aloft, and screamed a dark incantation.
Several packs of Ghouls were lingering at the rear of the advancing skeletons, their long
fingers brushing the ground as they squatted on their haunches. As the necromancer’s scream
filled the air they turned as one, impelled by his dark will, and sprang into a loping run,
covering the ground quickly as they scampered on their clawed hand and feet.
Balek reached down to his belt, where he kept a pair of delicately weighted hammers. He
plucked one from its loop, then turned to Farund.
“Back!” He hurled the hammer, not waiting to watch its lazy arc but turning to retreat to
the cave. Holk couldn’t tear his eyes away, and saw the weapon connect cleanly with the
necromancer’s right hand. The withered figure dropped the staff and stared in disbelief at its
mangled fingers, howling in pain. The effect on the Ghouls was instant; their advance slowed
as the arcane fire abandoned them, and several even tripped and fell. He didn’t wait to see if
they picked themselves up; instead, he turned and sprinted to catch up with the Ironguard.
He caught up with them just as Balek was opening the hidden door. Turning, he saw that
the Ghouls weren’t far behind. All twelve of them hurried through the door, slamming it
closed behind them. For a moment, the only sound was that of a dozen Dwarfs breathing
hard; then, Thorak spoke up.
“Did you see?” They all turned to the young Dwarf.
“Aye, lad,” replied Balek solemnly. He had seen very well indeed. As they had dashed
towards the catapults, the countless ladders against the walls had been impossible to miss.
They hadn’t been fast enough. The undead were inside Mox.

***
Kronos stared aghast at the remnants of his prized war machines as he cradled his mangled
hand. The Ghouls had returned empty-handed; whatever trickery had let the Dwarfs emerge
behind his army had seemingly spirited them away again. It mattered little; the catapults had
done their work, and now his troops were on the walls.
He mumbled an incantation. Eldritch light flowed down his arm and remade the flesh of his
hand; he flexed it experimentally, then bent to retrieve his staff.
He advanced towards the fortress, leaning on his staff, his cadaverous retainer at his side.
He could see that the battle on the walls was nearly won; fewer ladders were being repelled,
and the majority of the figures atop the battlements were now skeletal forms in ancient
armour. As he watched, the gates were hauled open – he reached out with his arcane senses,
and was pleased to discover that a group of his warriors had fought their way to the gatehouse
to open the way. Granting his minions a degree of self-awareness was costly, but certainly
produced results.
 He watched with something close to pleasure as his undead troops broke through the gates
and pushed their way into the small courtyard between outer wall and main stronghold,
skewering Dwarf warriors upon their rotten spears or hacking them down with rusted blades
that none-the-less shone with ancient runes. The remaining Wraiths rolled out from the walls,
silent as a whisper, their long scythes striking down those closest, butchering Dwarfs by the
dozen. Ancient fire burned within their eyes and from their mouths came the cry of a
thousand years of torment and despair.
At a simple wave of his new hand, Revenants mounted on fleshless steeds rode forward
through the gates, striking their foes before the short warriors could rally. They lowered their
lances towards a line of Ironwatch that had formed in the courtyard, ignoring the crossbow
bolts clattering harmlessly against the steel of their armour. One of the damned knights took a
shot to the head, its helm falling away to reveal a fleshless skull that leered with insane fury.
A moment later the Dwarfs were dead or running.
Many of the defenders had pulled back inside the keep, but the most stoic had held their
ground, willing to sacrifice their lives to slow the advance of the undead. They were pulling
back towards the keep’s stone doors in an ever-decreasing circle. They had nowhere to run,
and had no intention of trying. Kronos watched as a flight of Wraiths swept into a regiment of
Ironclad. The clash of steel was nearly as loud as the screams of fury that bellowed from the
Dwarf warriors. They swung their axes and hammers to no avail, thwarted by the ethereal
nature of their enemies. It was only a matter of time before the cold icy grip of death would
take these warriors, but still – frustratingly – they fought on.
At the very core of the remaining defence stood three formations of Dwarfs in golden
armour, their hammers as tall as an Orc. Immobile as the very keep itself, the Shieldbreakers
stood firm, their faces set and grim and their weapons raised. They were flanked by two
regiments of Ironclad who banged axe against shield in a rhythmic gesture of defiance. One
warrior took up the rhythm and began to sing in the guttural tongue of the Dwarfs, his
rumbling baritone carrying over the din of battle. Soon, his voice was joined by others, and in
second the sound was almost deafening.
Kronos grinned. I have my own music.
The aged necromancer turned and pointed his staff at the banner held by his Revenant
bodyguard. The crimson Banner of Uthard had been his personal standard as long as he had
been walking the world, and during that time he had bound several dark spirits to it.
Lightning flared from his staff and touched the tattered cloth, causing hand-stitched runes and
sigils to spring to fiery life. Released from the great wards that held them, the cursed souls
began to wail. Their banshee cry flooded from each fold of the eldritch totem, their
wickedness and evil sweeping forward like a putrid wave. The keening rose in pitch, rolling
over the Dwarfs in blasts that left them clutching their heads, their ears bleeding. Distracted
to the point of madness, the Dwarfs were helpless to defend themselves. Kronos gestured
with an open hand and a mass of zombies shambled forward, eager for the taste of flesh.
The front ranks of the Dwarfs fought to stay standing, blood flowing from their noses and
ears and matting their short-cropped beards. The zombies came within arm’s reach; the
nearest Dwarf swatted at the advancing corpses, but the swing was feeble and two zombies
sank their brittle teeth into his arm. The Dwarf’s cry of shock and pain mingled with those of
his brethren, but all were barely audible above the continuous wailing of the banshees.
Rank upon rank of skeletons came next, making quick work of the remaining Dwarfs.
There was no threat now, just easy kills. The skeletons strode through the fallen ranks,
stabbing down with spear and sword, cleaving bone and flesh with ease. A Dwarf raised a
hand in a useless gesture for mercy, the glove covered with his blood that continued to pour
from his shattered head. A single swipe of an axe, its edge as rusty as the armour the skeleton
wore, sent it spinning into the massacre. Before the doomed Dwarf warrior could register the
loss of his hand, a spear punched through his chest, pinning him to the blood-strewn
cobblestones.
Kronos made a closed-fist gesture, and the banshee wail silenced. Screams of pain filled
the courtyard before the great keep of Mox, becoming less frequent as the dwarfen numbers
dwindled. The necromancer’s minions crowded into the courtyard; the Ghouls, cheated of
their earlier feast, now jumped over each other, eager to taste flesh once more. A small group
fell among the remaining Shieldbreakers, drawing wicked knives and cleavers to crack
through the tough armour and get to the meat inside. The sound of the Ghouls feasting was a
horrific accompaniment to the screams of the dead and the dying.
The necromancer picked his way past the bodies of the dead, his guardian following in his
wake. Crossbow bolts still rained down from the keep above but Kronos deflected them with
distracted sweeps of his hand, as easily as a man would swat aside flies. He was fixated upon
the great stone doors of the keep. They had been locked and barred; those that had remained
in the courtyard had bought enough time for the ingress to be sealed against the besiegers.
“Foolish,” he whispered, his voice a rattling wheeze, “and futile.”
He rapped his staff against the doors, channelling all his power through the arcane runnels
carved along its length. Dwarf runes of warding set around the door flared into life, their
intricate sigils shining with old power. It became a battle of will, the necromancer’s mettle
played against the long-dead architects of this edifice. He shook with concentration, pouring
more and more of his corrupt vitality through his staff. Eldritch fire burned bright and, one by
one, the warding runes began to hiss and spit, flowing as molten steel down the columns
flanking the door. The air rippled with heat. Then, with a last surge of power, it was done.
The great doors shook and collapsed inward.
Kronos stepped aside, his legions pouring past him to storm the keep. He lowered the
glowing end of his staff
 Seven

Morrig's eyes snapped open.

She was lying in a bed, the gentle glow of moonlight bathing the soft sheets. It fell from a
window high above her. A dull ache hovered just behind her eyes and, as she slowly sat up,
that ache was replaced with a piercing pain. Morrig clutched at her temples, pressing her
palms against them as tight as she dared. A bandage was wrapped loosely about her head.
She gently peeled it away, frightened at what she may find. When the last of the wrappings
came away she was relieved to find nothing more than a deep bruise but even so, a low moan
escaped her lips when she pressed a finger to the troubled spot. There was another unpleasant
sensation; the skin of her lips was cracked and puckered as though she'd gone without water
for days. How long have I been here… and where am I?
She looked around the moonlit room, being careful not to turn her head too fast. It was bare
save for the bed she was lying in and a small stool on which her clothes were folded
carefully. Cleaned and pressed, as well, at least I know I'm not in prison. Beside them were
her travel boots and her bag. The room was free of any fixtures save the bed; no cupboards,
no shelves, no paintings on the wall. There was not even a rug on the floor, just a window
letting in the glow of the night and an unremarkable wooden door.
Carefully she lay back down, savouring the cool night air on her skin. An open window
filled the wall above her head, and through it she could see the moon. She was exhausted, and
decided against moving. Instead, she waited. She waited and she watched as the moon crept
from one side of the window to the other, and watched as it disappeared from view. As she
waited, the pain in her body slowly faded.
Morrig used the time to still all the questions that raced through her tired and battered mind
like an avalanche. Where were the others? What had happened to her? Where was she?
Breathing in slowly, her eyes closed against the lingering pain. Long, in-drawn breaths filled
her lungs with the crisp chill air. She held it for a long moment before exhaling with a drawn
out sigh. She repeated this exercise, letting her mind wander, letting her body heal itself.
Finally she fell into a dreamless slumber.

***
When she woke again, the room was bright, the moonlight replaced by the warming rays of
the morning sun. The ache in her head had gone.
The low murmur of voices could be heard coming from beyond the lone door, voices that
raised occasionally only to be silenced by a harsh whisper. She couldn't make out what they
were saying, but there were three of them; one of them was lower, gruffer, and she guessed it
was a Dwarf. Azad? She suddenly remembered where he had been when she last saw him,
and Orc axe swinging towards his chest. The night’s events flooded back to her and she drew
a sharp breath, throwing her hand to her mouth as she remembered.
The book! She leapt up, pulled her boots and ran to the door in her undershirt, heaving it
open and dashing through.
 She came into a large hall-like structure, full of tables and stools. On a long central bench
there stood cheese, bread and fruit. Athuen and Azad sat in the corner nearest her room,
wearing loose white tunics, and they looked up as she entered. An Elf she did not recognise
also sat at their table. She was glad to see her companions alive, happier than she could ever
remember being before in her life, but she had even more pressing matter to attend to than
even that. She bolted past, making for the large main door. Athuen leapt to his feet as she
passed them, following after her and calling her name as though she had gone mad (which
she supposed maybe she had).
The morning light was almost blinding as she stepped outside, and she shielded her eyes
with her hand. The great door opened onto a large forest clearing, the trees bordering a cluster
of paddocks and gardens. It was a maze of colour; figures in white robes tended flowers and
crops while cattle and oxen grazed at the lush grass. She paused, taken aback by the total
serenity of the scene, and Athuen laid a hand upon her shoulder.
“Hurrying off so soon?” He was breathing hard, and Morrig turned to see that his face was
flushed. For the first time she noticed the bandage wound about his chest beneath his robe.
“I thought… that arrow, you fell...”
She couldn’t help a grin, and pulled him into an embrace. He winced but returned the
gesture; she apologised, looking up into a face that so closely mirrored her own. Then,
gasping, Morrig quickly pulled away.
“Faelan’s book...”
“…is inside, with the rest of our things,” Athuen finished, shaking his head, “Do you at
least have a moment for me to tell you how happy I am that you’re awake? The pages aren't
about to fly off, you know.”
He put an arm around her shoulders and turned her back towards the hall, “It’s okay;
everything can be explained. We’re lucky that we weren’t far from Sarith Vale when the Orcs
attacked.”
The vale was well known in Ithris, although Morrig had never been there. It was a place of
peace where many came together to tend the land. It was considered neutral ground, not quite
part of the Elven Kingdoms, and outcasts from several nations made a home there. Its healers
and herbalists were skilful beyond measure, and could have made fortunes by taking their
skills and travelling far and wide, but most chose to stay. Rumours abounded that the Vale
was hidden by cunning magic, only discoverable by those in need with good in their hearts.
Athuen stopped them just outside the threshold, looking her in the eyes with clear concern.
“Are you alright?”
She nodded uncertainly. “Where’s Brim?”
“He’s gone on to Mox with the rest of the party. They brought us here and left word with
the healers. I’m not sure how they’ll fare without Azad to sweet-talk the Dwarfs, but he was
in no fit state to travel.”
He held the door open, and she walked through. He closed it behind them, then ushered her
towards the corner table where the others sat. The Dwarf’s arm was hitched up in a sling, and
both were looking at her intently as she approached: “Damathian didn’t know when you’d
wake up.”
 The unfamiliar Elf stood and pulled back a stool, gesturing for Morrig to take a seat.
Athuen put a plate of fruit and cheese in front of her, and Morrig tore into them without a
second thought. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was.
“Actually, I said I didn’t know whether you’d wake,” the Elf began. “From what your
brother tells me you had quite the outburst.” He looked older than their father, his white hair
tucked behind his ears and falling to his lower back. A red belt was tied at his waist, holding
his white healers’ robes in place. His eyes were cold, and his face was not kind.
“I don’t remember,” she began. Azad spoke up before she could carry on.
“I was about to feel the bite of an Orc axe, when all of a sudden the brute was alight, like
he’d stepped into a furnace. White-hot fire from head to toe. It wasn’t just him – every Orc I
could see was ablaze. And there you were, raised a foot off the ground, arms stretched out
beside you and that same fire burning in your eyes,” he shook his head with fear creeping into
the corners of his expression, “Never seen the like of it. I’ve seen a fair few mages in action
in my time, but that was new on me.”
Morrig’s mouth hung open in shock.
“You saved us, girl. Don’t know how you did it, but you saved us.”
“Faelan didn’t teach you that?” her brother asked, voice already certain of the answer. She
shook her head in bewilderment, then bolted upright and looked straight at him.
“Where’s the book?”
“I’ll fetch it for you.” Her brother stood, and walked to a door next to the one that led to
her room. He returned moments later holding the tome. It looked a little damp around the
edges, but it was otherwise undamaged. She took it from him gratefully as he sat down, and
began turning the pages intently.
“Ath, do you remember the name of the vampiress our father told us about? The one that
Vaelan Cerillion defeated at Bloodmire Moor?”
He picked an apple from her plate and took a bite, nodding thoughtfully. “Maegana the
Red, wasn’t it?”
Morrig grinned triumphantly as she found the right place, turning the book so that her
brother could see. She had opened it to a finely decorated family tree, one that spread across
both pages. Her finger was resting over one name in particular – a name that had been struck
through with a single red line.
Athuen leaned in, blinked at what he saw and then raised his gaze to stare at his sister.
“Maegana… Cerillion?”
Azad let out an oath under his breath. Morrig looked at each of them in turn, her gaze
settling on the healer. His expression was entirely neutral.
“Damathian… I read a little before the Orcs attacked us. It said that her name was stricken
from the tree because she brought shame to the family line. Do you know anything about
this?”
The old Elf hesitated for a moment before giving a single nod. “I do, but I was sworn to
secrecy.” He caught Athuen’s fiery expression, but spoke before the young lord had a chance
to interrupt him, “Which is why I have said nothing until now.” He picked up the book and
flicked back several pages before turning it towards them. There was a thumbnail portrait of
an elven maiden, dark hair framing her soft features and a small smile on her lips.
 Azad grunted, pointing a stubby finger at the painting: “She looks just like the both of you.
Not so much like your brother, but you two have the same eyes.”
Damathian let the Dwarf finish before continuing. “She was the only daughter of Baethis
Cerillion, Lord of Ithris. As firstborn daughter, she was set to become a Mage-Queen. Her
tutor’s journals said that Maegana was the most ambitious student she had ever seen, eager to
master sorcery and set upon becoming the youngest mage that Ithris had known. However,
she lacked focus and patience, and often struggled to control her powers,” he looked at
Morrig, one eyebrow raised. She seemed to have suddenly taken an intense interest in the
crumbs on her plate, “Does any of this sound at all familiar?”
Athuen looked from his sister to Damathian. “What are you saying?”
“Faelan Weirt is an old friend of mine, and I’ve heard tell of your sister’s progress since
she started her training. Faelan considers her to be the most impatient student she’s ever
taught. We’ve exchanged many letters discussing this, and things that have gone before. She
has often expressed concerns, even to your father, but he was unwilling to break from
tradition despite your family’s history. Considering the events of last night, I think she was
right to worry,” he laid the book on the table and placed his hands behind his back, “Maegana
became a Mage-Queen in the summer of only her forty-fifth year. She had a keen military
mind, and led her father’s army into battle on several occasions with great success.
“Everything was going well enough until a new threat emerged from the east. A
necromancer named Kronos had raised a great army, and Maegana was confident enough to
believe that she could quell his magic with her own. They met on the field of battle south of
the Alandar range, but he proved too powerful for her. The few that survived the slaughter
told that she had challenged him in single combat, but that he had brought her low in
moments.
“Her younger brother Vaelan raised a mighty force of his own, calling many houses to his
banner and enlisting the help of the Dwarfs of Mox,” he gestured towards Azad, who nodded
grimly, “While he was doing so, stories began to spread of Kronos’ growing influence. They
spoke of a vampire marching at his side, a great sorcerer even more powerful than he was.
Vaelan began to wonder if this champion had been the one that had laid his sister low, little
realising the truth of the matter.”
Damathian looked around at each of the three companions. Azad was staring resolutely
ahead, the hand of his good arm clenched into a fist. Athuen, one elbow resting on the table
and his chin in his hand, was focussed on the book that sat before them. Morrig was sitting
quietly, staring at the table, hands folded in her lap. The colour had completely drained from
her face.
“As I’m sure you’ve already guessed, Maegana Cerillion had been reborn into undeath
with a vampire’s curse. Whether Kronos forced her, or simply offered her greater power than
she could obtain as a mortal, is not known. Sadly, the latter could be as likely as the former.
In any case, she was a beast uncaged. Her wrath seemed to know no bounds, as though any
traces of mercy or kindness had been burned away by the curse of vampirism. Cities burned
in her wake.
“Vaelan’s army met her on a moonlit Bloodmire Moor. Each side counted thousands upon
thousands of warriors, and before battle began it’s said that the two lines could have been
seen from across the Infant Sea. It raged for hours, with the prince trying to fight his way
through to his sister but being thwarted at every turn. Kronos left the battle early; his
contingent was routed by the Dwarfs of Mox, who were fighting alongside the Elves of house
Dureth. Finally, the two siblings came face to face. Maegana was nothing like he
remembered her; her skin was as pale as alabaster, and a vengeful fury lived in her eyes. She
fought like a wild beast, the presence of the looming full moon enhancing her wickedness and
pushing her to the height of her evil powers. It was only his years of training that saved him
from death several times over.”
Athuen spoke up, interrupting Damathian’s tale: “What of the Bloodstone?”
The healer looked puzzled for a moment. “That doesn’t come until later. What do you
know of it?”
“Our father said that it was an artefact of great power, and that Maegana the Red used its
power become almost unstoppable.”
Damathian pondered this for a moment before responding. “Your father’s version of events
is a little more colourful than the truth. The Bloodstone was no such thing. Maegana did
indeed have it at Bloodmire Moor, but it had no power. It was nothing more than a trinket her
brother had given to her when she became a Mage-Queen, and she wore it at her breast to
mock him.”
It was the young lord’s turn to look confused: “But… if it’s nothing more than that, why
would anyone be seeking it? And why would my father tell us such lies?”
“I didn’t say that the Bloodstone does not hold power, just that it was little more than a
spiteful decoration when she wore it at Bloodmire Moor. Please allow me to finish, and all
will become clear.”
Athuen’s impatience was obvious, but he bowed his head and said no more.
“Vaelan and Maegana fought tooth and nail. They had sparred for years, and each knew the
other’s strengths and weaknesses. Her magical prowess was offset by his superior skill with a
blade. The battle still swelled about them, and as time wore on, the undead legion began to
gain the upper hand. They had no need for rest so they did not tire. Finally, while the two
siblings fought across an ancient stone altar, Vaelan’s moment came. He swung hard: the
Shining Ones themselves must have guided his arm, so true was his aim. He took her head
clean from her shoulders. Without her guiding influence, her army faltered and the alliance
rallied. Soon, they had regained the upper hand.
“Vampires do not die easily, especially ones as powerful as Maegana was. While she was
new to the embrace of undeath, her prodigious magical talents had lent her power akin to
some of the direst necromancers the world had known. Vaelan, having fought against the
undead previously, knew this. Once the undead force was scattered to the winds, he gathered
the sorcerers that were present. He had one last task for them before he could march them
home; he needed to bind Maegana’s soul. If he did not imprison it, there was every chance
she could take on a new form or reknit her deceased flesh.”
Morrig looked up, her eyes shining with understanding. “The Bloodstone,” she whispered.
Damathian nodded: “As it had meant so much to her in life, so it had powerful ties to her in
death. The gathered mages bound her essence, trapping it within the stone. As long as it
remained intact, she could do no harm. The stone was passed down the Cerillion bloodline,
either held by lords or given to custodians for safeguarding. Maegana’s legacy was kept
quiet; as far as history knows, and as your book says, she simply brought shame to the family
line. The Bloodstone was simply touted as a powerful necromantic artefact. There’s every
chance that most of the warriors that took part in the battle didn’t even realise that a Cerillion
Mage-Queen was leading their enemy.”
 Athuen spoke, his expression more calm than it had been during Damathian’s tale. “Surely
our father knows the truth?”
The healer gave a slight shrug. “It’s doubtful. There are very few that do.”
“Then how can you be so sure that it’s true?”
Damathian smiled wearily. In the morning light, he suddenly looked very old. “I attended
to lord Vaelan at his deathbed. He had been laid low by the poisons of the dark kin, and his
end did not come quickly. He spoke to me so that someone could know the truth of what
happened to his sister. Despite her failings he had still loved her, and missed her dreadfully.”
Azad scrutinised the healer, an uneasy look on his face. “How old are you, again?”
The Elf simply smiled in response.
Athuen sat up, gesturing towards Morrig, “You said my sister drew several parallels with
Maegana. Do you mean to imply she’s a threat?”
Damathian looked her up and down, seeming to consider his answer. “Having met her
now, I don’t believe that she is. But last night’s events show that she has great power, and
cannot completely control it,” he leant in towards her, “Tell me: when the Orcs attacked,
what happened before your outburst?”
“The last thing I remember was looking down at Athuen,” she looked over at her brother,
her cheeks flushing as she spoke, “He wasn’t moving, and I thought he was-”
Damathian cut in with another question. “You still wish to be a Mage-Queen, am I right?”
She nodded, “I do.”
“If I told you that I thought you were ready, and that I would give your tutor my blessing
for you to take your vows tomorrow, what would you say?”
She faltered, surprised by his question. “I… I don’t think it would be wise, would it? After
what happened, and what you’ve said.”
Damathian spread his arms wide, turning back to the young prince: “Do I believe that she
has some way to go before her power is under control? Yes, certainly. Do I think she walks
the same path as her misguided ancestor?” he shook his head, “Unlike Maegana, she has
older brothers to guide her, and I think that has had more of an effect than you might think.
The cataclysm she summoned last night was brought about because she thought she had lost
you, not because she sought power or wished destruction.”
Athuen reached over, placing a hand over his sister’s. He smiled at her reassuringly before
looking up at Damathian.
“Do you think the Bloodstone is safe at Mox?” Azad visibly bristled at the question, but let
the healer answer.
“Just the thought that its whereabouts are known is troubling. The dark bird you described
is even more of a concern; it was said that Kronos used similar creatures as spies and
messengers when he was at large.”
“Didn’t you say he was killed at Bloodmire Moor?”
“No, I said he left the battle early. His body was never found. He hasn’t been sighted since,
but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been laying low, rebuilding his strength.”
Morrig looked confused, “Wasn’t it Orcs that attacked Kael, though?”
 “Kael was a sacred place. A necromancer’s magic would have been weak there. Hired
swords would have been his best option to recover the Bloodstone.”
Azad was next to speak: “You think he could be sending an army of his own to the
stronghold, then?”
“I couldn’t say, but it’s not beyond the realm of possibility. If the Bloodstone awoke in
recent weeks, perhaps it called out to him. It may have been the sign he was waiting for all
these years. If he reclaimed it, he could continue his conquest where he left off, with his
champion at his side.”
“Then we should ride! Why are we waiting here? We have to warn Lord Stronghelm.”
Azad was already up despite his limp arm curled to his chest.
The healer nodded. “I think you may be right and Brim and I spoke briefly before he left. I
told him what I have told you so he is bearing that message to the Lord of Mox.” He turned
his gaze to Morrig and Athuen, “More importantly, I think it could be of vital importance that
you two are there, should Kronos somehow reclaim the Bloodstone. Maegana was defeated
by her close kin before, and I think that was more than coincidence.”
Athuen frowned. “Brim will be there already, and he’s the finest swordsman I’ve seen.”
Damathian shook his head.
“Despite her great strength, Vaelan had the advantage of knowing Maegana, understanding
how she fought. If your brother faces her alone, there’s little hope that he will endure.”
 Eight

Balek Stronghelm stared at the gore that soaked his gloves. He was stood in a darkened
corridor, his Ironguard pressed around him. Further down the corridor they could hear the
sounds of fighting as the undead made their way through the citadel he had vowed to protect.
The time since their mission to silence the catapults was a disjointed blur of violence and
death. The foul undead had not just made it into the courtyard, they had breached the keep.
One moment they had been advancing double time along the passageways that led back to the
citadel; the next, they heard screams and volleys of rifle fire ahead. They had rushed to aid
their kin, but found themselves walking into a charnel house.
As they entered the chamber, a guardroom scattered with overturned furniture and
discarded weapons, the undead had converged on them from three side corridors. Toloch was
the first of the Ironguard to die. Four Wraiths coalesced like early morning mist in front of
him, their cruel, ethereal blades glowing with a sick luminescence that would have cowed a
lesser soldier, but the veteran warrior held his ground. The Dwarf fought bravely with axe
and shield: bravely but briefly. With a wet sound that turned the lord’s stomach, the warrior
he had fought alongside on countless battlefields fell into four equal parts as more undead
pushed into the chamber.
Balek shook himself back to the present and found himself battling against three heavily
armoured skeletons in battered platemail. Three fast strokes of his war hammer and they
became just another pile of bones on the corridor floor, but before he could breathe a sigh of
relief more surged at him through an open doorway, their bony feet clattering across the tiles
like a storm of hailstones. Three, four, five; when a sixth appeared Balek took a shield from a
fallen warrior and rushed the wall of skeletons. The metal jarred in his hand but did enough to
push them back through the door. He pulled it closed against their advance, barring it
securely. It wouldn’t hold for long, but at least it was something.
Looking around, he saw that three more of his veteran bodyguard had fallen. The rest had
recovered from the ambush and were taking their vengeance. Holk was fighting like a
cornered animal against a gang of skeletons. He chopped one warrior’s arm clean off,
spinning to bury his axe in the ribcage of the second. It caught fast and fell back as the
creature fell, but he threw himself at a third skeleton and dashed it against the wall with his
full weight. Taking up its sword in one hand and a fallen spear in the other, he leered at his
two remaining foes, daring them to come at him, before deciding to take matters into his own
hands and leaping at them. The remaining Ironguard fought just as fiercely, and it was not
long before the room was cleared.
Farund limped up to him as his unit went about the business of tending to the wounded and
barricading the doors. Balek saw the ragged hole in his thigh, but the captain didn’t mention
the injury.
“No telling how far in they’ve got, lord.”
“They’ll be pressing towards the Vault.”
Balek glanced over at Holk, who had picked up the long-hafted hammer of a fallen
Shieldbreaker and was testing its weight. He remembered how confident he had been when
they had talked about the Bloodstone on the battlements. Let them come, he had said. He had
no doubt that Holk remembered his words, but the veteran had not spoken of their
conversation since the attack had begun.
“So what's the plan, lord?” asked Thorak from across the room.
“We make for the Vault and secure the stone.”
Holk had taken the two-handed hammer and was now leaning on it as though it were a
walking stick. “What if they've already found it and taken it?”
“They won’t find it easily, no matter what evil sorcery they use. The Vault is hidden by our
best engineering and guarded by powerful wards.”
“So was the gate to the keep, and they seem to have dealt with that quickly enough.”
Balek took a firm grip on his ancient hammer: “Then by all the gods, if they’ve taken it,
we’ll take it back!”

***
They moved down dark corridors that had once been lit with braziers that had burned
endlessly, fuelled by coal mined from the very depths beneath Mox. They were now dark in
places, their flames extinguished, others flickered fitfully fighting an unnatural wind that
whipped occasionally down the cold corridors, seeming to search the Dwarfs out. Thankfully,
the party knew their way, light or dark. All Dwarfs (be they warrior, craftsman or trader)
were miners to some degree. It was in their blood, as important to their race as the art of
fighting, and none had any trouble finding their way in the dark.
Footsteps sounded ahead. Running boots that thumped on the stone floor towards the small
contingent.
“That doesn't sound like the undead,” Holk said. He moved to the front of their party, eager
to try his new weapon if he was wrong. Balek brought his shield before him, the golden
hammer emblem glinting.
“Wait for my command,” he said, his voice low enough for just his companions to hear.
There was the crash of a blackpowder, and a shout. Moments later, a pair of Dwarfs ran out
of the shadows. They were carrying a third, his helm cleaved in two. Blood flowed down his
tunic, staining his mail a rusty brown colour. All three carried long-rifles. They skidded to a
halt in front of the group, almost dropping their wounded companion in surprise.
Holk lowered his guard, “Grimm, is that you?”
The Dwarf on the left squinted at him with his one remaining eye, then gave a sardonic
laugh. “Holk? Stones of the Mountain, aren’t you dead yet?”
“No time to chat, lads. They’re right on us,” the other standing Dwarf interrupted the
reunion.
Before another word could be said, a group of zombies fell from the darkness, their hands
outstretched and their jaws snapping to bite down, eager for flesh and blood. Grimm quickly
lowered the wounded Dwarf to the ground, then raised his rifle and fired.
The noise was amplified a thousand times by the cramped confines of the corridor. The
muzzle blast briefly illuminated the ruined torsos of the foremost zombies. Gore spattered the
wall in violent swathes of red and clumps of flesh dripped down to the floor. The hammers
and axes of the Ironguard quickly dispatched the remaining cadavers as they slipped passed
the marksman.
Holk returned to Balek's side, grinning fiercely as he hefted the large hammer, “Always
thought I should have joined the Shieldbreakers.” He gestured to the three newcomers,
“That’s Grimm Hammerfist – Grimm the Grim, they call him. Best shot in the Ironwatch, if
you’d believe it, but he’s a grumpy bastard.” Grimm didn’t look up from reloading his rifle.
“I don’t know the other two.”
The second Dwarf was crouched over his wounded companion. He glanced up at Balek,
giving a quick nod by way of greeting. “Lord Stronghelm. Grungi Darkshield, at your
service. This is… this was Haland.” The fallen Dwarf had stopped moving, “Can anyone here
work this rifle?”
Thorak raised a hand, and Grugni passed him the dead Dwarf’s weapon and ammunition
belt, “He always complained that it pulled to the left, so be wary of it.” He turned to Balek,
“Do we have a plan?”
The Dwarf lord explained, and the group advanced into the dark.

***
The Cerillion warhost had left Sarith Vale at dawn after a few hours of restless sleep. Brim
was not happy about leaving Morrig and Athuen, but Loreth had convinced him that it was
the right thing to do. After all, he reasoned, a small group of riders can travel faster than a
marching column, so they could catch up once they awoke. Presuming she wakes at all was
the part he hadn’t said, but which they had both thought.
They had suffered significant losses at the hands of the Orcs before Morrig stopped the
onslaught. The Hail of Arrows and Laril’s Host had been all but wiped out, and their
remaining number had been folded into Loreth’s Sea Guard to replace his lost men, so only
three regiments now accompanied their lord. Laril had survived the decimation of his unit,
much to his own chagrin, and now stood alongside Loreth.
Azad had been left behind with the others to recover from his wounds, but during the
previous day’s journey he had been keen to point out that Dwarfs patrolled all roads into
Mox. The lands surrounding the stronghold were a dangerous place, filled with all manner of
creatures of the dark. From the many Orc and Goblin raiding parties that lay scattered
throughout the hills and mountains of the region, to the beasts that preyed on all, no matter
their race or species. Great Basilisks wandered the land, their long bodies covered with a
dense scale so tough even the black powder rifles of the Dwarfs struggled to pierce their
hides. Swarms of Scatter-spiders snuck up on the unwary traveller, their chitinous bodies
almost silent as they stalked their prey along mountain walls and across the many high
canopies of woods and forests. Brutal tribes of Trolls laid claim to regions of stone, swamp
and forest. Rarely seen gathered in large formations, yet always a prevalent threat, the race
chose to remain hidden – coming down to prey on travellers only when their strength was
being guided by another (the lure of food and a good brawl always an added bonus). It was
said that should the Trolls ever become organised, the land would tremble and bleed.
But it wasn't just the fauna that posed a danger. There were snap-vines that grabbed those
who walked too close, the green roots shooting out to ensnare their victims, dragging them
high into the dark shadows of the treetops where they were stripped of flesh. Groves of
sentient trees turned paths into mazes, always shifting, moving a track a few feet to lure
travellers even deeper within their evil embrace. Swamps lay hidden beneath the ground, in
which large creatures lay dormant, waiting for a meal to wander close by. They would suck
the unwary down, dissolving their flesh and bone with strong acids. Some said that of an
army of malicious spirits living among the trees, taking their vengeance on unwitting
travellers. 'The revenge of Mantica herself' was a common phrase when another poor soul
went missing or was found dead within a marsh or bog.
Such were the dangers of the lands, and Mox’s response was to send out patrols of Brock
Riders to keep those who dared walk the dangerous paths safe and aware. At times they
fought off Orc raiding parties, or were able to warn settlements about the approach of Trolls
with sufficient time to stave off an attack, but mostly their presence itself was a deterrent.
Azad had explained this in great length, but they had not yet seen any sign of a patrol.
They continued along the path, silent save for the tramp of their feet and the ring of their
armour. Perhaps the old Dwarf was simply singing his race's praises a little louder than they
were due, Brim thought this was probably the best possible scenario – if not, then the Brock
Riders were being kept from their duties, and that was certainly something to worry about.

***
A short while later, the warhost emerged from the forest outside the stronghold. In the cold,
clear light of the afternoon, Brim came to two immediate conclusions: the first was that he
had been right to lead a force here; the second was that he had once again arrived too late.
The great curtain wall lay in ruin. The space between the treeline and the wall was strewn
with bones and rotten corpses, and at the foot of the wall they could see piles of dwarfen
bodies. The buzz of flies was a constant drone and the staccato caw of ravens sent a chill
down Brim’s spine in spite of his many years of such horrors. The heavily armoured gates of
the stronghold were thrown open and around them more bodies could be seen. As soon as
they had seen this grisly sight the warriors of the elven company had drawn their weapons,
and now they held them at the ready as they advanced.
Brim surveyed the carnage with a keen eye as they approached the gate, piecing together
the story of the battle. Lines of corpses showed where the undead had arrayed themselves
before the wall. A trio of wrecked catapults, hacked apart at close range, told of an advance
by the Dwarfs; it had likely come from a party that had approached from the rear, as no
dwarfen corpses lay between the war machines and the gate. The Brock Rider patrols,
maybe? The catapults had fired several volleys before they were silenced, judging by the
jagged holes in the battlements. Great, blackened rents marred the wall at regular intervals:
gun emplacements? Had they been sabotaged from within?
Movement from the courtyard ahead interrupted his thoughts, and he raised a hand to
signal a halt. They were around a hundred yards from the gate, but they had not been seen by
the creatures that moved within the wall. Little surprise; Brim saw that they were Dwarfs, but
they were not alive. Most had suffered obvious grievous wounds, and now they shambled
aimlessly, reanimated by foul sorcery.
A piercing cry split the air, and the young lord looked up to see a skeletal creature leering
down at them from the battlements above the gatehouse. Within the courtyard, the dead
Dwarfs’ heads snapped up, galvanised by the warning shriek. As one they began to advance.
Brim shouted quick orders, and in a manner of moments his force was deployed.
To the centre were the bowmen of the Nightguard, first rank crouched to let their fellows
aim over their heads. To their left, the Bows of Karis-il-Athon stood ready, their captain
proud at their centre. At Brim’s command, both units loosed a disciplined volley into the
courtyard. The Dwarfs were well-armoured and invigorated by dark magic, but several still
fell.
A wave of poorly-aimed missiles fell about the Sea Guard, who were positioned to the
right of the Nightguard. Atop the wall, reanimated Ironwatch worked to reload their
crossbows with stiff, jerky movements. Loreth gave the order, and his regiment’s return fire
decimated the dead Dwarfs.
Brim stood at the rear of the line. They had the upper hand; the reanimated dead were slow
at the best of times, but with the natural ungainliness of Dwarfs it was as though his Elves
were moving with preternatural speed. Precise volleys from the two ranged units were cutting
down the undead with ease. He was preparing to give the order to advance into the courtyard
when a loud noise from the right flank gave him pause. He turned to see a group of skeletal
horsemen, clad in heavy armour and wielding lances, emerging from the treeline to their
right. He realised with dawning horror that he was not facing a small force of reanimated
Dwarfs but the rearguard of the necromancer’s army. The decision to press on in spite of their
numbers came without hesitation; he had come to prevent the loss of the Bloodstone, and he
intended to do just that, no matter the cost.
He yelled for the Sea Guard to wheel and face the oncoming knights. They drew back and
loosed. The missiles hissed across the battlefield to zip amongst the charging knights of the
undead. Several missed entirely, while some struck harmlessly against tarnished armour;
many more found their mark, but their targets seemed unhindered by the arrows lodged into
their dead flesh.
Not enough, he thought, and then the knights were upon them. They rode into Loreth’s
unit, knocking some aside, trampling others. The screams of the Elves mixed with the
otherworldly bray of the skeletal horses, joined soon after by the clash of spear on sword,
armour against shield.
Brim was preparing to charge in and assist his friend when he realised that the knights had
not been the only part of the trap. A horde of skeletons had appeared in the entrance to the
courtyard, emerging from their hiding places either side of the gate. Now they advanced,
shields raised to ward off attack by the Bows of Karis-il-Athon.
The young lord shouted a command to Atharond, the captain of the Nightguard, and the
unit drew their shortswords. They pushed forward, rushing to meet the skeletons. They made
short work of the front rank of the enemy, but for every undead warrior slain, another quickly
took its place. Brim only hoped they could hold their enemy at the gate as he turned to join
the fight against the cavalry.
 Nine

The zombie's claws raked down Drak Sogursson’s helm, finding purchase in the soft flesh
of his neck and digging deep. The Ironguard let out a bellow of rage and flung his elbow back
hard, dislodging his attacker, but two more lurched at him, pinning him against the wall. One
bit into his forearm while the other latched onto the place where the first creature had opened
up his neck. His howls of pain were lost amid the fighting as he sank to his knees, tearing the
scalp from the creature that landed the final wound, ramming his fingers into its rotten brain.
Balek’s small company had found themselves cornered in a long corridor, zombies coming
at them from both directions. Now they fought for their lives against a seemingly endless tide
of the foul enemy. They were easy enough to kill, individually, but this was like trying to
hold back the ocean.
Grimm, Grungi and Thorak stood sentry at their rear, keeping up a steady rhythm of shots
to thin the numbers that were advancing behind them. Throf and Orlun, two of the Ironguard,
took their hammers to any that made it past their fusillade. Drak had stood with them until
moments before, and they were already feeling the increased pressure.
To their front, Holk and Farund led the advance. Holk’s two-handed hammer was proving
difficult to use in the cramped corridor, so he had slung it in favour of his hand-axe. Lacking
a shield, he was fending zombies off with his free hand, or using it to drive them head-first
into the walls. Farund’s fighting style was much more regimented, the systematic rise-and-
fall of his axe felling an enemy with each repetition. His limp had become more pronounced
as they pushed deeper into the maze of corridors, but he still refused to acknowledge the
injury.
Balek stood in the centre with Jodur, the last of the Ironguard, who was holding an axe in
his one good arm. The other hung uselessly at his side; a Zombie had latched onto his
shoulder, and although his tough leather armour had meant that the teeth had not broken skin,
the force seemed to have broken his collarbone. There would be time to check later; for now,
he stayed at the centre of the pack, lashing out at anything that made it near their lord. He
turned to Balek, gore streaked across his face.
“Are you holding up lord?”
“Forget me, how’s your shoulder?”
The warrior cracked a grin. “Oh, I’m bearing up.” he turned back as a walking corpse made
it past the foremost warriors, beheading it with a lateral swipe of his axe, “I’ve got a sweat
going, is all.”
Ahead of them, Holk drove his armoured forehead through a Zombie’s rotten skull, spitting
fragments of brain and bone. He turned back to Jodur with a scowl. “Forget your sweat, I’ve
got a hell of a thirst.” He wrapped his meaty forearm around the neck of a Zombie that was
about to swipe at Farund’s flank, flexing hard until its spine broke.
At the rear of the group, Grimm spoke up without looking up from the shot he was aiming.
“First round’s on you, Holk. You know the rules, first to mention buys the ales.” His rifle
roared, decapitating two foes at once.
 Balek’s axe split one of the undead from neck to groin. “Tell you what, lads, get us to the
Vault and I’ll buy you each a brewery.”
Throf’s exact reply was hard to hear over the report of Grungi’s rifle, but it concerned the
matter of making promises one didn’t intend to keep.
“Oh, I’m deadly serious,” said Balek, pushing to the front to stand next to Holk and Farund
as he saw the numbers ahead beginning to thin. “Now, close up – we’re pushing on!”
Jodur dropped back to support the rearguard as they began to back up, fighting as they
withdrew. Grungi went first, checking his ammunition as he went. He shook his head in
annoyance.
“I’m down to a dozen balls. Grimm, how’s your stock?”
“Been saving them for something special, have you? I’ve got seven left. What about you,
lad?”
Thorak reached into the pouch at his belt, counting as he walked backwards. He was about
to reply when his boot caught against a slightly raised flagstone and he fell backwards,
landing heavily on a disembowelled Zombie that had been left for dead. It wrapped its arms
around him, grasping for purchase with ice-cold fingers. One hand fastened around his face,
and he let out a scream of pain as its sharpened claw gouged at his eyeball. The two
Ironwatch dashed to his side, Grungi pulling him free as Grimm’s boot stomped through its
brittle skull. The young Dwarf’s eye was ruined.
Behind them Orlun fell, tackled by three of the creatures at once. He dispatched two of
them with quick blows of his hammer, crushing their skulls in moments, before succumbing
to the teeth of the third. He roared in anger, hefting the two dead weights away, and rolling
on top of his attacker. He pulled away and flesh parted from his neck with an awful tearing
sound. Clutching one hand to the ragged wound to stem the bleeding, he smashed the
Zombie’s head open, but before he could get to his feet two more were on him. Throf and
Jorlun came to his aid, laying about them with heavy swings that smeared the undead against
the corridor walls. Still they came on, slipping out of a door to a dusty dining room, and in
moments all three were overcome.
Balek looked back as he heard their pained screams, and wondered how many more of the
undead were in the tunnels behind them.
“Advance!” He roared, as the two Ironwatch shouldered their rifles and hefted a wounded
companion for the second time in as many hours. They ran to catch up with Holk, Balek and
Farund as they broke through the remaining zombies. The battered Dwarfs hurried down the
corridor as fast as they dared, the screams of the dying and the moans of the dead receding
into the darkness behind them.

***
They stopped to rest ten minutes after the last noise died out behind them. They were deep
beneath the Alandar range by this point, in one of the many long tunnels that led to distant
mine workings. Unknown to most, this tunnel also led to one of the secret entrances to the
Vault. As Lord of Mox, Balek had committed all of the great stronghold’s passages to
memory, and had no trouble recalling precisely where they were. He had led them to a short
alcove where, at the pull of a concealed lever, an otherwise invisible panel in the wall slid
back, revealing preserved foodstuffs and a well. Panels such as this were hidden throughout
the deeper caverns of the stronghold, put in place so that miners wouldn’t starve while
awaiting rescue in the case of a cave-in. The Dwarfs ate ravenously, each taking turns to
watch the tunnel for signs for pursuit.
Once they had eaten they looked to their injured. Farund grudgingly allowed Grungi to
inspect his wounded leg; it appeared that his thighbone was fractured. He plainly stated that
he’d known that, but that there was little that could be done about it until they’d finished their
mission, so he hadn’t bothered to mention it.
Thorak’s eye was a pulped mess, the remains clinging to his cheek. Again, there was little
they could do, but Grimm washed the socket as best he could with water from the well and
packed it with wadding from one of his belt pouches. The young Dwarf seemed more
concerned with the fact that he’d dropped his shot than the fact that his aim with a rifle would
now be off anyway, but Balek supposed he was trying to follow his captain’s lead and
downplay his injury as best he could. Either way it showed impressive courage. If they got
through this alive, he could see the lad having his own regiment one day.
They stopped for as little time as possible, resealing the hidden compartment once Grimm
had finished with Thorak’s eye and gathering their things before setting off again.
The tunnel continued for a short distance before opening up onto a broad main
thoroughfare, a main arterial passage with several tunnels like their own branching off from
it. It was wide enough that ten Dwarfs could have walked abreast in full battle gear without
slowing. As they neared it, a long, low groan came from the darkness ahead. Balek called the
small group to a halt. Their weapons were at the ready in a heartbeat. Fingers tightened
around weapon hafts, and the Ironwatch raised their rifles expectantly as the group rounded
the corner.
Something large moved ahead of them in the well-lit thoroughfare, and it took them a
moment to recognise it. A Troll! Its flesh was torn and decayed, skin hanging in flaps from a
multitude of wounds. In one hand it held the lifeless corpse of a Dwarf, and as they watched,
horrified, it raised the wretched body to its mouth and took a large bite out of its flank,
chewing messily. Balek could see where a sword or axe strike had opened the Troll's skull.
Its body was also criss-crossed with slashes and cuts through which he could see bone and
dead tissue. Something wriggled out of one wound; an Orcling, similarly enthralled to the
powerful necromantic magic. It fell to the ground, snatching at morsels that fell from the
Troll’s mouth.
“Orcs,” whispered Holk. “That’s all we need.”
Balek shook his head. “Look at it. It’s been dead a while. Maybe that necromancer had
some dealings with Orcs before he came to Mox, but I doubt they’re here.”
Grimm looked around them. “Where are we, anyway? How’s it ahead of us?”
Farund grunted. “We’ve been swinging to the right for a while now. Haven’t you noticed?”
Balek nodded to the captain. “This is the Southern Way. If you head north along it, it
comes out into the lower parts of the barracks. That’s probably where it came from. The
Vault’s not far, but we need to get past that thing first.”
Thorak spoke up, a very slight tremble to his voice indicating the pain he was doing so well
to hide. “Could we creep past it?”
Holk shook his head. “The undead are surprisingly good at spotting their prey. We’re better
off just taking it down and being done with it. Shouldn’t be too much of a bother.”
“I take it you noticed the big one,” came Grimm’s reply, “It’s not just the Orcling.”
 Balek shushed them both. “Holk’s right. We’ll need to take it out, and pray it’s alone.”

***
Sounding the battle-cry of a thousand generations of Stronghelms, Balek thundered down
the corridor, hammer held in a two-handed grip, his shield guarding his back. Behind him
came his five companions. Grimm and Grungi hung back, firing over the heads of their kin
before reloading swiftly. Both shots found their mark, one hitting the Troll in the shoulder
and the other crashing into its jaw. It seemed not to notice, swinging its head dumbly towards
the approaching Dwarfs.
Four of them swarmed about it, darting in with fast movements, slicing at exposed areas
with axe and hammer. Farund was last to reach the Troll, slowed as he was by his injury. He
stepped past Thorak, whose shield had just turned aside the monster’s fist, and buried his axe
deep into the flesh of its arm. Flesh sloughed off and hit the flagstones with a wet slap,
trailing filth and maggots. He had caught the Troll’s attention, and it lashed out at him with
its other arm. He raised his shield, but the blow was powerful enough to splinter the wood
and buckle the iron. He flew back several feet, landing heavily and dropping his weapon.
Grimm dropped to a knee to reload his rifle, cursing as he reached into his pouch.
“I’m down to my last shot.”
Grungi reached into his own and took out three balls of his own, dropping them into his
companion’s hand.
“Don’t miss with them.”
“If I do, I’ll know who to blame.” He sighted, held his breath, and fired. The shot burst the
Troll’s right eye before exploding through the back of its skull, but the beast remained
standing.
Holk had taken up his new weapon once more, and swung it full-force into the creature’s
side, snapping several of its ribs.
“And I thought these things were hard to kill when they were still alive!”
Balek ducked under the Troll’s arm and struck its knee, his hammer flattening the decayed
flesh but stopping short of shattering the bone.
“Just keep hitting the damned thing!” He pulled back again, gripping his weapon as far
down the haft as he could, and swung as though he were an axeman trying to fell a tree. This
time he felt its knee snap. The creature let out a gurgling bellow and brought a huge fist down
towards the Dwarf lord. Thorak saw the blow coming and shunted Balek aside, taking the hit
in his place. The young Dwarf dropped to the ground, unmoving, as Holk swung his hammer
into the monster’s unharmed leg.
Groaning a limp, undead roar through rotting vocal chords, the Troll stumbled and fell.
Balek and Holk did not give it a chance to stand. In a matter of moments its growls were
reduced to a wet gurgle, and soon all that could be heard was the gruff exhausted panting of
the Dwarfs.
Grimm helped Farund to his feet. The captain was in a bad way; his wrist was clearly
broken, and his fractured leg had been worsened by the fall. Thorak was dead; the troll’s
mighty blow had crushed his skull.
 “He did his duty as a member of the Ironwatch,” Farund said through clenched teeth. Balek
shot him a harsh look, but he continued, “Giving your life for a king is the best death we can
hope for.”
Any debate was curtailed by a shout of alarm from Grungi, who was watching the tunnel
through which they had entered the Southern Way.
“They’ve found us!”
Holk dashed back to the junction as the rifleman fired his first shot. The tunnel was packed
with zombies, less than a hundred feet away, and Grungi’s shot had done nothing to slow the
pack.
Farund brushed Grimm’s hand away and retrieved his axe. He limped towards the tunnel,
staring evenly at his king. “Go my lord. I shall hold them as long as I can.” His tone brooked
no dispute.
“I’ll stay with you. You’ll need to thin their numbers, or they’ll wash over you like the
tide.” Grungi had not looked up from loading his rifle, and now raised it to his shoulder and
sighted before taking another shot.
Balek nodded solemnly. “Fall back if you can. You know where we’re heading.”
Grungi smiled, knowing full well that this would not happen. “Understood, sire. Now get
going before it’s all for nothing.”
Balek, Holk and Grimm turned without another word and hurried down the Southern Way.
As they turned down another passageway, the moans of the undead receded behind them. The
crack of Grungi’s rifle echoed after them twice more, and after that there was only silence.

***
Balek led them down a rough stone tunnel, through a twisting series of junctions. He took
them past several apparent dead ends and passages bearing the rune that marked a collapsed
ceiling, and before long they found themselves at one of the hidden entrances to the Vault: a
broad door of iron and steel. The delicate carvings on the framework showed the history of
the Dwarfs of Mox, an intricate depiction of their travels from Abercarr, moving through and
over the mountains, to reach Elvenholme – a journey they had seen as the start of a new life,
full of opportunities. The Great Exodus, as it was known, became a tale of heroism and
courage, a tale of great deeds and noble sacrifice by those wishing to re-join the greater world
following the war with Winter. The ancient carvings and patterns across the Vault’s entrance
were a reminder of the past and a warning of the future.
Holk reached for the door, but Balek pulled him back just before the warrior’s fingers
could touch the metal handle.
“You didn't really think it would be so blatantly obvious, did you?” Balek took several
measured steps to the left, tapped the haft of his axe along the wall, slung it back on his belt
then gave a section of wall a mighty push. The sound of grating rock rumbled as the section
swung back to reveal a passageway leading off into shadow.
Several torches were stacked in a wall bracket just inside the new passageway. Balek took
them, handing them out to the others. Readying their weapons one final time, they slipped
inside the tunnel. Balek depressed a hidden switch and the stone slab rumbled back into
place, sealing itself shut with a heavy sound.
 Their footfalls were a dull echo as they marched down the dusty corridor. They moved
slowly, their lord leading the way, checking each flagstone before they moved on. The way
was full of traps, designed as a final defence against any who made it this far; as far as Balek
was aware they had never been put to use, but that didn’t mean they weren’t in full working
order.
After what seemed like an age, a cold breeze began to brush against their faces. The flames
of the torches flickered wildly and a low rustling blew down the passageway. As they edged
forward, a soft light began to fill the tunnel, the shadows being pushed back as they came to
the corridors end. One by one they extinguished the torches, leaving them in the passageway.
Balek turned to face his companions, keeping his voice as low as possible. “Beyond this
corner, we will enter the Vault. For all we know, the enemy are already inside, so be prepared
for a fight.” The thought of anyone other than a lord of Mox setting foot within the great
repository was strange enough, and the idea that the enemy could be inside was an affront to
all they held dear. “Know this, so you’re not distracted by what you see: it's a vast chamber,
filled with countless riches and lit by lanterns that burn without dying. A great many rooms
lead off from it, all but one holding one of our great treasures. The last holds the Bloodstone.
Follow my lead, and don’t open any doors unless I tell you. Do you have any questions
before we proceed?”
Holk and Grimm shook their heads and readied their weapons.
Balek gave a nod and they slipped from the tunnel into the secret hall that was The Vault of
Mox.

***
The chamber was easily as tall as the great curtain wall, its ceiling barely visible. The walls
glittered with lantern-light reflected from piles of gold, gemstones and ancient heirlooms. The
three Dwarfs entered, weapons drawn, faces grim: even Holk had buried away his usual
frivolity. A single door stood open, its hinges torn aside by great power. Before it stood the
necromancer, his back to them. His Revenant guardian stood by his side like a faithful hound,
a huge sword strapped across its back.
“Intruder! Show your face,” called Balek.
Kronos turned. In his hand he held a silver chain; suspended at the end of it was a sparkling
red jewel, edged in gold. The necromancer’s eyes narrowed as he recognised his armour.
“You’re the Dwarf that spiked my catapults. Judging by your finery, I can only assume
you’re lord of this stronghold?”
“How did you find this place? Most of my people don’t even know the way.”
The necromancer's smile was a sneer of contempt: “Your secrets are as clear to me as
water, Dwarf, and cannot hinder my designs”
“Leave now,” the veteran warrior's eyes never left Kronos, “or die this day, dark one.”
“I already have my prize. Why would I stay? The clock is ticking and my lady and I have a
score to settle. Your pathetic rune-wards cannot hope to prevent our escape.”
“You will not take the stone. It will never leave this hall, nor shall you if you insist on this
folly.”
“I can assure you that it shall, as will I. You, however… Heryk, if you please?”
 The giant Revenant stepped forward, unsheathing its sword. Its movements were slow and
deliberate, like a man walking through water, but the power in its embalmed body was clear
to see. It placed its feet firmly and raised its sword vertically, in a classic ready stance. It
roared at them: the awful scream of a tortured soul.
Grimm fired his rifle without a word of warning. The shot flew true, striking the Wight in
the throat and snapping its spine. Its head lolled and its eyes dimmed as the great physical
trauma severed its connection to its master. It fell in a lifeless heap.
Before Kronos could react, Balek moved. He launched himself forward, his war hammer
held high. Holk charged behind him, yelling a war-cry of 'For Mox!' The necromancer made
a startlingly fast gesture with his staff, knocking the rifle from Grimm’s hands with a bolt of
arcane energy before he could reload. The Dwarf Lord swung his hammer down upon Kronos
with all his might, determined to put a stop to this madness before it could go any further. If
the liche was allowed to escape with the stone, who knew what calamities would follow?
His blow caught the necromancer in the chest. It was like striking ancient wood; Balek
would have expected the old man’s chest to cave in under his blow, but it just knocked him
back. Holk followed with a swing of his own; Kronos turned it aside with his staff and
countered with a blast of power from an outstretched hand, pushing the warrior away. Balek
didn’t give him time to recover, swinging low and sweeping at the necromancer’s leg. The
gambit worked, and Kronos buckled to the ground as his knee gave way. Holk leapt in,
stamping hard on the mage’s wrist before he could raise his staff.
Kronos raised the other hand and began to chant. The Bloodstone hung from his grasp, still
held by its chain. It hurt Balek’s eyes when he looked at it, and not for the first time he
wondered what dark power was held within its glinting facets. He suddenly realised that he
could not look away. Neither could he move his limbs. Slowly, a strange fog filling his mind,
he let his weapon drop to the ground.
Holk growled and swung his hammer overhead with all his might, aiming for the arm
holding the Bloodstone. The gem was torn from the necromancer’s grip and fell to the floor
next to him. Balek’s head cleared, the spell broken, and he glared down at the wretched
creature at his feet. Kronos recoiled under his gaze.
“This ends here. The Bloodstone of Cerillion dies with you.”
He raised his hammer. His eyes blazed with fury as he brought it down on the stone.
Her prison door thrown open, Maegana the Red returned to the mortal plane.
 Ten

Brim Cerillion grunted as another hammer glanced off his armour. The undead Dwarfs
were as tenacious as they had no doubt been when they were alive, but with the added power
that came with undeath. They poured out of the stronghold, neither caring nor noticing when
their comrades fell to the sword strokes of the Elves. They stepped on their own dead and the
dying Elves, sometimes pausing long enough to silence the cries of the wounded before
staggering on to deliver more blows to those that still struggled against them.
He struck out with his own blade, turning aside his attacker’s weapon and sweeping the
hand away at the wrist. Thick, black blood oozed from the wound as the Dwarf fell to the
rising pile of bodies. Brim had moved to help the beleaguered Nightguard, who were clashing
with both skeletons and reanimated Dwarfs. To their left, the Bows of Karis-il-Athon were
shooting into the mass of zombies that was now pushing outwards from the gate.
On the right flank, the Sea Guard prepared to face a second charge from the cavalry. Their
first attack had been repelled, but the already depleted unit had suffered three more losses to
lances and heavy hooves. Now the horses circled, getting ready to charge again.
“Steady the line,” Loreth shouted, pointing with his sword where he wanted the bowmen to
spread out to. “When they come, loose all you have. Do not flinch from your duty, do not flee
from your task. Courage!”
“For Ithris!” came the response. Loreth smiled as deep pride filled him: even against such
an elite foe, his warriors stood firm. He thrust seven arrows into the ground before him, using
a mound of fallen undead as cover. The stench from their rotting corpses was horrendous, but
it kept him alert. He looked down the line; his men were doing the same thing as he, placing
arrows within easy reach, ready for the charge to come.
A rising wail signalled the cavalry’s advance. Slowly they came forward, five abreast, their
boned hooves striking the ground, making it tremble as they gathered pace.
As one, the bows of the Elves came up, but they held their fire. The red pennant of the
Revenants, some ancient House of men from the long forgotten past of Primovantor, billowed
out as they quickened. The white skull of Kronos grinned from the sea of red. Their pace
became a thunderous charge but still the Elves held their fire.
Loreth sighted down his bow, the arrowhead focusing on the knight in the centre of the
front rank. This was his target and would be his kill.
The canter became a full-on charge.
Not yet... not yet... not yet...
“NOW!”
The twang of bows became a steady thrum, as shot after shot was punched towards the
onrushing cavalry. Faster than sight the Elves re-nocked, drew and loosed again in a single
heartbeat, so great was their skill. Each arrow flew straight, each arrow flew true, each one
found its target. The ancient warriors were peppered with arrows, their armour punched
through repeatedly by the deadly onrush.
 One Revenant took several shots through the helm in one volley, the power knocking it
back off its horse to fall beneath the hooves of its companions. Kicked and struck repeatedly,
what rolled out from the dust and mud was a broken, misshapen form. It did not rise.
“We can destroy them!” Loreth cried. “Ready!”
His warriors slung their bows once more, readying their spears and sliding their shields
into position. The Revenants lowered their lances, but most were turned aside. The single Elf
who took a lance through the chest was picked up off his feet and flung to one side.
Dodging a deadly blow, Loreth struck out, slicing through the undead horse’s flank with
ease and bringing it crashing to the ground. The Elf was upon the fallen knight in a moment,
his boot kicking aside the creature’s weapon and his own blade slicing between helm and
chest plate to send the head rolling away.
A moment later instinct sparked within him and he swept his sword about to block a high
cut from a mounted Revenant knight, the clash of steel sending sparks showering past his
face. He was already cut in a dozen places, blood flowing freely down his arm as he raised
his sword once more. All around him wounded Elves were bravely fighting on as they were
mercilessly hacked at by the frenzied knights. Even the rotted carcasses of their mounts were
inflicting heavy damage on the Sea Guard as they stomped and kicked, each hoof caving in
armour or crushing shields.
Two knights struck for a single Elf, their lances poised and keen: he stepped beneath their
attack, spinning about-face to thrust his spear into the back of the nearest. The other rode
past, its lance broken, its armour scored with new, clean cuts. The dark red of its shield
reflected the deep purple fire of undeath that burned within its empty sockets. Using it as a
weapon, the rider struck at the Elves as it dashed through their ranks, raining down heavy
blows. Several fell beneath its furious attack, some never to rise again.
With another cry of frustration, Loreth leapt at the nearest foe, his momentum carrying him
forward to crash into the armoured barding of its mount. Acting without thought, he stabbed
his sword forward repeatedly, determined to inflict some damage. His sword thrust between
the horse’s ribs, then caught fast. The beast galloped past him and the movement snapped the
blade, leaving him with nothing but a few inches above the quillons. The rider kicked out as
it passed, knocking him to the ground.
He landed atop one of his fallen warriors. Raelis, he thought, always quick with a song.
The Elf’s face was slick with blood from an ugly scalp wound. Loreth tried to rise, but a
sharp kick to the gut winded him and sent him sprawling.
A shadow fell across him. The Revenant knight had dismounted and drawn a long-bladed
sword. It peered down, burning eyes visible through the rusted helm.
Helpless and alone, Loreth could do nothing except wait for death to come.

***
Deep within Mox, in the chamber known as the Vault, an ancient evil stirred. Released
after being trapped within the Bloodstone of Cerillion for generations, Maegana the Red
laughed with unbridled glee. She had no physical body, but she had power; this much was
certain. She gathered an ethereal form, the mirror of her mortal one, with nothing more than
the flexing of her impressive will.
 Balek Stronghelm stared up at her in disbelief, the laughter of the necromancer he’d
thought vanquished ringing in his ears.
“What…”
Before he could finish the thought, Grimm was at his side, growling as he cocked his rifle.
“Doesn’t matter what.” He fired, turning a large chunk of her shoulder into swirling mist
before reloading quickly. She laughed, a mad cackle, and flung her hands forward in a
thrusting gesture. The three Dwarfs were struck by a wave of force, lifting them off their feet
and sending them crashing against the far wall. Dust and gold coins rained about them as she
moved to where Kronos still lay, the results of Grimm’s shot already impossible to see. The
necromancer was staring up at her in rapt wonder, a wicked grin playing across his features.
Pale fingers grasped the necromancer’s frail arm and she pulled him to his feet. She turned to
regard the Dwarfs with cold malevolence.
“Are you all there is?” her voice seemed to come from all around them, a chilling grave-
whisper that set their teeth on edge, “You pitiful creatures were deemed sufficient to hold me
prisoner? Has the plane of mortals become so soft?”
She held out a hand, turning it palm upwards. Grimm jerked as though pulled upright, his
neck bulging. He carried on upwards until his feet had left the ground. Balek and Holk moved
to pull themselves up, but Kronos shouted a word of dark power and gestured forward with
his staff, pressing them back against the ground. Maegana curled her fingers into a fist and
Grimm began to drift towards her, struggling against her eldritch grip all the way.
Balek watched, helpless, as the rifleman drew close to the ethereal Elf. She eyed him
hungrily, gesturing with her other hand. Grimm’s head snapped back and to the left, exposing
his throat. The necromancer was staring at her with… what, pride? Love? Balek felt the
sorcerous force weaken as Kronos found his attention drawn elsewhere. The spell was not
broken, but it might be enough. He saw a way that he could stop her, if only-
With lightning speed, Maegana’s head darted forward and she sank her teeth into Grimm’s
throat. The dour warrior gave a roar of pain, but was still unable to move. His face paled as
his life-blood left his body, and as it did so she began to take on a more solid appearance.
Balek pushed with all his might, breaking free of the necromancer’s hold. He rolled,
pushing himself to his feet next to the granite plinth upon which rested the jewel-encrusted
axe of Bron Stronghelm, the first of his line to take the throne at Mox. Muttering a word of
thanks to his ancestor, Balek scooped up the weapon and flung it with all his might.
The axe sang as it cut through the air. Kronos saw it and cried out, but, trapped as she was
in her feeding, Maegana did not heed the warning. The keen edge, honed by warsmiths and
consecrated with oaths from the lords of five different holds, separated the head from her
newly-formed body with ease. Her physical form exploded into dust and Grimm collapsed to
the ground.
Kronos screamed with rage, pointing at the Dwarf lord and uttering foul curses. Balek cast
about for his hammer as the necromancer levelled his staff, sickly energies collecting at its tip
as he weaved a deadly enchantment.
There was an almighty crack, and the staff exploded. Kronos was thrown backwards into a
pile of gold coins. Balek whipped around to see Holk hefting Grimm’s smoking rifle.
“Good shot,” he breathed.
“Hardly. I was trying to kill him.”
 Kronos pulled himself to his feet, Maegana’s faint outline coalescing at his side. “Very
well, Lord Stronghelm. You’ll have your wish,” the necromancer’s voice was a manic
screech. “Time for us to depart! You can keep the Bloodstone, or what's left of it.”
He reached down and scratched a sign on the floor with a long, filthy fingernail and looked
up at them with undisguised hatred as he spoke a word of power. His face was bathed in the
glow of emerald fire, burning so bright the Dwarfs had to avert their eyes. There was a sound
like thunder, and when they looked back, they were alone.

***
The Revenant towering over Loreth froze, its head cocked to one side. Then, with a mighty
crash that seemed far too loud, it fell sideways, its sinews snapping and its bones collapsing
into an untidy pile. He sat up realising that the noise had been so loud because it hadn’t just
been the Revenant that had fallen. The entire undead force had faltered and had suddenly
become little more than a pile of lifeless corpses once more as though a disgruntled strategist
had tipped his chess pieces in frustration. Startled cries of pain and horror changed quickly to
shouts of victory as the Elves, so close to annihilation, were suddenly the victors.
Loreth rose on shaky legs, his disbelief mirrored in the eyes of the soldiers around him.
Several slapped him on the shoulder as though it were he that had saved them. Slowly,
expecting the undead to return at any moment, he made his way through the carnage to where
Brim stood, breathing hard. The young lord was covered in scratches and bruises, his armour
stained with the blood of Elves and the ichor of the undead.
“I don't believe it,” Loreth said. “What happened?”
Brim shook his head, struggling to find any words. He looked around at the remains of his
warhost. The Sea Guard was reduced to half its number; he had seen Laril fall before a crowd
of undead Dwarfs, his armour ripped from him, hammers and axes ruining his broken body.
The Bows of Karis-il-Athon were no more, their entire number slaughtered by a host of
zombies that had piled into them, tearing the Elves to ribbons with teeth and claws. Atharond
stood proud with his Nightguard – they had fought tirelessly with bow and sword, and almost
all of them had somehow made it through. Their captain stood to rigid attention despite a
long wound to his face from a skeleton’s spear-thrust. The injury would heal but he would be
left with a permanent scar to remind him of this day.
Brim steeled himself and raised his voice over the clamour. “We bury our dead once we
know that this madness is over. Rally the troops; we’re heading inside.”

***
The warhost had precious few healers, but those that remained tended to the wounded and
sorted them into those that could fight, those that could stand and those that could not do
either. The walking wounded were left to tend to their less fortunate kin, while any that could
still bear a weapon formed up behind Brim at the great gates of Mox. He had less than two
score warriors, under half the number that had left Ithris.
Cautiously, advancing a few feet at a time with weapons held ready, they passed the
threshold. Brim half expected another trap, but none came. They crossed the wide courtyard,
past the dried blood that bathed the flagstones and the viscera that clung in small patches.
Carrion birds circled above, cawing their impatience as they waited for the Elves to move on.
 Ahead of them, the keep’s doorway was little more than a gaping hole, its doors missing
entirely, pulled down by the undead. Loreth hissed a warning, and the Elves stopped.
“There’s movement ahead.”
Two dozen Elves drew bows, while the remainder raised shields and readied swords or
spears. Sure enough, something was moving within the keep. Two figures were approaching.
“You can put your guard down, for starters,” came a weary voice from within. Two Dwarfs
emerged into the weak sunlight. The one in front was dressed in tattered finery, his red beard
bedraggled, a bejewelled axe clutched in one hand. The other limped along, a long-hafted
hammer supporting his weight and a rifle held in his other hand.
The Elves relaxed, and Brim stepped forward.
“Lord Stronghelm?”
The tired lord of a very empty Mox looked the young lord up and down. “And who might
you be?”
“Brim Cerillion, heir to the throne of Ithris. We came here to warn you, but we arrived too
late.”
“You can bloody well say that again,” grunted the Dwarf with the large hammer.
Loreth stepped forward, scowling at the grizzled warrior. “All we knew was that something
sought the Bloodstone. We didn’t know that this would happen.”
“Holk, shut it,” snapped Balek. He looked up at Loreth, “Believe me, lad, we didn’t either.
I agreed to look after the blasted thing, but I didn’t know there was an army of undead
bastards in the bargain.”
“You speak of the stone,” said Brim, “is it safe?”
The Dwarf narrowed his eyes. “Not exactly. But then, was it ever safe? That was a lot more
than a weapon, lad. That was a prison.” He caught Brim’s stare and sighed heavily, “And
they say Dwarfs are good at keeping secrets…”
“What do you mean?”
“All your father told us was that it was a magical artefact that had been wielded by the
vampiress Maegana the Red.” He waited for a reaction, but Brim held his gaze. “That it may
well have been, but he neglected to tell us that it housed her soul.”
Brim paled. “Her soul?”
“Something like it, anyway. I don’t know the details. All I can tell you is that I smashed the
damned thing, hoping to end the necromancer’s plans, and in doing so I released her. She
was little more than a spirit, but she drew strength from one of our companions and began to
take form. Thankfully, this stopped her.” He raised the axe. Its golden haft sparkled, priceless
gemstones catching the afternoon light.
“So she’s defeated? That’s why the undead out here were destroyed?”
Holk grunted, muttering something under his breath. Balek ignored him and continued.
“She’s not. She escaped with the necromancer. I don’t know for sure, but I’d wager it was
Kronos himself. He certainly looked old enough to have known her when she was last
gallivanting about.”
“How did they escape?”
 Balek shrugged. “Dark magic.”
Brim shook his head. “We have to find them. They said nothing, gave no clue?”
“The necromancer was blathering about settling a score,” Holk grumbled, “and some
nonsense about a clock ticking. Sorry we didn’t stop and chat for longer but we were
otherwise engaged”.
Brim took a deep breath. He wasn’t going to react to the Dwarf’s surliness and needed to
think. He turned and looked across the courtyard at the devastation the undead army had
wrought. He felt a deep sense of guilt and anger that the curse of his bloodline could have
laid the once-proud fortress of Mox so low. Raising his eyes above the broken walls, he
found the pale semi-circle of the waxing moon hanging low in the deep azure blue of the late
afternoon sky. He blinked and his heart skipped a beat as he recalled the tale Damathian had
told him. The ticking clock is the moon.
Balek spoke up behind him. “They could be anywhere, lad.”
Brim turned back to face the dwarfen king. “Well… yes, they could be. But isn’t it obvious
where they actually are?”
Balek’s face was expressionless as he waited for Brim to finish.
The Elf straightened and nodded. “Bloodmire Moor, of course.”

***
Less than an hour later, three riders on white horses emerged from the forest before Mox.
Dwarfs were scattered about the clearing, dragging rotten corpses and piles of dusty bones
into great funeral pyres that billowed sooty smoke into the early evening sky. The bodies of
Elves and Dwarfs were laid out in rows at the foot of the great wall.
Athuen and Morrig rode past, seeing that most of the workers were dressed not in military
garb but in the clothes of traders, miners and smiths. There were still occasional warriors,
spattered with blood and gore, but it seemed that most of the survivors of whatever had
happened here had been civilians. Azad rode behind them in stony silence, his haunted eyes
taking in the chaos of the scene and the ruin of his home.
At the entrance to the stronghold, just within the great gates, a grizzled Dwarf with a fresh
burn scarring half his face gave hushed orders to the workers. He seemed to be untroubled by
the ugly wound, and looked up as the two Elves approached.
“You’re Brim Cerillion’s siblings?” They nodded. “Come with me.”
Favouring his left foot over his right, the Dwarf turned and led them into the courtyard.
More bodies were laid out here, in the shade of one wall lay several dozen wounded soldiers.
A Dwarf in the robes of a healer moved between them, closely followed by a pair of
apprentices, doling out medicinal ointments or exchanging words of comfort. Athuen saw
Elves among the wounded, and almost made to approach them, but their guide led them in a
different direction.
They came to the keep, where a group of smiths were working to repair the door. Watching
over the construction was a scarred Dwarf with unruly red hair and an elaborately decorated
axe. At a word from their guide, he turned around and nodded a greeting to the travellers.
“Thank you, Frilik. Are you sure you won’t rest?”
 “Not while there’s work to be done, sire. There are plenty worse off than I am.” The
captain of the Ironwatch pressed a fist against his breastbone in salute then wheeled about to
return to his post. Balek Stronghelm shook his head.
“My Ironguard need a new captain, and I think I’ve found him.” If I can convince him he
wants a career change of course. He turned to the Elves, a thin smile on his lips. “Athuen, I
take it? And Morrig?” He turned his head to the last of the trio as he slowly dismounted and
dropped to one knee. “And Azad my friend. Get up man, this is no time for that nonsense.””

“You were expecting us?” Morrig asked, her eyes wide as she took in the scene around her.
She had never seen the aftermath of such a battle, and it was not something she wished to see
again anytime soon. “Is Brim here?”
“He’s been and gone. He arrived a short while after we were attacked.”
“Gone? Where to?”
In a matter-of-fact tone, Balek gave them the news they’d hoped least to hear.
 Eleven

If Brim was right, they were heading to the site of Kronos’ and Maegana’s previous defeat
on the eastern edge of the moor to the north. Damathian had said that the battle had taken
place under a full moon when the vampiress was at the height of her evil power. After
studying the maps in the dwarfen keep, Brim had begun to despair – the journey through the
mountains and foothills to the moorland beyond was going to take far longer than they could
afford. The next full moon would be in six nights and whatever his ancestor and the foul
necromancer were planning to coincide with this lunar event would succeed with no-one to
stop them.
Balek had grinned. Go over the mountains? He had given a deep rumble of laughter, a
gleam in his eye. This is Mox, lad, and we are Dwarfs. It’s faster to go under the rock than
over it. Overground, the journey would have taken more than a week. Using the ancient
tunnels of the Dwarfs, Balek had assured him it would take half that time.
Now more than a day into their journey, the group of Elves trudged through the
passageways that led to Bloodmire Moor, Holk Gungerson at their head. Brim walked behind
him, with Loreth and the Sea Guard further back again. Atharond’s Nightguard took up the
rear. Most still carried their shortswords, but many had taken up spears from their fallen
brethren. Their footsteps echoed from the stone walls and floor and from somewhere came
the steady drip of falling water. Dust covered everything, and Loreth was unsurprised to see
the bones of small creatures scattered about.
After several hours they came to an archway that led into a small chamber that must have
once been a storeroom. Rotting shelves of wood were fastened to the wall, some so
deteriorated they were nothing more than homes for woodlice. Set into one wall, an old
doorway had also rotted away, the frame long since disintegrated.
Loreth sent two scouts stepping on through the door and they slipped away into the dark
beyond. The rest of the group stood in expectant silence for what seemed like an eternity but
which could have only been a few, scant minutes; finally they returned.
“It stretches to the north for about thirty metres, then turns west,” one of the scouts said.
We found tracks made in the dust, but can't be sure who made them or when.”
“Very well. It seems to be the only way to go.” Brim looked around to Holk, who
shrugged.
“Look, I showed you how to get down here. Your guess is as good as mine from here
onwards. No one’s been down this way in decades.”
Silently and quickly the group moved from the storeroom into the corridor. The first thing
they noticed was that the stone flags were on a steep incline, so much so that for a way they
had to grope along the walls to steady their progress. When they came to the part where the
corridor turned to the left, they were pleased to note the next passageway was level. They
were able to walk two abreast at this point, their footfalls a dim echo, rolling away into the
darkness.
 “Tell you what, not sure about you Elves, but I’m getting sick of traipsing down dark
tunnels.”
Loreth gave a derisive snort, and Holk turned to face him.
“Something funny, lad?”
“It just sounds strange to hear a Dwarf say that, is all. Dark tunnels are your speciality,
aren’t they?”
Holk narrowed his eyes. “Watch it, Elfling. I might be your guide, but it doesn’t mean I’m
your friend.”
Brim stepped between them, hand raised to silence them: “Friends or not, we have a
common enemy, and bickering will only make their job easier.” The two warriors fell silent.
No torches other than their own lit the dungeon and as they moved further along the
darkness was pushed aside by the flickering flames. They continued along the passage,
following its twists and turns. It headed north again, this time the incline in their favour.
Every sound carried in the dark corridors of the dungeon but all they had heard in their
journey so far had been the constant drip of water from the ceiling, or the occasional scrape
of a boot on the uneven flagstones.
They rested briefly to drink and eat in an uneasy silence. An hour later, having resumed
their trek, they came to another junction; two passageways stretched ahead, one to their left
and another to their right. Loreth’s scouts advanced again, one taking each tunnel. They
returned a few minutes later, each reporting that the way was clear. Loreth turned to his lord.
“Which way do we go?”
Brim took a torch from one of the Sea Guard and held it forward. He moved it to the left
passageway and the torch flame grew still. Moving it back to the right passageway it began to
dance once more. He nodded towards the latter tunnel. “I’d wager that this way leads to the
surface.”
“Surface dwellers, honestly,” Holk pushed past him, rolling his eyes. “That’s probably a
breeze from a sinkhole, or a fault line. This far down you won’t be getting anything from the
surface. Let me have a look for you.” The Dwarf disappeared into the passage on the right.
He returned before long, shaking his head. “It’s not that way. Incline runs down slightly,
looks like it goes deeper into the mines. I’d take the left.”
Brim considered this for a moment before passing the order back.
“You have my thanks, Master Gungerson.”
They moved on down the left-hand passageway, torches held ahead of them, trying not to
picture the miles of solid mountain rock they could feel pressing down above their heads.

***
The next day, they came to a burial hall. Alcoves lined the walls, cloaked in cobwebs. The
ancient Dwarf kings and nobles had been reduced to little more than bones and tattered
clothing, something that was a little too close to recent events for any of the advancing party
to be comfortable with.
Brim planned to call a halt once they had passed the crypt, but it seemed to stretch on
endlessly. Loreth’s scouts had moved ahead of the main party, looking for a place they could
rest, but had not yet returned. The Elf lord looked over at Holk.
 “How many dead are buried down here?”
“Not a clue. At best guess, this was the main crypt at some point in the stronghold’s
history, back when it was still mostly a mine. If it gives you any idea, our current crypt
stretches for almost half a mile.”
A loud scream came from the shadows ahead. Shouts and the clash of steel rolled back to
them. As they watched in horror, the scouts fell back from the opening, their armour bloodied
and blood covering their faces and arms.
A low moan of anguish sounded, rolling down the passageway to the stunned Elves. Brim
gripped the first scout’s shoulder, turning him to look directly into his eyes.
“How many?” The question was a quick bark and brooked no hesitation. The scout made
no response; his eyes were wide, seeing only on the horror he had witnessed. His companion
was likewise stunned. Brim pushed them back along the line and drew his sword. At his side,
Holk took up his hand-axe, and the spears of the Sea Guard bristled out behind them.
The stale stench of dust and decay announced the presence of their foe. From out of the
passageway shambled five tall figures, their bodies wrapped in pale decayed bandages.
Around each head was a crown of beaten gold, but it was the faces of these monsters that
struck the Elves with dread. Coming towards them with an unsteady gait were the long
entombed remains of ancient Elf lords.
There was a shout from the rear of the group. Brim could not have seen what was
happening even if he had turned from his foe, but trusted Atharond to command his troops.
With a low groan, the ancient mummified Elves shambled towards the group. Bow fire
hummed as the rearmost Sea Guard fired arrows past the heads of their brethren. Brim leapt
forwards and slashed at the lead creature, his blade cutting through the thick bandage
wrapping its thigh. A puff of dust exploded outwards from his cut, but the creature continued
towards him. He twisted sideways and raised his sword in a two-handed grip, stabbing
downwards. His sword punched through the mummy’s chest and out of its back, but still it
tried to grab at the Elf lord.
A dull, blue light glimmered behind the mass of wrappings that covered the monster’s
head, but the lower jaw and chin were unmasked. A thousand years of exposure had done its
work, eating away at the flesh, leaving nothing but faded bone. When the monster moved its
mouth to let out another long moan of dismay, more dust was coughed out.
Slow they may have been, but they were persistent. The others pushed past Brim, grabbing
at their foes, sweeping their arms side to side, trying to trap the Elves between them. One
succeeded in grabbing hold of one of the Sea Guard, dragging him into a tight embrace. The
Elf’s ribs were crushed and his ruined corpse clattered to the corridor floor.
Holk swung his axe, hitting one of the creatures in the spine. His blow rebounded, but he
used the distraction to barge his enemy aside with his shoulder as he grabbed a torch from the
ground. He swung it around, hitting his foe clear in the chest. It caught instantly, the dry
wrappings going up in flames in a heartbeat. The creature fell back, a terrible scream coming
from its dry throat. The Sea Guard caught on to the idea and exchanged their spears for
torches. Within moments the corridor was ablaze with light and heat as the ancient Elf lords
were engulfed in the fire. As they fell to the corridor floor the Elves hacked at them, making
sure they would never rise again.
Brim looked past the Sea Guard and saw that Atharond’s company had fought their own
battle against the embalmed remains of Dwarf kings, presumably some of the ones they had
already passed. It looked as though they had lost only one of their number. The Sea Guard
had not been so lucky, taking three casualties in total.
“This was a trap,” he said, almost to himself, “We were attacked from both sides. The
Dwarfs waited for us to move past before they stirred.”
“Dwarfs?” said Holk. “Those things weren’t Dwarfs, any more than these ones were
Elves.” He kicked one of the smouldering corpses for emphasis.
“Why were there Elf lords buried here in a dwarfen mine?” Loreth asked, his gaze
venomous. Holk bent, picking up one of the discarded crowns and tossing it to the Sea Guard
captain.
“Only great heroes of our people are buried here. Look at the markings on the helm. That’s
dwarfish script – it reads ‘Hillan, Lord of House Wrenth.’ Looks like our ancestors were on
good terms.”
Loreth fell silent, staring at the crown. Brim laid a hand on his shoulder and took the relic
from him, resting it in a nearby alcove. The group moved on in silence.

***
“We’ve not far to go now, lad,” said Holk. The party was moving along an upward incline,
but the way ahead seemed as dark as anything they’d come through.
“How can you tell,” asked one of the Elves.
“We’re almost clear the mountains, I can feel it. These mines don’t go past them, so we
must be nearly there.”
They came into a large cavern that stretched up so far that not even the light from their
torches could reach the ceiling. Jutting spurs of rock rose on either side, stretching up towards
the darkness. Above them, they could hear something move.
“Sounds like claws,” Atharond said. A long slash had torn open his tunic at the shoulder,
where blood ran from a nasty gash in a dark, red trickle.
A soft scratching sound fell from the hidden ceiling, the noise reverberating from one side
to the other in ripples like the lap of water against a shoreline. It was a soothing, yet
unsettling, sound. The Elves raised their torches higher, trying to pierce the darkness and see
what was making the sounds. The last thing they needed was another attack; their strength
hadn't returned from the last encounter, their minds still filled with the horror of fighting their
own long-dead ancestors.
“I can't see a damn thing,” Holk muttered.
Loreth dropped to one knee, rummaging in his pack. He took out a small glass phial filled
with a clear liquid and held it in a tight fist, closing his eyes. After a few moments the liquid
began to glow, brighter than any of the torches. He unscrewed the head of one of his arrows
and replaced it with the phial.
Brim looked around the group. “Be ready to move quickly.”
Loreth took up his bow and drew back the arrow. It threw harsh shadows across his face
and he squinted against the bright mage-light. He loosed his missile. The light soared upward,
illuminating the vast ancient cavern. It was much bigger than any of them had originally
thought. A distant door, the only other means of exit, seemed nothing but a speck from this
distance. The walls curved upwards to meet a jagged ceiling. From out of the gloom above,
giant stalactites emerged; the end of each was pointed and sharp, covered with a substance
that rippled and swirled like oil on water. Thinner, blade-like stalagmites reached from the
floor and the overall effect gave Brim the impression that they were standing helpless in the
mouth of some prehistoric, petrified leviathan. The scratching continued. Holk stared up at
the cave roof as the arrow continued its ascent.
“Oh, that’s not good.”
The missile struck the ceiling. With a great shriek hundreds of bats suddenly detached from
the stalactites, so many in number that they had looked like dancing moss until they spread
their wings and slipped from the rock. They dropped towards the intruders.
“Run!”
They made for the exit as the bats began to rush about them, screaming in high-pitched
cries as they swooped down on the startled adventurers. The wall of black, furry bodies
rushed down so fast none had time to duck the first wave, their faces scratched and tunics
torn as the bats, their tiny claws as sharp as blades, ripped at the party before swooping high
to begin another attack.
One bat flew straight at Atharond’s dripping wound, digging its claws into his shoulder and
pressing its face into the pooled blood. He screamed and tore it away, but a second landed in
its place. A third flapped before the agonised Elf’s face, its clawed wings beating about his
head. He grabbed hold of it but before he could dash it against the ground its jaws split open
to reveal long sharp teeth. The creature hissed at him, the shriek a deadly, agonising cry; it
darted its head forward, teeth snapping down to clamp onto his exposed cheek. He tripped,
unable to see, and was suddenly covered in the creatures.
“Leave him!” cried Loreth. Two of the Nightguard disregarded his words, running forward
to protect their captain, but they shared his fate as countless bats clung to their exposed heads
and necks. Loreth lashed out with his sword as he fell back from them, a few lucky strikes
knocking some of the bats from their air to land at his feet. A quick stomp later and they were
nothing but a dark stain on the chamber floor.
Heads down, the group ran, huddling together against the winged bloodsuckers. They
waved their remaining torches, which seemed to deter the creatures, but there were so many
of them that many of the flaming brands were extinguished or knocked from their wielders’
hands.
Brim reached the door first, throwing his weight against it, but it would not move. He
ducked the cloud of bats and moved back to try again, stepping aside at the last moment as
Holk arrived at the door, roaring. The Dwarf leaned his shoulder against the aged wood,
muscles standing out on his neck as he heaved against it. A bat flew at his neck but he snarled
and plucked it from the air, crushing it in his meaty fist. Brim threw his weight against the
door and Loreth followed suit, the rest of the party forming a cordon around them and
swiping at the flying creatures with swords and flaming torches. Finally, with a groan of
splintering wood, the door swung open. Holk gestured for the Elves to hurry past and they
did. He followed them only once they were all through, digging in his pack for a pit spike to
wedge the door shut behind them. It shuddered as the bats flew against it, desperate to get to
the intruders one last time. The few that had made it through with them were dispatched in
short order, no longer a threat without their weight of numbers.
As the company gathered their wits and caught their breath, Brim caught a look at their
surroundings, and almost laughed with surprise. A long set of stairs rose ahead of them, and
at the top he could see daylight. For the first time days, he felt a fresh breeze on his face.
 The remaining members of the Cerillion warhost took to the stairs, bracing themselves for
what lay ahead.
 Twelve

Bloodmire Moor was an area of marshland in the Northern Kindreds that stretched between
the northern foothills of the Alandar Mountains and the Infant Sea. Far to the north-west were
the Broken Islands, while over the ocean lay the sunken ruins of the Drowned Republic. It
was a dank and desolate area where few ever ventured, filled with patches of quick-marsh
that could suck down unwary fools within seconds. To travel through the region was to take
your life in your hands. Sunlight rarely penetrated the thick fog that hovered above the moor
in twisted shapes, leaving the land a dark and dismal place, a constant dreary cold sapping the
will of any traveller. Wandering bands of Twilight Kin raiders had made their lairs here,
choosing them over the shadow realms of the Under-Dungeon. As well as the twisted cousins
of the Elves, several tribes of Orcs lived here, while Gorgons and Manticores were said to
dwell in the moor’s darkest reaches.
Tufted mounds of earth dominated the area, each one covered in the moss from which the
area got its name. Bloodmire was a dangerous plant, and its secretions could be turned into a
powerful poison or used in many dark arts. In several places, large stones jutted from the
ground like a giant’s teeth, their jagged edges worn smooth by time and harsh weather. The
largest arrangement stood to the south-east of the moor, a series of standing stones atop a
small hillock, arranged around a flat rock that could be nothing other than an altar. It was to
this structure that Kronos now stalked, his robes billowing about him as a stiff wind took
hold. It had not taken him much effort to fashion a replacement staff, and he clutched this in
one gnarled hand. Maegana’s spirit walked behind him, the wind seemingly having no effect
on her.
Kronos stood before the altar. “Finally,” he whispered, “after all these years, we are
reunited. Do you know where we are?”
The ethereal form nodded, its voice little more than a whisper despite the anger on its face.
“You’ve brought me to the place of my great defeat. Why is this?”
“Much more than nostalgia, I can promise that,” the necromancer smiled, “Our armies
were defeated here, but they didn’t go far. They’ve been waiting for our return all this time.
With the rise of the great moon, your power will once again be great enough to return them to
our service.”
He stood before the altar and raised his hands to the clouded night sky above. Lightning
flashed and thunder rolled as Kronos began his sinister incantations, his voice slowly rising to
a frightening crescendo in tandem with the storm above. Before them, the ground began to
churn. Skeletal limbs broke the surface, still clutching the weapons that they had been buried
with centuries before and which they had subsequently used to wreak terror in the lands of
the Elves.
Maegana Cerillion, known latterly as Maegana the Red, watched with mounting
anticipation. She could already feel her strength returning, quicker than before now that she
was in this place of dark power. She had been defeated once before. It would not happen
again.
 ***
Brim reached the top of the stairway and raised his eyes to the darkening sky. Thick,
shadow-filled clouds billowed above, and rain lashed at his face as he looked out into the
moorland. They had surfaced at ground level, and dark hills blocked much of their view, but
he could see where to go. The clouds above were swirling in a vortex, centred over a point
maybe half a mile ahead.
He looked around at his companions. Almost thirty Elves stood with him, along with a
single battered Dwarf. It was not much. Brim wished, and not for the first time today, that he
had done a better job of convincing his father to send aid to Mox. He knew they would be
facing more than two foes in the coming battle; necromancers rarely stood without a horde of
undead minions.
“Before we continue, I want to let each of you know that I would consider you the bravest
warriors I’ve met. Today we have seen many horrors, and we will see many more before the
sun sets. We may face an army of the undead, but we will show them our worth and we will
take our tally. Tales will be told of this second battle at Bloodmire Moor, even if it is a mere
skirmish compared to the battle we know from history.”
The Elves arrayed before him nodded solemnly. Holk spoke up, breaking the silence.
“Well, let’s get on with it, then. I really want to kill that bitch.”

***
Maegana could feel her strength returning with each moment. Before her stood the first of
her freshly risen army, and she knew that in the coming hours countless more would follow.
She had drawn on the power that Kronos had summoned, nourishing her return to undeath.
Her skin was, once more, alabaster pale, save for her lips, which were a bloody red. She wore
an intricate breastplate, woven from tarnished bronze that split either side to ride down her
legs, fastened about her robes of cobalt blue with leather ties. Rainwater as cold as the snows
of the Shimmer Vale ran down her face but she was beyond such mortal discomforts. Kronos
stood at her side. With lightning throwing the small area into strange exotic colours and a
howling wind rising about them, the pair seemed to stand above all.
Five hundred warriors waited before them, skeletal forms slick with rain. Their armour and
weapons were of varied design; legionnaires from old Primovantor stood alongside fallen
Cerillion household guard and Dwarfs of Mox. Threescore more warriors rode skeletal
steeds, arrayed on the right flank. Their banners fluttered in the breeze, bearing the skull
emblem of Kronos or the corrupted sigil of Maegana the Red.
She raised her voice, her cadence powerful after her years of weakness.
“We march for Ithris. We will topple the Cerillion dynasty and replace it with something
stronger, and much more lasting.” Tilting back her head, she gave a full-throated laugh that
did not sound in any way sane. She turned her baleful gaze upon the ranks of the undead
warriors ranged before her. “Does anyone have any questions?”
“Are you ready to die again?”
She had not been expecting a response, so Brim’s call took her entirely by surprise. She
stared out across the gathered army and saw him and his small warhost cresting the hillock
behind them. Sensing her will, five hundred skeletal heads turned and regarded the
newcomers.
 Maegana’s fury was visible even from a distance as she raised her arm and pointed at the
small group. “Kill them all!” she screamed.

***
The younger Cerillion siblings hurried through the ancient mine, following Balek
Stronghelm. The Lord of Mox had gathered a select few of the best warriors remaining under
his command, all that the depleted stronghold could spare. He had brushed aside the
argument that the Elves could find their own way; now that he fully understood what was at
stake, he had vowed to lend whatever strength he could to their cause.
It had been a gruelling journey and Morrig was feeling the effects, her feet and legs aching
more with each step. Worse, the oppressive weight of the mountains above were feeding the
depression growing in her mind, and she was painfully aware that they were going ever
deeper. Fear for her brother and what he was going to face alone if they did not keep going
drove her forward and she focused simply on putting one foot in front of the other.
They ran past what could only have been the scene of a battle. Charred corpses lay in two
scattered piles several hundred yards into a massive burial chamber. Four Elves lay there, and
Athuen recognised them instantly. Three were from Atharond’s company and one from the
Sea Guard. He paused a moment to pay his respects to the dead before hurrying onwards,
Balek insisting that they could worry about the dead once the undead were taken care of.
After a time, they entered a long, wide chamber filled with jutting stone spires. A weak
light source lay ahead; nearing it, they saw that it was a moonphial, of the sort that Loreth
carried.
“They must have used it to light their way,” said Athuen.
“Wait. Can you hear that sound?” Morrig asked. The red-headed Dwarf stopped and
listened, tilting his head towards the roof.
“Bats. They often live in these caves.”
One of the Dwarfs in the rearguard gave a sharp cry of pain, and they spun around to see
what had happened. The warrior held a hand to the side of his face. “Something just bit me,”
he growled. The sound of bats grew louder.
Morrig shook her head and raised her hands. “I’ll deal with it.” She concentrated,
remembering her teachings, and spoke a soft phrase in lilting old Elvish. Pure, white light
spilled forth from her hands, outshining Balek’s lantern and filling the chamber. The bats that
were still flitting around were joined by hundreds more, swarming down from the cavernous
ceiling.
Athuen looked horrified. “Morrig, what have you done?”
She grinned. “Oh, nothing yet.”
Curling her fingers into a mystical form, she spoke another word of power. A flame grew
in the space between her hands, rising and twisting into a whirlwind of fire in miniature. She
threw it upwards and it expanded, filling the air above. The bloodsucking creatures were
immolated in moments.
Morrig calmed her breathing and closed her eyes, clearing her mind as she had been
instructed. When she opened them, Athuen was staring at her, awestruck.
 “Why are you so surprised, brother?” she smiled self-consciously, “You were the one that
told Brim I could look after myself.”

***
The warhost made the first move, charging even before Maegana’s orders had been
understood by her minions. The bowmen fired on the move, sending the last of their arrows
into the tightly-packed ranks as they sprinted downhill before drawing their swords and
spears. A huddle of skeletons fell while they were still turning to meet the threat, arrows
reducing them into little more than piles of bones.
Brim clutched his sword in a two-handed grip as he advanced, holding it at his shoulder.
He knew his chances of reaching the vampiress and the necromancer were next to none, but
he had to try. His ancestor had stood against her, and so would he. Of course, he had an army
rather than two depleted units and an enraged Dwarf he thought. Holk ran just behind him,
his hammer held low in both hands. Loreth had drawn sword and shield and grinned
uncharacteristically wildly at the Dwarf as he matched his pace.
“See you on the other side, Master Gungerson.”
Holk roared with laughter, shaking his head. “Better keep up if you want to.” He put on a
burst of speed, drawing level with Brim.
The force hit the undead lines like a wave smashing against a mighty ship. Brim cut down
two skeletal warriors with a single stroke, stepping past them and into the throng. Holk
followed after him, crushing bones with wide sweeps of his hammer. The lines closed around
them before Loreth could break through, but he threw himself against the foes that barred his
way. He parried blows at they came at him, returning with feints then sliding past his
enemies’ defences. The skeletons were much faster than those at Mox had been; the dark
energies of the moor lent them an infernal vigour.
He saw one of the Nightguard fall to an enemy spear, and another was beaten to the ground
by blows from ancient axes and maces. He could do nothing to help them; each of the
warriors had known they were walking into impossible odds, and that they would be able to
do little to aid each other. He ducked under a swinging axe, straightening to drive his sword’s
pommel into its wielder’s skull before dropping again and rolling past the next assailant. He
suddenly realised that he was adrift in a sea of skeletal bodies. His Sea Guard had dropped
behind him, but he had advanced much slower than Brim or Holk. The undead pressed
around him and Loreth began to feel that he might not make it through this battle.

***
Brim was not surprised that Holk had kept pace with him. The Dwarf was an absolute beast
in melee, and the young lord thanked the Shining Ones that they were on the same side. He
spun the hammer with ease, smashing knees one moment and crushing skulls the next, all the
time deflecting blows that rained in from all angles. The Dwarf didn’t just fight with his
weapon, either. His head seemed to be almost as deadly, lashing out at any skeletons that
came too close, and his iron-shod boots claimed several of the foe. He had taken several cuts
and minor injuries, but paid them no heed as he pushed on towards the altar.
Somehow, they were more than halfway there. Their initial rush had taken them most of
the way, momentum and the element of surprise winning out where numbers were massively
against them. Brim could feel an ache beginning to build in his shoulders, and prayed that the
fire in his veins would keep his sword arm swinging for as long as it needed to. He found
himself face to face with a warrior that could only have been an Elf, judging by its armour.
The Revenant swung its sword towards him but he caught its wrist with his free hand,
breaking the elbow joint with his sword. He plucked the dropped weapon from the ground as
he lashed out to take the warrior’s skull from its body, and smiled as he hefted it. Its weight
was a close enough match for his own sword; were it not for the patina of water damage, the
blades could have been twinned. He wondered whether they had come from the same forge as
he spun the swords around in a wide circle, knocking away two spear thrusts. He lashed out
with a high kick that sprawled the next skeleton in line backwards into its allies.
The altar was drawing closer.

***
Loreth was tiring, and he wasn’t the only one. Half a dozen Sea Guard had fallen to the
enemy’s relentless thrusts, and the Nightguard were not faring much better. It had been a
long, punishing march through the mines. Perhaps an all-out assault had not been the best
idea. The rain was no help; it made the ground slippery, something that the undead seemed
able to ignore with their bony feet.
One of his Elves, a lesser noble’s son by the name of Irael, had made it through to him and
they now fought back-to-back. He had realised that it was futile to follow their lord, so he
instructed the young Elf to push back towards the rest of their kin. He deflected a heavy mace
blow with his shield, the force of the hit rattling his arm and bringing tears to his eyes. He
gave a sloppy thrust in return, but the undead warrior stepped aside and it missed completely.
Behind him, Irael let out a yelp of pain. He couldn’t help a backwards glance – seeing that
his companion had lost three fingers on his sword arm, presumably to the axe that was now
swinging towards him again – and the distraction almost cost him dearly. He barely had time
to raise his shield again, deflecting a mace strike that would have caved in his skull if he
hadn’t turned in time.
Over his enemy’s shoulder, he could see that Brim was almost at the altar. Irael’s gurgling
scream pulled him back to his immediate surroundings, and he ducked away from another
swing. The Elf behind him slipped to the ground, but he didn’t dare look around. He could
feel his time approaching. This was it: this was how he would die, following his lord into
battle. Considering the alternatives, it was one of the better ways to go.
Then he saw something that he could barely believe.
Bright green banners had appeared over a hill to the north.
 Thirteen

Daeril Cerillion sat astride his warhorse, disbelief painted across his own usually stoic
features. Ranks of undead filled the moorland, with more clawing their way from the sodden
earth. Within hours there would be a legion large enough to conquer Elvenholme. He turned
to the Dwarf at his side.
“Master Ironson, it seems you were right. I owe you and your people an apology.”
Azad Ironson nodded grimly. “You can apologise later. For now, it looks like your son
needs some help.”
The lord of Ithris raised his sword to the heavens amid the torrential rain, turning to the
host arrayed behind him. A regiment of Elves rode barded warhorses like his own, their
lances already lowered. A mass of infantry stood resplendent in green and gold armour, their
banners dancing in the wind. Drakon riders waited at the back of the host, their mounts
stretching their wings in anticipation of flight. He saw that they were ready, and his heart
soared with fierce pride.
“Elves of Ithris! Your heir requires our aid. Let us not keep him waiting!”
With a mighty cheer, the warhost of Ithris charged.

***
Brim knocked aside the final skeletons and stepped up to the altar. Maegana had fled, he
hadn’t seen where, but Kronos still stood ready for him. The necromancer screamed aloud,
venting his frustration as he aimed a bolt of dark energy at the young lord. Brim stepped aside
and the projectile landed among the skeletons, tearing several of them apart with a crack of
discharging power.
“I fear no Elf,” Kronos sneered in his raspy, aged voice, clutching his staff in one hand and
drawing a wicked dagger in the other, “especially not a young lordling such as yourself.”
Brim advanced. His sword swept down, but he was still recovering from the battle to reach
the altar. Kronos blocked the clumsy stroke, pushing the elf back easily to fall against a
standing stone. The necromancer stood straight, baleful light filling his eyes. He was no
longer the feeble old man that had faced the Dwarfs in the Vault at Mox; the foul energies of
this cursed place had re-knit his tired bones and filled him with fresh vigour. Again he caught
an attack on his staff, turning it aside and sweeping his blade across Brim's arm. The Elf cried
out as a cut was opened, the blood washing away instantly in the downpour.
The prince countered, a long sweep that made the twisted mage jump back. He missed his
footing on the slippery, weather-smoothed rock and fell to the ground. Brim was on him in an
instant, swinging wildly. Somehow Kronos checked each blow. The necromancer heaved and
Brim fell back once more, allowing the mage to get to his feet. As the young lord launched
forward again, Kronos brought up his staff, discharging another bolt of dark energy. Brim
twisted aside, his proximity to the staff almost costing him his eyesight as intense light flew
from its end. He rolled away from the necromancer’s swishing dagger, dropping his sword in
the process.
 Kronos steadied himself with an ageless rumble of sinister laughter, another bolt of dark
energy building in his staff. He levelled it at the defenceless Elf.
A hammer blow caught the dark mage in the lower back, toppling him to the ground. Holk
did not give him a chance to recover. The Dwarf lifted the long-hafted hammer and swung it
down heavily, shattering the necromancer’s shoulder. The staff fell from his limp hand.
“That’s for Grimm,” growled the Dwarf. He brought the hammer down again, and the
mage doubled up in agony as his other arm was ruined.
“That’s for Borus.”
The veteran warrior roared as he swung again, spraying fragments of the liche’s skull
across the stone like cast dice. Holk spat on the cadaver, its legs still kicking in the downpour.
“That’s for Mox.” He turned to Brim, nodding at his dropped sword, “You’d better pick
that up, lad. It’s not over yet.”
Revenants were already pressing in at them. Wherever Maegana was, they needed to find
her and kill her.

***
Athuen, Morrig and Balek heard the battle before they saw it. Their party crested the last
rise amid a group of standing stones and stopped for a moment to take in what lay before
them. A vast undead legion clashed against the assembled army of Ithris. At the centre of the
conflict stood a stone circle, and they could make out the forms of Brim and Holk as they
battled a seemingly endless mass of undead warriors.
“Azad made it to Ithris, then,” said Balek.
“Father must have taken ships up the great river to the east of the Alandar range,” said
Athuen. “It would have been the quickest way. What do you think Azad said to convince
him?”
“The truth I hope,” growled Balek, “my home was breached for the sake of secrets and
half-truths from the past. If we are to end this we need to start being honest with each other,”
“Yes,” said Morrig sadly, “I imagine he told him what was in the Bloodstone.” She looked
toward the centre of the battle. “Or who, rather.”
The rain-soaked landscape was suddenly bathed in a cold, harsh light as the full moon in
the skies above cut silver beams through the roiling clouds. An unsettling calm washed over
the small hillock, the gurgle of rain water as it sluiced away down the incline the only noise.
Athuen turned to the dwarfen lord.
“You’ve brought us here, and you have a stronghold to rebuild. If you wish to leave, you
and your warriors are free to do so. This is our mistake and our fight.”
Balek scoffed, gesturing down at the altar. “This madness must end here. Our ancestors
fought here, and now it falls to us to stand together once more. Also, I’ve got one of my best
warriors down there, not that I’d ever tell him to his face.”
“We need to find Maegana,” said Morrig.
“Oh, no need,” came a reply from behind them.
 ***
Maegana stood before them, a short distance away, a sword held delicately in one hand.
The moonlight seemed to gravitate toward her and yet she cast no visible shadow. Despite the
situation, Athuen was still taken aback at how similar she looked to his sister. He drew his
own sword, and she smiled at him.
“Are my descendants all such fools? I’m not going to fight you.”
Athuen eyed her distrustfully: “Looking for a family reunion, are you?”
Her grin grew wider as she shook her head, “No, boy, you misunderstand. I’m not going to
fight you.” A single gesture, a simple wave of her hand, and the earth burst open. Rotten
hands, their decayed flesh hanging in strips from broken fingers and shattered limbs,
scrabbled at the ground. Hauling themselves out from aged graves between the vampiress and
the companions, gathering together in a mass of shambling figures, each one filled with the
power of necromantic magic.
The Elves watched, numbed, unable to move as all around them more patches of muddied
ground broke open, spitting out the long dead skeletons of lost warriors. Dressed in scraps of
cloth and armoured with cracked plate and helm, they dragged free rusted swords and began
to form into ranks.
“I have so many more warriors to raise from their slumber, but these will do for now.”
The skeletons surged forward as one giant horde, guided by the malevolent will of their
mistress. Each one was garbed in pitted and rusted armour, and armed with filthy, gilded
swords or long spears. In their other hands they held battered shields bearing the faded crests
of houses that had long since passed into history.
Balek raised his eyebrows, hefting his enchanted axe. “Holk can see to his own fate, it
seems.”
And then there was no more time for talk.
The undead fell on them. The small confines of the standing stones limited their attack,
allowing the Elves to slash at their foes one at a time as they struggled to get through the
gaps.
The first three that came through had their limbs hacked away in crisp clean strokes of
Athuen’s sword. The next wave felt Balek’s axe, its keen edge singing once more as it split
armour and smashed bones, his beard spraying water as he spun and fought with dwarfen
tenacity. His warriors fought at his side, defending their lord with axe and hammer. Morrig
calmed herself amid the chaos, breathing deliberately and summoning her power in the way
she had been taught. She conjured small balls of fire, not wanting to expend her energy too
quickly, and flung them at the oncoming horde. Wherever they touched, they immolated flesh
and seared bone.
Athuen checked the blow of a skeleton, his sword scraping down the rusted length of his
opponent’s blade. He parried the cut of a second attack and ducked under the third. A kick
sent one skeleton crashing against a jut of stone, the impact causing the bones to break apart.
There are too many, he thought. We can’t hold them all back.
Morrig stepped forward, raising her arms. Fire spread from her hands, washing over the
mass of skeletal warriors. Her eyes strayed over the combatants, the fire following quickly
behind. She could feel the rush of energy as it swept through her, growing from her core but
channelled by Faelan’s training. It was as though her outburst during the Orc ambush had
awakened something in her: never before had she known control like this. The fire consumed
the foe, burning them utterly.
Balek had fought his way to Athuen's side, the two warriors standing against the skeletons
together. They stopped as they saw the young mage’s stream of golden fire. It roared out in a
solid rush, an explosion of power that zipped and twisted about the vampiress’ minions,
turning those it touched to ash in a heartbeat and leaving behind nothing but tarnished
weapons and scraps of soiled cloth.
A moment later Morrig stopped, her face flushed and her chest heaving with exhilaration.
She looked as though she could barely believe what she had done. She almost smiled until
she saw Maegana, stood where she had been before the attack, staring at her with narrowed
eyes.
“Oh, look,” Maegana leered, “The little child wants to play.”
Raising her free hand, Maegana sent a blast of dark magic towards her descendent. Morrig
raised her arms, deflecting the bolt with practised ease. Turning aside malicious spells was
one of the first things she had learned under Faelan’s tutelage. Maegana tried again, pouring
more black fire onto the advancing Cerillion, but each blast was caught on a shield of
invisible energy and turned aside. Morrig kept her concentration, not letting the exhilaration
of her power take control. She fell back on her training, letting her learned instincts guide her.
She knew that even in Maegana’s weakened state she could not hope to defeat her, but if she
could just hold her attention long enough… Suddenly, from the corner of her eye, she saw
something that gave her hope.
Before Morrig could reconsider her attack, though, the vampire stopped her onslaught of
bolts, dropping her arms to her sides.
“It doesn’t have to end this way, girl. You stand against me now but my power grows with
every passing moment. It’s only a matter of time before I destroy you and your foolish kin.
Your bloodline is weak. Let me show you true dominion over the sorcerous arts. Join me.”
Morrig looked thoughtful for a moment, as though considering.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to refuse. I promised I’d stop taking short-cuts.”
She flung her arms forward, golden fire erupting from her outstretched hands. Maegana
threw up a magical barrier, exertion showing on her face for the first time. Arcane energy
sparked as the two forces met and pushed against each other.
Sweat began to bead on Morrig’s brow. She focussed on Faelan’s teachings, but the two
were equally matched. Her ancestor was holding off everything she could give. She broke off
the stream of fire.
From behind the evil mage, Athuen took his cue. He had crept around behind her, and now
took his sword in both hands, plunging it into Maegana’s back. She let out a piercing scream,
turning towards him and slashing wildly with her sword.
Morrig saw her opening and focused. If she rushed this Athuen would be burnt to a crisp
along with her cursed ancient relative. She felt the energy building within her, as had
happened in the clearing within Darklin Forest, and concentrated harder than she ever had
before.
The standing stones were swallowed, an island lost to mist, the foul creatures clawing their
way out of the darkness itself and up towards the mound were frozen in place. The scene was
a cruel statue garden, greyed out by the fog of her mind's eye – the players still, rain drops
outlining each as the droplets hung almost lifeless in the air. They were not truly motionless:
as she looked upon them she could see that they were slowly being pulled to the stones below
but it seemed that even gravity was in no hurry at all.
She turned without moving, feeling like a toy boat spun on a still pond, seeing Balek
Stronghelm mid-way through cleaving an undead warrior’s skull in half with his family's
prized axe. His nose was broken and, from somewhere beneath his crown, his ruddy hair was
being matted by his own crimson blood despite the rain. Spinning back, dizzily, Morrig could
see the veins standing out on Athuen's neck from the tension of holding the screaming
vampiress back. His left hand was loose on the grip of his sword and his guard was about to
break. She could see what was about to happen clearly: his sword would spill from his hand
and the vampiress would plunge her own past his ribs to strike his heart. Maegana would
parry the blade away and strike within seconds, but each second felt like hours to the young
mage.
It wasn't anger that filled her, but fear. Fear and love: the very thought of losing her
brother and their companions burned a white-hot hole through her. If Maegana fell so would
her troops: Brim, Athuen, her father, Balek and all of their Elf friends would be saved. Ithris
would be saved from this invading force as would the recovering Dwarfs of Mox. Fear ebbed,
as her love grew; it built until it surrounded Athuen and the Dwarf lord like a radiant, glassy
bubble, it grew within her like a dammed river and Morrig smiled – knowing her brother
would be safe. She opened her palms towards the vampiress and unleashed all the strength
she could muster.
The fire was white: a brilliant flame that streaked towards the cursed Cerillion traitor as her
blade parried Athuen's and sent it spinning into the advancing horde. As the bright light lit
upon the prince's face, Maegana stopped short of lunging for him and turned in time to see
her doom approaching: she had no hope of stopping it.
 Fourteen

The army of Ithris had arrived just in time. Knights and Drakon Riders had struck first,
bowling down skeletons and meeting the undead cavalry head-on. Ranks of bowmen had
fired over their heads, while spearmen had advanced in an implacable line. Daeril himself had
ridden straight for the altar where Brim and Holk fought bitterly, scattering foes in his path.
Loreth had taken several serious injuries, his hands pressed to a grievous wound on his
side. If the reinforcements had not turned up when they had, he would certainly have been
killed. Now he sat amid the destruction with Atharond and the remaining members of their
units, less than a dozen Elves all told, while healers saw to his wounds.
Balek picked his way through the field of bones towards the altar, Athuen following him.
Morrig walked next to her brother, her cloak pulled tightly around her against the cold. The
rain had stopped, the dark clouds dissipating, and as the wind had died down a soft mist had
descended. All around them, Elves were helping the wounded to their feet or preparing the
dead to be carried back to the ships that lay a short march to the east.
Holk saw them coming and walked out to meet them. There was a troubled look on his
face.
“The necromancer is gone.”
Balek raised an eyebrow, “You killed him?”
“Yes, but he’s gone. I’ve picked through the piles of bones twice, but there’s no sign of
him. Flattened his pretty little head with this,” he patted his hammer proudly, “so he
shouldn’t have been skulking off.”
The four exchanged a worried look.
“His army’s defeated, though,” said Athuen, “and he lost his champion. Last time that
happened he was gone for hundreds of years.”
“Maybe it’ll be enough,” replied Balek, “Still, one thing’s for certain: this place can’t go
unwatched. Once we’ve brought the stronghold back to strength, we’ll set up a garrison out
here. Build a nice solid watchtower and never let this happen again.”
Morrig spoke up. “I’m sure father will lend as much aid as he can to help you rebuild,” she
said sincerely. “Our family has a debt to you that we can probably never fully repay, but we
will do whatever we can”.
Holk shot Balek a stern look. “I hope you’re not forgetting something.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m fairly sure there was mention of a brewery.”

***
Athuen and Morrig left the Dwarfs to their debate and walked up to the altar. Brim was sat
there with their father, facing away from them.
 The younger Elf stripped to the waist despite the night’s chill, as healers attended his many
wounds. The pair were talking in hushed tones. Azad stood off to one side, and he raised a
hand in greeting as the young Elves approached.
“You arrived just in time,” said Athuen.
Brim and their father turned. The young lord broke into a grin, standing up and hurrying
around the altar to pull both his siblings into an embrace. When he spoke, he sounded more
tired than he had ever been.
“I thought I’d never see you again. I was ready to face my death, but that was the part that
grieved me most.” He let them go and stood back, one arm clutched to his side, where
poultices and bandages had been set. “I still don’t quite know what happened. Did you find
Maegana?”
Athuen nodded. “She wanted Morrig to join her.”
“I said no,” she smiled, “and then I annihilated her.”
“I saw that display from the battlefield,” came a steady voice. Their father had drawn close,
with Azad at his side, “Faelan’s taught you well.”
Morrig looked uncomfortable for a moment: “I know I’m not supposed to use my powers
on the field of battle until I’ve taken the staff, but I had to stop her. I know she meant to come
to Ithris.”
“You did the right thing; you did what your heart told you to do. Never let the risk of
censure stop you from doing that: something your brothers clearly learned long ago.”
“I apologise too, father. I disobeyed you.” said Brim. From the furrow of his brow he
expected to be apologising for some time to come, “I only did it because I was so sure
something was wrong.”
“Did you not listen to what I just said?” Daeril stepped forward, placing a hand on his
eldest son’s shoulder, “Perhaps, on reflection, we were all right.”
Brim nodded with a wry smile.
“If that will have to do, so be it. Now, there’s one more thing I have to do.” He turned to
Azad, “Master Ironson, might I borrow something of yours?”
The Dwarf nodded, puzzled, until the Elf lord held out a hand for his walking-staff. He
gave it without question.
“Morrig, take a knee,” she did so, looking up at him, incredulous, “You kneel as a maiden
of Cerillion. Do you accept the staff, and all that comes with it?”
“I do my lord.”
“Then you rise as a Mage-Queen of Ithris. Now get up, my girl, the ground’s filthy.”
She stood, grinning, and took the Dwarf’s staff in her hand.
“It’s symbolic, of course,” her father explained, “and rather short, but it will serve the
purpose.”
She nodded, looking down at the walking-staff with its intricate carvings and iron banding.
It was unlike anything an Elf would make, but she thought it did fine for the purpose. She
bowed to the Dwarf, holding it out to him.
“Thank you, Azad.”
 “Oh, you’re more than welcome, lass,” he stopped and corrected himself with a wink, “My
lady, rather.” He took his staff and leaned on it, resting his weight.
Brim and Athuen each put an arm around their sister, looking out across Bloodmire Moor.
Somehow, Kronos might have survived and, if he had, so might Maegana: but they would
be ready for them if they did; the three Cerillions, or their children, or their children’s
children.
Wearily, with Azad and their father walking behind them, they began to make their way to
the boats, and home.