This weathered journal was purchased from a peddler in the lower markets of Dymarth City during the Year of the Least Theril. The merchant claimed it had passed through many hands after being found among the belongings of a dead traveler near the northern caravan roads. No record exists of Father Alaric's return or of his other three companions. Yet the pages remain. May Harmony preserve their names.
The Omen of Shifting Stars
The year had been gentle upon Dymarth. As the snow upon the highest crowns of Thera’s Spine melted, it remained thin and golden under the sun, like frosting upon a king’s feast. The valleys below bloomed green with mountain flowers and grain. Vast eagles circled the currents above ancient cliffs, while caravans crawled through the endless crevices of the mountains like ants upon the skin of giants. Light had been forgiving, keeping the demons at bay, but those who knew feared complacency that peace often breeds.
Dymarth City rose proudly from the western slopes of Thera’s Spine. Its grey-green walls clung to the mountainside. Majestic towers reached for the clouds and their banners of azure falcons danced against the wind.
Above all on the eastern part of the city stood the shining towers of Arcanum, guardian of ancient grimoires, keeper of mysteries and surrounded in its own separate inner wall and moat. There, in the highest observatory of the school, Magister Aurelian Nicor watched the heavens. He was an abjurer, a scholar of wards and a man who trusted mathematics more than prophecy. Yet what he witnessed chilled his soul. For the stars were moving. Not just their usual drifts and turns like the natural dance of the heavens. They were moving faster, changing places. Entire constellations shifted over the span of a few weeks.
Ancient formations known since the First Spire appeared distorted. Some vanished entirely. New shapes emerged where none had existed before. Aurelian checked his records, opened ancient tomes, and consulted accountings preserved from before the last Darkness. The answer remained impossible. The stars should not move, certainly not like this. If they did, such changes would require centuries, not weeks.
Fearful of ridicule, he gathered his most trusted apprentices, Meyan and Antalya. Both studied the heavens in silence, comparing charts and measurements long into the night. Their faces betrayed the same unease that gripped their master, yet neither wished to be the first to voice the impossible. Meyan eventually broke. After three sleepless nights, he resigned his position and abandoned Arcanum entirely. Witnesses later claimed he wandered the lower districts of Dymarth muttering prayers and warnings that the end of the world had already begun. It was as though some titanic unseen hand beyond the heavens was pushing stars around like pebbles in a pond.
The following weeks brought no comfort. Every observation confirmed the last. Apprentices whispered in corridors. Astronomers stopped publishing their findings. More than once Aurelian entered the observatory before dawn to find senior scholars staring silently through the lenses, too frightened to record what they saw. Even the bells of Arcanum seemed quieter. An unease settled over the towers, a feeling that the sky itself had become wrong, not exactly hostile, but unfamiliar enough to make one’s spine feel the inevitable. Like returning home and finding every door moved a few inches from where it should have been.
Next it was the turn of Qiqanlomyre, the observatory’s senior constructor and chief engineer. Aurelian summoned him and nearly threw the gnome from the tower balconies. Surely this had to be a mechanical error. Perhaps a lens had lost its alignment, or some hidden gear had begun to fail. Qiqanlomyre and his engineers spent days dismantling the observatory almost down to its screws and bolts. They recalibrated every mechanism, polished every lens, and tested every instrument. Nothing changed. Even a handheld telescope, an artifact brought from Kinetika and stored within Arcanum for generations, revealed the same dreadful truth.
The Magisters of Arcanum gathered. The astronomers argued and the diviners failed. Their auguries returned nothing but darkness, unforgivable, absolute darkness. A silent veil had obscured their vision. One phrase appeared repeatedly within the guild masters and cleric circles. “Time ceases after this.” Something was awakening, an end that should not awaken for generations.
King Coran Falconhand the second sanctioned the investigation personally. Unlike many rulers who dismissed omens as the worries of priests and scholars, Coran was a cautious man who understood that kingdoms had fallen because their kings ignored warnings. Before making his decision, he consulted the Grandmaster of Arcanum, the High Priest of Halshire, the Archpriest of Pyria, his Falcon Knight commanders, and even the oldest astronomers of Dymarth. The answers differed in detail but not in tone. Something was wrong.
The king would take no chances. Three veteran Eagle Riders were dispatched eastward to Kinetika carrying copies of Arcanum’s observations. If the stars truly moved, the gnomes of the Grand Observatory would confirm it. At the same time a second mission would travel northeast through Thera’s Spine toward Skalen, home of the Grand Oracle. If any living soul could interpret celestial omens of such magnitude, it would be the seers of Skalen.
History records that the riders never reached Kinetika. No wreckage was found, no falcons returned, and no message ever arrived. Whether they were taken by storm, darkness, or some more sinister hand remains unknown.
As for the second mission, the company numbered four.
The first was Sir Gare Stoneheart, a veteran Mountain Knight whose presence alone inspired confidence. He stood nearly seven feet tall and possessed the broad shoulders of a quarry worker rather than a nobleman. His dark blond beard was braided in the old mountain fashion and streaked with grey despite his relatively young age. Layered plates of dymarthian steel covered him from neck to heel, every piece bearing scars from over a decade of service. One deep groove upon his breastplate had been left by a nightmare horse near Falconia, while a dent upon his left shoulder came from the axe of a hill giant slain during the defense of Noverith. Though feared in battle, Gare was known among soldiers for his patience and fairness. He had never abandoned a wounded companion and was said to know the name of every soldier who had served beneath him. Upon his back rested Myormid, a great two-handed sword forged by the masters of Ren and blessed within the Temple of Halshire.
Along was appointed Taren Ashwind, a mountain ranger and Falcon Rider whose reputation had spread throughout the northern passes. Tall and lean, he moved with the silence of a hunting eagle despite carrying bow, spear, knives and supplies enough for weeks in the wilderness. His weathered face bore the marks of many winters, and a pale scar crossed one cheek where a demon’s talon had nearly taken his eye. Taren rarely spoke unless he believed his words mattered. Many considered him cold until they witnessed the loyalty he showed to his companions. His closest friend was not a man, but a large mountain hound named Bristle, a shaggy beast almost the size of a wolf that had accompanied him for seven years. Together they had guided lost caravans through blizzards, hunted cave predators beneath Thera’s Spine, and once tracked a cult of demon worshippers for nearly a month across the highlands.
Arcanum appointed Magister Ecyle Eavel to offer her services to the crown, since the king decided that Aurelian should remain in his studies, to the great discomfort of the wizard who wished to see this through. Unlike many of her guild, Ecyle wore neither extravagant robes nor jeweled ornaments. Her dark blue cloak appeared plain, and her only visible sign of rank was a silver brooch bearing the sigil of Abjuration. She was a tall, slender woman with sharp features and thoughtful grey eyes that seemed to measure every person and situation before judgment. A student of Aurelian Nicor himself, Ecyle had earned recognition within Arcanum after successfully restoring portions of an ancient ward network beneath the city, barriers believed to date back to the age of the Drakil. She trusted reason above superstition and often found herself debating priests and prophets, though never without respect. Those who knew her best claimed she feared mostly one thing: ignorance.
Finally, the group had Father Alaric of Pyria positioned as keeper of faith, healer and chronicler of the expedition. His hair had begun to silver though he had nearly reached thirty years of age. Expeditions through Dymarth’s mountain villages had hardened him against challenge be it mental or somatic, and beneath his simple priestly robes remained the physique of a man accustomed to long roads and cold nights. Unlike many clerics, Alaric possessed a warm humor that put common folk at ease. During a plague in the western valleys, he had remained among the sick when others fled, and the people of Falconia still spoke his name with gratitude. It is fitting that he became the keeper of this record, for without his journal the fate of the company would have been forgotten entirely.
For two days preparations consumed part of Dymarth City. The mission was not treated as a mere expedition but as a matter of national concern. Messengers carried sealed orders between Arcanum, the royal palace, the Falcon Knight plateau, and the great temples. Supplies were gathered, maps consulted, and old records examined for any mention of previous celestial disturbances.
King Coran summoned the company before his council on the evening prior to their departure. The Hall of Falcons was illuminated by hundreds of oil lamps, their light reflecting from azure banners and polished armor. Gathered beside the throne stood generals, priests, guild masters, and scholars of Arcanum. The king listened patiently to every final counsel before issuing his commands.
“You do not ride merely for Dymarth,” Coran told them. “You ride for every soul beneath these heavens. If these omens speak truth, we must understand them before fear and rumor spread faster than wisdom.”
His gaze lingered upon each member of the company.
“Trust one another. Return with answers. If answers cannot be found, return with the truth.”
Sir Gare struck his fist against his breastplate in salute. Taren nodded quietly. Ecyle offered the formal bow of Arcanum, while Father Alaric lowered his head in prayer.
Afterward the advisors approached individually. General Voren of the Mountain Knights gifted Gare a steel medallion engraved with the Falconhand crest.
“You carried this kingdom’s banner in battle,” the old warrior said. “Carry it once more.”
The guild masters of the caravan roads spent hours with Taren, marking hidden passes, abandoned watchtowers, and safe winter shelters upon his maps. One grizzled merchant warned him that travelers from the north had reported strange movement through the mountains at night. The Magisters of Arcanum reserved their longest conversation for Ecyle. They presented the wizard with a crystal sphere containing layers of protective enchantments.
“If darkness clouds prophecy,” they said, “then knowledge must walk where sight cannot.”
Ecyle accepted the gift solemnly.
“We will learn what moves the heavens.”
Lastly Father Alaric spent much of the night among the temples. Pilgrims approached him with prayers and written blessings to carry northward to Skalen. Some asked him to pray for their families. Others tasked him to light candles at Skalen for lost loved ones. By midnight his travel satchel contained dozens of folded notes entrusted to Pyria’s care.
The following morning the entire company assembled before the Cathedral of Halshire. News of a mission had spread throughout the city and hundreds gathered despite the early hour. Miners fresh from night shifts stood beside merchants and craftsmen. Apprentices from Arcanum watched from the surrounding terraces while Falcon Riders circled overhead upon broad wings of azure and brown.
The High Priest conducted the Rite of the Oathbound Path, a blessing performed for warriors departing on dangerous service to the realm. Incense drifted through the cold mountain air. Bronze bells rang. The priest carried a bowl filled with cleansed water from the River of Omens and touched each traveler upon the brow.
“For your mind,” he said to Ecyle.
“For your sight,” he said to Taren.
“For your strength,” he said to Gare.
“For your spirit,” he said to Alaric.
The congregation answered as one.
“May Halshire guide your steps.”
Then came the priests of Pyria carrying a small brazier on their shoulders. Unlike Halshire formal ceremony, theirs was simple and ancient. Each traveler cast a pinch of incense into the flames while speaking a private vow. The smoke rose straight upward despite the mountain winds. Many considered this a favorable sign.
Father Alaric recorded that several older priests exchanged uneasy glances at the sight, though none spoke of it. As the final prayers concluded, the great bells of Halshire Cathedral echoed throughout the valley. Falcon Riders launched from nearby towers and circled overhead. The city gates opened slowly.
The King watched in silence as Sir Gare led the way. Taren followed with Bristle trotting faithfully at his side. Ecyle rode behind them, her eyes lingering upon the towers of Arcanum. Last Father Alaric looked back only once, an unknown heaviness was burdening his heart. The morning sun illuminated Dymarth’s walls and shining towers, turning stone into gold beneath the mountain sky. It was a sight every citizen knew and loved. Thus, the four departed Dymarth together: a knight, a ranger, a wizard and a priest. Different temperament, station and belief, yet united by duty and king’s order. None of them knew they would never see their homeland again.
Bones of mother Thera
The journey began beneath clear skies, while brown-grey Falcons circled above Dymarth’s towers. Children waved from terraces. Miners descended into stone quarries. Blacksmiths sang ancient mountain songs. The bells of Halshire cathedral echoed through the valley. And the four rode north. The first days passed easily enough. The roads near Dymarth were among the finest in the kingdom, broad stone paths maintained by generations of labor. Travelers were common. Merchants guided mule trains laden with ore and timber. Falcon Riders occasionally crossed overhead, their silhouettes gliding across the mountainside before vanishing into the clouds.
Each evening the company found shelter beneath Waystations, old watchtowers, or natural overhangs carved by wind and water. The weather remained fair. A gentle mountain breeze carried the scent of pine and distant snowfields. It would have been easy to forget the purpose of the journey entirely. At sunset the mountains burned gold receiving the last blessings from Zoodotis and at dawn they glowed violet. Father Alaric described them as: “The bones of Mother Thera are exposed to the world.”
The bones of Mother Thera are exposed to the world.
On the fourth evening they made camp near a narrow waterfall that plunged from a cliff nearly two hundred feet above them. The water gathered into a clear pool before continuing down the mountain through a winding stream. Tall pines shielded the campsite from the wind while the setting sun painted the surrounding peaks in gold and crimson. Bristle lay near the fire chewing contentedly upon a bone. Sir Gare sat sharpening Myormid with slow deliberate strokes and sparks occasionally danced from the whetstone. Ecyle occupied herself with studying charts spread across a flat stone. Every so often she glanced toward the darkening sky. Taren inspected the perimeter of the camp for tracks while Father Alaric prepared a simple meal of dried meat, onions and coarse mountain bread. For a time only the crackling of the fire could be heard.
Then Gare spoke. “I’ve always wondered about something.” The knight lifted his eyes toward Ecyle. “Do mages ever enjoy a journey?”
Ecyle did not look up. “I am enjoying this journey.”
Taren snorted from the darkness. “No. You’re studying during this journey.” The ranger emerged carrying several pieces of firewood and dropped them beside the flames. “That isn’t the same thing.”
For the first time that day a faint smile appeared upon Ecyle’s face. “Perhaps not.”
Gare laughed. “A victory. The wizard admits fault.”
“I admitted nothing.” Ecyle said.
“You smiled.” Replied the knight.
“I most certainly did not.” The wizard countered while carefully hiding a small grin under the campfire.
“You did.” Said Gare, his armored finger pointing at her form.
Father Alaric recorded that the argument continued for several minutes and that he had rarely witnessed a woman defend a smile with such determination. The conversation drifted elsewhere. Gare spoke of the giant he had slain during the defense of Noverith.
Taren claimed the story became larger every year. The giant, according to the ranger, had grown nearly twice its original size.
“It was twelve feet.”
“I heard it was fifteen and carrying a pine tree as high as a cathedral bell tower,” said the ranger mockingly.
“To the abyss, dog lover. He carried an axe as big as a tree. Have an opinion when you slay your own giant” the knight said.
Even Ecyle laughed at that listening to the knight defending his triumphs. As darkness settled fully across the mountains the mood softened. Stars emerged one by one. Conversation turned naturally toward the mission. Father Alaric noticed Ecyle became quieter. The wizard was staring upward, with the naked eye it was impossible to spot the changes, even for someone basically training in astronomy.
Finally, Gare broke the silence while feeding and staring into the fire. “It’s bad. Worse than you can see. Look there, the constellation of Elun, two stars are missing, they have drifted in a straight line with her tail”.
The laughter vanished. Ecyle remained silent for several moments. When she finally spoke, her voice carried none of its usual confidence. “I have never been truly afraid in my life. I guess everything has its first time”. Her words unsettled them more than any prediction could have. The wizard continued. “I can explain magical anomalies. I can explain planar disturbances. I can even explain curses, spirits and demons.” Her eyes remained fixed upon the heavens. “But stars obey laws older than kingdoms.” She pointed upward.
“Those laws are changing.”
No one spoke after that except the fire crackling softly. Far above them the heavens glittered. Father Alaric later wrote that he barely understood what happened next. Perhaps exhaustion played tricks upon his eyes or fear had already begun clouding judgment. He believed he spotted it with bare eyes. A single star moved. Not drifting across the sky as stars normally do or following the turning of the heavens. It moved sideways, slowly yet deliberately. Like a lantern being carried across a distant black plain. Alaric blinked and the motion ceased. The star appeared ordinary once more. He did not mention it, sometimes faith plays tricks in a mortal’s mind. Yet he noticed that Ecyle remained awake staring at the sky until sleep claimed her after first watch.
Bristle, who until then had been content gnawing leftovers, suddenly lifted his head. The hound watched Ecyle in silence. His ears twitched. His tail stopped wagging. The dog rose and crossed the camp. For a moment Alaric expected him to seek Taren as he always did. Instead, Bristle sat beside Ecyle and pressed his broad head against the wizard’s knee. She murmured in her sleep incoherent content. The animal warmth was welcome. Bristle merely huffed and remained where he was.
Taren glanced over from the opposite side of the fire.
“He does that sometimes.” The ranger tossed another piece of wood into the flames. “When someone worries too much.”
Alaric smiled. “A wise dog.”
“Wiser than most men I know” Taren replied. “He hates it when people are unsettled. Makes him nervous.” Bristle closed his eyes immediately and leaned harder against the mage. Father Alaric recorded that the sight eased the tension around the fire for a short while. Looking back now, I find the moment strangely painful. The dog sensed fear in the wizard long before any of them understood its cause.
Blood upon the road
Three days later, the roads began to narrow. The broad royal highways gave way to older mountain trails carved into cliffsides generations ago. The company climbed steadily northward, passing shepherd camps, manned watch posts, and towering pines that seemed to scrape the clouds. Father Alaric noted that the birds disappeared first. The morning had begun with the familiar cries of mountain hawks and falcons circling the valleys below. By midday the mountains had grown strangely quiet. Even the wind seemed reluctant to speak.
Taren noticed immediately. “No birds.” The ranger halted his horse and scanned the ridges.
Gare frowned. “Storm coming?”
Taren shook his head. “No.” His hand drifted toward his bow. “Bristle is smelling foe.” The hound had stopped sniffing the roadside flowers and now walked close beside the horses. His ears pointed in tension and his nose constantly tested the air.
Then Ecyle pointed ahead towards a strand of distant smoke. A thin grey column rose from behind a bend in the trail. This was not campfire smoke. It was waning and dark, something had been burning and the remains battled the cold air before going out. The company dismounted immediately and weapons were drawn. The trail curved around a massive granite outcrop as the sun was setting. What awaited them beyond silenced all conversation. A caravan lay in ruins. One wagon had been overturned; mostly ashes remained, still burning slowly. Another one had smashed at least twenty meters down the cliff wall. Dead mules littered the road; one had nearly been severed in half. The smell reached them seconds later, blood, rot and burning flesh. Over a dozen of them laid slain and scattered across the mountainside. Some appeared to have died fighting, while others had been cut down while fleeing. Under their torch lights a woman still clutched a child against her chest, both had fallen together, their necks slit from ear to ear like grotesque smiles.
Alaric started whispering a prayer. “Merciful Pyria…”
Taren knelt beside the nearest corpse. “Not raiders.”
“How can you tell?” asked Gare.
The ranger pointed. “Sword wounds.” Several bodies bore clean cuts. Military cuts, precise and efficient, unlike the wild hacking of bandits. “This was no beast attack. Something disciplined had killed these people.”
Then Bristle growled, low and dangerous. The hound stared toward the remains of the shattered lead wagon. Something moved. A wet tearing sound echoed through the wreckage.
Gare whistled raising his sword and buckler, while the company spread immediately. On his left the ranger hooked an arrow and the mage positioned right on his back. Alaric stood ready on the knight’s side to cast a prayer.
A massive shape emerged from behind the wagon. It stood nearly nine feet tall gaunt and hairless. Its skin resembled stretched grey leather. Two arms ended in claws the length of daggers leaving thin marks on the stone. Its mouth opened far wider than any natural creature should allow. Human remains dangled from between rows of jagged teeth. The creature hissed and then charged, leaping unnaturally toward them.
“Bristle! Back!” Taren shouted. The hound ignored him. With a thunderous bark he launched himself at the monster’s flank. The dog could smell the scent of Othmog and it drove him wild. The beast swatted him aside. Bristle crashed into a wagon wheel but immediately regained his footing.
The distraction was enough. Gare met the creature head-on. Steel rang against claws. The impact forced the knight back two full steps. “Strong bastard!” he growled. The creature lunged again. Ecyle raised both hands and magic runes erupted around Gare forming a shimmering barrier just an inch before the knight. The monster’s claws struck the magical shield and blue sparks exploded outward. The barrier cracked but held.
“Now!” Ecyle shouted. Taren released two arrows. The first pierced the creature’s shoulder and the second buried itself in its neck. The monster roared. Black thick blood sprayed across the stones, foul like an insult to the world of light. Still the creature advanced. Father Alaric raised his holy symbol and golden fire erupted from it. The divine flames struck the creature’s chest and its flesh scorched instantly. The beast screamed in ultimate rage concentrating on the cleric. It leapt but the knight was faster. Gare pushed Alaric to the back line. One claw scratched on his small shield. Metal screeched. The second carved a furrow across his breastplate. The knight staggered. The creature’s jaws descended toward his throat.
Then Myormid rose in his hand. He cleaved the beast upward with the massive blade, tearing through bone, spine and flesh alike. Entrails pulled out, two hearts still beating and a belly with a human head floating in its fluids.
The creature froze. A horrible wet gasp escaped its mouth and then it collapsed.
Silence swiftly returned. Only the crackling wagon fire remained.
Alaric hurried toward Gare. “You wounded?”
“Only my pride.”
The knight kicked the corpse. “Ugly thing.”
Ecyle examined the abomination. “Demonic creation. Why on Thera does this thing wander our parts. I have seen one only in books.”
Bristle trotted over proudly carrying a torn piece of the creature’s ear. Taren scratched behind the dog’s ears with a reprimanding tone. “You disobedient pup.” The hound immediately forgot the battle and began searching for food among the supplies. The ranger’s expression soon changed. He had begun examining the dead more carefully and a few minutes passed before calling the others over.
“Look.” Several bodies bore strange arrows. The shafts were black. Not painted but the wood itself had darkened, it looked twisted, like warped, almost alive.
Ecyle carefully lifted one. The wizard’s face hardened. “I’ve seen this before.”
“Where?” asked Alaric.
“Arcanum.”
She turned the arrow slowly. “Demonic corruption. These arrows were crafted in their cursed regions with their defiling magic.”
Nearby lay two piles of grey ash. Perfect human silhouettes remained burned into the ground. Ecyle crouched beside them. Her fingers traced invisible patterns. Remnants of arcane energy flickered briefly. “A spell.”
“What kind?” Gare asked.
The wizard remained silent for several moments. When she finally answered her voice was troubled. “A scorching spell. The fire burns the victim into agonizing pain.” “Demonic.”
The word hung heavily between them. Taren examined the road. Tracks covered the dirt, many of them, two-legged, booted, organized. The ranger followed them for a few meters until they vanished northward, toward the mountains. “We’re not the only ones heading north,” he said quietly.
Father Alaric later recorded that this was the first moment they truly understood the journey might become more than an investigation. Something was already moving through the Spine. And whatever it was, it had arrived before them. He cleaned their small wounds and checked the dog for any signs of corruption. Fortunately, the creature they killed was born of it but did not afflict it upon them.
They pressed for days towards the pass of Krok Deyn, caravans and people became scarce, but the outposts were manned even here offering sanctuary, a straw bed and warm food. They exchanged words but the guards did not spot foul play. Whatever moved it was careful, deliberate, uncommon for demons who were far too chaotic to remain organized for long. Alaric left word in the guard posts warning the capitol. His letter would take days to reach the crown. I managed to recover it after all these years and used it to support the story and the father’s journal. It was worn, but I stand lucky since Dymarth takes care of its records, a habit nurtured by Arcanum.
The Shadow of Da’al Fang
The evening of the fifth day after their battle they made camp beneath the shadow of Da’al Fang. The ancient stone pillar rose from a lonely ridge overlooking the valleys, its dark silhouette visible even from leagues away in clear days. It stood nearly one hundred meters tall, impossibly smooth despite untold ages of wind, snow and rain. No mason of men could have carved such a thing. The black stone appeared almost melted into shape, as though it had once been liquid before hardening under some forgotten power. At its base stood the remnants of an older structure. Only fragments remained of broken walls and collapsed arches weathered and half consumed by moss. Images filled Ecyle’s mind of a forgotten watch post perhaps, or a shrine from a civilization older than memory, or even a city of those magnificent creatures, masters of magic.
The company chose to shelter there for the night. A portion of the ruined foundation had once been built against the mountain itself. The collapse of the upper levels had left behind a shallow stone chamber large enough for four travelers and a dog. A fire soon burned within, keeping away the cold descending from the higher peaks. Outside, Da’al Fang watched over the valley like a silent giant. Inside, the mood was quieter than previous nights. The caravan massacre had been lingering in every mind. Bristle alone seemed unconcerned. The hound had discovered a family of mountain rabbits living among the ruins and spent nearly an hour attempting to stalk them with all the subtlety of a drunken mule. Each failed attempt drew increasing amusement from the others as he barked and growled. The final rabbit escaped, jumping over the dog’s legs like a huge toad. Bristle gave up and stared at it in confusion.
Gare burst into laughter. “Seven years hunting demons and cultists. Defeated by a rabbit.”
The hound immediately returned and shoved his head beneath the knight’s arm seeking sympathy.
“Don’t listen to him,” said Taren. “He’s just jealous because the rabbit moved faster than he does.”
Gare raised the sausage he was eating at the ranger. “I killed a giant.”
“You mention that every third day.”
“It was an important giant.”
“It was drunk.”
“It was still a giant.”
Father Alaric noted that Bristle seemed delighted whenever the two argued. The dog moved between them wagging his tail as though encouraging the disagreement. Ecyle sat somewhat apart from the others fascinated. Her attention remained fixed upon Da’al Fang. The firelight reflected on her silver brooch as she studied the enormous pillar through a brass telescope. Finally, Alaric approached.
“Still thinking about the stars?”
Ecyle lowered the instrument. “No.”
The answer surprised him as the wizard pointed toward the pillar. “That.”
Alaric followed her gaze. Da’al Fang rose against the starlit sky. Sturdy, silent, unmoving testament of ancient times.
“I remember the stories,” he said.
“As does every child in Dymarth.” Ecyle smiled. “The stories are wrong.”
“Their mystery yet remains. No wizard was able to unravel it. Even Terothen, the old grandmaster of divination, could not decipher the symbols”.
“No priest too”. The wizard laughed softly.” I guess the Eternals want some of the world wonders to remain hidden to us”.
Gare and Taren eventually joined them. Even Bristle wandered over and collapsed beside the fire. Ecyle looked toward the pillar. “Arcanum teaches that Da’al Fang was built by the Drakil.”
“The dragon giants,” said Gare.
“The Blood of Dragons,” corrected Ecyle. “Not just giants.”
“Every drawing I have ever seen makes them look like giants.” Said Gare
Alaric returned smiling “Because they were twelve feet tall.”
“Sounds like a giant.” Gare stared at the ranger readying his next comment like a blade.
Taren chuckled. “A fascinating distinction.”
Ecyle ignored them. “The Drakil existed before human kingdoms. Before Dymarth. Before Thergen. Some scholars argue they existed before recorded time itself.” The fire crackled softly. Even Bristle appeared unusually attentive or perhaps simply hopeful that somebody would drop food. “They were the first great civilization after the First Light,” Ecyle continued. “Some legends claim dragon blood flowed through their veins. Others say they were descendants of dragons themselves.”
“Sounds like a story mages tell one another to scare the apprentices of their precious libraries,” said Gare.
“It is.” The wizard grinned. “But even stories begin somewhere.” She pointed toward the strange carvings visible upon the pillar. “The Drakil possessed only one form of magic.”
Alaric frowned. “One?”
Ecyle nodded. “One. The schools did not exist. No Abjuration or Evocation, none of the nine or mind. We believe they considered magic a single power.”
The priest looked upward at the pillar. “Even banned necromancy, they used it all?”
“Exactly.” Ecyle seemed pleased. “The divisions came later. Long after the Drakil vanished. So that our mortal minds could grasp magic but not overstretch them”.
Taren tossed another branch into the flames. “And nobody knows what the carvings mean?”
The wizard’s eyes brightened. “That is where things become interesting.” She stood and pointed toward the runes. “Among Arcanum and Elemendia there is an old legend.”
Gare groaned. “Here we go.”
“If someone truly deciphers the complete writings of Da’al Fang…” She paused dramatically.” …that person will become Master of Arcanum and Arch-mage of Elemendia simultaneously.”
The knight laughed. “Impossible. It’s easier to mate a lion with a fox”
“Exactly.” Ecyle recoiled “The schools would never agree. They barely tolerate one another. Which is why it remains a legend.”
Alaric smiled. “Have you ever tried to translate them?”
The wizard became noticeably quieter. For the first time that evening she looked embarrassed. “A few times.” She blushed under her hood.
“A few?” asked the cleric, aware of her embarrassment even if not looking at her face.
“Many.”
Taren burst into laughter. “I knew it. You climbed up there, didn’t you?”
Ecyle stared into the fire and silence dropped.
The ranger laughed even harder. “You did. The pillar is your giant”
“Only once.”
“You climbed a three-hundred-foot pillar. Although it was certain that nothing would come out of it?” Alaric was intrigued and his voice got that tone when his prey was marked and helpless.
She replied, “It was a research expedition.”
“It was stupidity not scholarship.”
“It was stupidity with extra steps.” She smiled.
Even Gare laughed. The wizard folded her arms. “One day someone will solve it.”
The knight raised an eyebrow. “You? And then what?”
“Perhaps.” Ecyle looked toward the ancient pillar. For a moment her humor vanished. “Then maybe we will finally learn why the Drakil disappeared.”
Silence settled around the fire. Outside, the winds moved softly through the mountains. The shadow of Da’al Fang stretched across the valley, ancient and watching like drifting stars. Father Alaric later wrote that he remembered that moment more clearly than many battles. Not because of the pillar or the legends, but because it was one of the last nights when all four companions still laughed together. And because when he glanced toward the heavens above Da’al Fang, he thought he saw a star move. This time he was no longer certain it had been his imagination.
The following days they crossed the final heights overlooking the mountain pass. Behind them remained the harsher reaches of western Thera’s Spine. Ahead stretched into a different world. The mountains gradually softened as the company descended along narrow ridges overlooking Talon Reach. Great rolling plains spread beyond the foothills, painted green and gold beneath the afternoon sun. Rivers wound through the grasslands like mirror serpents. Wild horses could occasionally be seen racing through the distance while flocks of birds circled above untouched valleys.
Father Alaric noted that after days among stone and cliffs, the open land felt strangely vulnerable.
“There is too much sky here,” Gare remarked. The knight adjusted his sword while studying the endless horizon. “I preferred the mountains.”
“You say that because mountains cannot sneak up behind you, much like giants.” Taren replied. The ranger crouched near the edge of the trail examining tracks. Bristle bounded ahead through the tall grass, disappearing entirely before reappearing several moments later with a mouth full of burrs and an expression of complete satisfaction. The hound shook himself vigorously. Half the burrs landed on Gare. The other half found Ecyle’s cloak.
“Excellent work,” the wizard said dryly. Bristle wagged proudly. The smaller trail eventually merged with an ancient ridge road overlooking the southern approaches to Erenor. Though less traveled than the royal highways, it still carried occasional traffic. That fact soon became a concern. Taren suddenly raised a clenched fist. The company stopped immediately. The ranger knelt.” Listen”. Then pointed toward the plains below.
There was dust, a great deal of it. Within minutes they spotted the source. A caravan, not their usual merchants travelling together for safety, but a migrating clan. Dozens of colorful wagons rolled slowly across the grasslands beneath them. Hundreds of people accompanied the procession. Bright banners fluttered in the wind. Herds of horses and cattle moved alongside them while mounted outriders watched the horizon. The wagons themselves resembled moving homes, painted in vibrant blues, reds and golds. “Erenori nomads,” Alaric observed.
Taren nodded. “A large clan.”
“Trouble?” asked Gare. “Not unless they see us. Then we must spend some days in their hospitality. Time, we do not possess.”
The knight frowned. “They seem peaceful enough.”
“They probably are.” Taren continued watching. “But the fewer questions we answer, the faster we reach Skalen.”
Ecyle agreed. “The king sent us for answers, not conversations.”
The ranger pointed toward a rocky outcrop overlooking the trail. “We wait.”
The company guided their horses off the ridge and concealed themselves among a cluster of ancient stones overlooking the valley. Bristle immediately decided this was a game. The dog lowered himself dramatically and began creeping through the grass with all the stealth of an avalanche. His tail wagged continuously.
Gare struggled not to laugh. “Your scout appears compromised.”
Taren sighed. “He believes he is invisible.”
The hound eventually stopped beside Ecyle. Only his rear half remained hidden. His entire head was sticking out from the grass watching the caravan.
Ecyle reached over and gently pushed him lower. “You are the worst spy in Therasya.” Bristle accepted the criticism without objection. Below them the nomads continued their journey. For nearly an hour the travelers watched while children ran between wagons, musicians played strange instruments unfamiliar to Alaric, and horses grazed peacefully. The sight seemed almost unreal after the horrors of the destroyed caravan.
Normal life. People who worried about weather, livestock and supper rather than demons and omens. Alaric found himself envious of them. Eventually the last wagons disappeared beyond a distant rise. Only then did the company return to their trail. As they rode on, Ecyle glanced back toward the departing caravan. “I wonder if they have noticed.”
“Noticed what?” asked Gare.
The wizard looked upward. “The stars.”
No one answered. Far above the plains, daylight slowly surrendered to evening. And though the world below appeared peaceful, Father Alaric recorded that he could not shake the feeling that something vast had already begun moving beyond the sight of ordinary people.
Wings beneath stars
They marched on along the hill trail and three days later met occasional herdsmen driving flocks across the highlands. Near sunset they encountered a shepherd so enormously fat that even Gare laughed and declared him larger than the giant he had slain near Noverith. The shepherd disagreed violently. “I am not fat,” he protested while leaning upon a staff thicker than Alaric’s arm. “I am prosperous.” Even Taren smiled at that. The old man shared cheese, directions, and warnings in equal measure. He spoke of livestock found torn apart in the hills, of sheep vanishing during Theril’s forsaken nights and of strange cries echoing across the ridges after sunset.
“The mountains don’t sound right,” he said quietly. That statement lingered with Alaric long after they departed. It was the first true shadow cast upon them after the slain merchants. Deep inside he prayed the demon worshippers were left far behind. An hour later the shepherd pointed them toward a spring hidden beneath a rocky ridge where they might water their horses before making camp. The sun had begun its slow descent. Long shadows stretched across the hills and the mountains glowed orange beneath Zoodotis’ final blessing.
Then Taren raised a hand. Immediately the company halted as the ranger’s eyes narrowed. Ahead of them a herd of mountain elk burst from a nearby valley. A score of animals, running terrified. They fled westward in a frenzy, crashing through brush and stone with complete disregard for danger. Something was hunting them. Something large and powerful enough to terrify an entire herd. Bristle’s fur rose instantly. First the hound growled and then came the roar. The sound echoed across the hills deep and wrong. It resembled the cry of a dragon diving from the heavens, insane with rage. Yet dragons had long retreated from the world, appearing only in legends and magical sanctuaries. This was something else, a foul monster, hungry. It emerged from above the ridge.
Father Alaric later admitted he struggled to describe it. Its wings resembled those of a monstrous bat yet were covered in black feathers rather than skin. Each feather shimmered with filthy dark colors that seemed to shift when viewed directly. Its body possessed a twisted humanoid shape with arms ending in hooked talons. Two malformed heads sat on their shoulders. Neither possessed mouths where mouths should have been, only eyes, gleaming eyes, blinking and covering the face like tumors. Yet the roar emerged hollow from the body
The beast descended, its wings blotted out the starlit night, swallowing the hillside with its shadow.
“DEMON!” Ecyle shouted.
The creature struck before anyone could form a plan. A stream of green bile erupted from beneath one of its heads. The corrosive fluid smashed against stone. Rock hissed and grass blackened as the hillside began to melt.
Ecyle reacted instantly. Magic energies exploded around the company, while a shimmering dome of force appeared seconds before the bile reached them. The magical barrier barely held this time with cracks spreading across its surface in a blink. The wizard staggered and blood trickled from one ear.
“That won’t stop a second one!” She screamed. “Brace yourselves”.
The demon crashed into the hillside. The impact threw dirt and stones across the trail. Before the dust settled Gare charged raising Myormid. The enormous blade struck the creature’s shoulder. Steel met flesh, flesh met steel, but both suffered. Thick green blood erupted across the knight’s armor draining down like disgusting rotten fluids. The demon retaliated immediately. One claw slammed into Gare’s buckler and the reinforced steel shattered. It was magical but far beyond this creature’s strength. The second claw struck his breastplate. The impact launched him several feet backward. He crashed against a boulder hard enough to crack stone.
“GARE!” Alaric shouted.
The knight struggled to stand. His left arm hung uselessly, broken. And then the demon descended upon him.
Ecyle raised trembling hands. A wall of force erupted between them. The creature smashed through it. Then another she cast on her knees; she was draining her spells faster than breath. It shattered too. The wizard’s face had grown pale with sweat pouring down her brow. She was buying Gare some desperate seconds, nothing more.
Taren moved. Two arrows flew. One buried itself within a cluster of eyes and the second struck the creature’s neck. The demon barely noticed. The magic was not enough to hurt it and the wounds closed on the wood making it part of its body.
Instead, it lunged for the fallen knight, both talons descended. Gare whispered a prayer barely holding his blade in a block. He was ready for his fate. Then Bristle attacked. The hound launched himself from above a rock. His jaws closed around the creature’s wing. The demon screamed. For the first time it sounded vulnerable, his wings did not share the same vulnerability as his malformed body. It was distraction enough to save Gare’s life. The talons missed his throat by inches.
Taren fired again. Another arrow, a second and a third. He was moving constantly, never remaining in one place. Drawing the creature’s attention from his dog.
Ecyle seized the opportunity. She slammed her staff onto the ground. Ancient magic erupted beneath the demon. Chains of blue light exploded from the earth. One wrapped around a wing and another around a leg. A third shattered immediately and the fourth held just for a moment. Gare could smell the talon scratching his face.
“NOW!” she screamed.
Father Alaric raised his holy symbol. “Pyria, grant me strength beyond my own!” A white aura erupted like a column of faith and fire. Radiant light engulfed the demon, its feathers ignited and black smoke filled the air. The beast shrieked in tremendous pain, yet still it fought, refusing to die. Then it struck Gare again, breaking the wards. A talon pierced beneath his armor and blood sprayed red across the rocks. The knight collapsed, motionless. Alaric’s heart nearly stopped.
Taren sprinted forward shouting without hesitation “Priest heal him, I will cover you!”
The priest dropped beside the knight. One hand pressed against the wound. The other gripped his holy symbol. “Pyria!” Golden light flowed through the knight’s body. Bone mended. Flesh knit together. Breath returned. His Eternal guardian decided life.
Gare’s eyes opened. The knight looked upward. For a second, confused but then furious. “That bastard thing hit me.”
“It nearly killed you.” Shouted Alaric, “Stand back!”.
Gare stood anyway. Myormid still rested nearby. He seized the weapon and pushed the ranger away. “It’s mine, me, him and the abyss”.
The demon turned toward him. Both charged one final time. The collision echoed across the hills. The knight cleaved Myormid downwards while the creature struck him simultaneously. A talon tore across Gare’s shoulder, while the other was struck by a magic whip. Ecyle was on her feet, concentrating. The blade split one twisted head from crown to chest. Thick green blood exploded outward and the demon staggered. Taren’s drew a final arrow, marked by arcanum magic, a demon killer. It hit straight into the exposed wound bringing it to its knees. Myormid rose one final time and the next the creature was turning to ash.
Silence was broken only by the sound of nearby water and the group breathing heavily. They knelt, too exhausted to cheer for their victory. Alaric spent nearly an hour tending to their injuries. Gare carried a deep one across his chest and shoulder. Ecyle had nearly exhausted herself to unconsciousness. Taren’s arm bled from a gash he had hidden during the battle. Even Bristle limped, the demon had sliced his gut barely missing critical organs. The hound proudly carried a torn black feather between his teeth despite the blood staining his fur.
Eventually Taren approached the ashes. The ranger studied them carefully. His expression darkened. “This wasn’t a beast. Only demons of Othmog leave no bodies”.
“No,” Ecyle agreed weakly. “It never was.”
The ranger pointed toward the few feathers that remained. Corruption. Their wounds were the least of their problems. If the creature infected them, they would succumb, there was no cure for corruption, at least not so far from the capital cathedral.
Nobody liked that answer. Taren continued his inspection. Soon he discovered tracks nearby. Not the demon’s, more two-legged boots going up the trail. He searched nearby and found something lodged between rocks. Another arrow with a warped shaft. Taren stared toward the northern horizon. Toward the mountains and whatever waited ahead.
“Something is crawling around Skalen; we are not alone,” he said quietly. For once nobody argued.
Truth lies in the cave
Two days later, still trailing beyond the caravan routes, the party noticed another pillar of smoke. Gare grunted, “This is becoming a habit, let’s take a look, perhaps someone needs our help.” Running uphill, they discovered a ruined shrine. An ancient monument dedicated to Maat, the Eternal of Truth or at least it had once been. Now it was all but corrupt, black symbols covering the stone, blood stained the walls and bodies hung from metal hooks driven into ancient masonry. Some had been dead for weeks, others strangely far less, perhaps tortured for days. Ravens and mountain scavengers had feasted upon many of them. A few corpses still dripped blood from freshly opened wounds. Pieces of them were missing, those carrying more meat, like a butcher cleaving them after slaughter.
One old priest had been nailed upside down above the shrine entrance, his ribs split apart and spread like grotesque wings. Nearby a family remained bound together with rusted chains, their flesh stripped from the bones of their hands where they had desperately tried to escape. Temple acolytes had clearly died defending the pilgrims. Part of the southern wall was demolished by a spell that had spread demon ash ten meters around the impact blackened tiles. Alaric sensed the floor and whispered “This must have been the arch cleric, a divine intervention was cast, this was their final stand. Aside lay a decapitated body adorned in a bloodied clerical robe. Something had sliced him from knee to neck spilling guts on the floor.
Father Alaric’s writing became uneven here. The words shook across the page, they had finally discovered the defiled worshippers, the demon followers again. Men and women whose flesh had been altered by dark rites. Eyes sewn shut, bones protruding from skin, tongues marked with symbols of darkness. Some had additional joints growing beneath their arms. Others possessed fingers fused into claws. One woman’s jaw hung unnaturally low, split open to her throat. The cultists did not attack immediately. They were praying in front of a flesh pile fashioned in the image of something grotesque facing northeast towards Skalen and the stars. From the darkness of the destroyed inner sanctum appeared their leader standing before the desecrated altar. Black robes hung from his skeletal frame. His face had been flayed and covered in runes carved directly into the flesh beneath. When he spoke, every cultist repeated his words.
“The sky remembers when Darkness falls. Our King marches and the stars shall return to their rightful places.” Then the leader turned. Though his eyes had been sewn shut, he looked directly toward the company. “You are already too late, but in time to die.”
Silence followed just for a second. Taren had had enough of death and talk, an arrow pierced straight into the leader’s throat. Violence erupted with nearly thirty cultists emerging from hiding among the ruins, flowing in the altar from broken towers and behind toppled walls surrounding the party. Black arrows filled the air, yet the sun still shone above the mountains vexing the Evernight spawn even inside the temple. Perhaps Maat had not entirely abandoned the place. The cultists aimed wildly and many arrows missed completely striking stone. A few curved strangely through the air as though guided by dark magic.
Ecyle reacted first. Magic exploded around the party, forming a translucent barrier overhead. Any arrow aimed right at them bounced off, like an unseen hand protecting them. Blue sparks rained across the courtyard. Gare charged before the first body reached their line. He swept Myormid through two cultists in a single strike. One lost a leg and the second was opened from shoulder to hip spraying blood on the rest following. The knight stared, eyes wide as the cultists behind screamed and reveled bathing in it.
Taren moved like a hunting cat. His arrows never stopped with every shot finding a target. One cultist fell backward with an arrow through his eye and another one collapsed clutching his throat. A third never even saw the shaft that entered beneath his jaw.
Alaric raised his holy symbol. “Pyria, witness your fallen children.” Golden fire erupted as sacred flames rolled through the shrine. Three cultists burst into divine light and their corrupted flesh melted from their bones. Their screams echoed across the valley, still more came. They threw themselves forward without fear nor hesitation, blinded by their hatred for the surface races. Death did not matter to them. They were promised afterlife ascending to their masters’ forms. One managed to reach Gare. The cultist drove a rusted blade into the knight’s side. The armor held the blow, while Gare answered with Myormid. The man was sliced apart beneath the strike with broken ribs and blood painting the stones. Another leapt from above.
Ecyle raised her hand. A wall of force appeared midair. The cultist smashed head on into it, shattering every bone in his body. He fell twitching to the ground.
The battle intensified. In only a few minutes the shrine became a slaughterhouse with bodies piled around the broken altar and sacred fire mixing with blood. Corrupted chants burst into screams, and more demon worshipers flooded in.
Alaric stood beside Gare. The knight was panting; his blade was becoming heavy. “We will not hold much longer priest” The cleric slammed his staff against the stone. “Pyria, send your servant!” Then light burst from the heavens. A radiant figure emerged within the courtyard. He had no more power to summon one fully formed, nevertheless, a fragment of celestial power sufficed. A winged warrior composed of golden fire holding a trumpet and a bright mace. He smote cultists felling one after the other. Holy light engulfed and turned them into stone, then breaking them into pieces. The archon fought beside them for precious moments before fading and the cultists finally began to break, their numbers dwindling as the party was spending their last strength in blow and spell.
Nearly twenty lay dead. The remaining survivors fled toward a narrow opening concealed beside the ruined shrine. A cavern recently opened and deliberately hidden. Taren shouted to hold the pursuit. Then came the scream. It was Bristle. The hound had proudly chased one of the fleeing scouts around the altar, but the creature was fast, faster than any mortal should have been, succumbing to demonic corruption. His flesh twisted unnaturally as he moved, running and crawling like a hungry animal. It spun and a black blade flashed. Bristle yelped. The sound froze every member of the company. They glimpsed the hound staggered, blood poured from his abdomen. The scout had gutted the dog from ribs to underbelly. Bristle fell into a pool of his blood quivering and howling low, like animals do when they know their end is near. His eyes were searching for Taren, his pack leader, one last time. His breath went faster as if he was trying to race death and leave it behind.
The scout vanished into the entrance cavern laughing and licking his blade. Taren reached the dog first. The ranger dropped to his knees. His shaking hands immediately turned red. Bristle was looking into his, he drew one last breath trying to wag his tail and then went lifeless in his arms. A dog could not have wished for a cleaner death in his master’s embrace.
Father Alaric hurried forward, already praying. It was not accustomed for a priest to heal a wounded animal, but Bristle was part of them now. There was nothing he could do, Bristle was already gone. He pulled the entrails of the animal back in his belly as if he could somehow mend the poor creature. For several moments nobody spoke. Taren remained motionless, his hand trembling around his knife. He jumped like a spring charging into the dark opening. Father Alaric did not recognize him; the calm mountain ranger was gone. Pure fury took control. He was going to track the murderer and gut him too like a pig.
Gare screamed “Stand damn it, don’t run into the shadows.” The knight had no option but to follow him, his leg still limping from several wounds he had suffered.
“Taren.” Ecyle voiced but there was no answer, just running footsteps. Ecyle followed the knight.
Alaric paused only long enough to whisper a prayer over Bristle’s body and then followed last, into the cavern, after his friends, toward the darkness waiting below. He could hear Taren’s boots pounding across ancient stone, the scout’s footprints remained fresh in the dust, but it was hard for Alaric to track them running. The sounds echoed in adjacent caverns and then fear struck him, twisting his heart. What if he could not find them in time?
Gare was shouting repeatedly. “Taren!” “Stop!” “We go together!”. The ranger’s striding revealed his answer. A red veil, only rage remained. The tunnels twisted beneath the mountain. A carving covered the main downward wall. Ecyle caught a glimpse of it while running. Circles within circles, one symbol repeated constantly, a black circle consuming smaller lights. The wizard felt her stomach tighten. Something about this seemed familiar, ancient and wrong. “Theril worshipers. Followers of Thera’s cursed son, devourer of sunlight and hope.”
Then came a scream. It was the scout. Taren had found him. Alaric took a wrong turn and exited on a pedestal, over 30 meters overlooking a huge cavern below. He heard his group emerging clearly below. Taren passed around a pile of stones and miners’ tools, into the vast subterranean chamber. He was out of Alaric’s spell reach. The cleric’s first thought was: “Eternals, not like this.” Ancient makeshift pillars supported a digging area to the darkness further below. Black fires burned within iron braziers. Strange markings covered the walls. At the center stood the scout. He was no longer smiling as three arrows protruded from his chest. A fourth sliced the air and entered beneath his left shoulder, a dark dagger dropped on the floor.
Taren deliberately was missing vital spots. He stood opposite him and discarded his bow. A knife was drawn and then only blood covered the ranger’s hands. The scout staggered backward. “You killed him.” The ranger’s voice barely sounded human. Footsteps were heard further below. Alaric turned to run to his group, but he almost fell on another scout blocking his exit back to the tunnels.
The cultist in front of Taren laughed weakly. “A dog. I killed your friend.” The words came gurgling, blood choking him. Taren crossed the distance before the sentence finished. The knife entered between the scout’s ribs, repeatedly. Three more scouts entered the cavern. A black arrow hit Taren on the shoulder, but he did not flinch. Then the darkness moved. Five shapes emerged from behind the pillars.
“TAREN!” Gare roared from a nearby tunnel, and sounds of combat came from his side too.
The ranger finally looked up, but realization struck too late as he stared at the arrow on him and pain finally connected to his head. Two more black arrows filled the air, before Taren could react his belly was pierced and he kneeled. He swung his blade, the first cultist dropped dead. Another arrow in his back and then from the shadows two warriors appeared, barely humanoid, corruption oozing from eyes and ears. They crossed their spears and thrust them into his body. The tunnel was turning into a trap.
“Taren!” Gare charged ignoring the pain in his leg and Ecyle followed on his side wounded, holding her bloodied left hand. The knight slammed into the two spearmen line like an avalanche. Myormid swept through flesh and bone alike. The one on the left lost the upper part of his head, brains splattered on the stone. The swing split apart the second at the waist. The mage chanted a spell, trying to hold her concentration against the pain from her hand. A thin wall arose and two arrows were deflected to the walls, but she was spent. The effort left her dazed, barely standing.
Alaric, on the cavern rim above, was fighting the cultist in front of him with his mace. He needed to turn swiftly to a tunnel going downwards, although he could not be sure this led to his friends below. It was risky but he had no other chance. He prayed without a clear target, asking Pyria her blessing and protection. A gleam of light filled the chamber below, cultists screamed. It was either them or handling his foe, he chose his friends.
Suddenly a shadow appeared from the pillar on Ecyle’s back, a blade shone in the light and a thin scream left her throat as blood filled her right lung. She staggered and spat a mouthful of blood “Enemy…pillar”, surprised she fell to her knees and elbows, gasping for air as the shadow moved again out of sight. Gare stood speechless as two of his friends bled to death. He removed his helmet, sweat was running from his stuck hair, overwhelmed by the chase in the cavern. He knelt pressing the wound on Ecyle as she was choking to death. Her eyes widened. “Promise me…don’t forget the stars”. Her sentence was broken in half by a blood streamed from her mouth, thick and deep red, an internal artery was cut along with her life chord. Alaric screamed: “To your left”. Father Alaric saw the steel emerge from the knight’s chest, and blood followed. Gare turned upwards, disbelief crossed his face. Fury tried to connect his will to his arm, but his body did not follow. The swift assassin had pierced him twice. The knight turned faster than expected for a man encased in steel and caught the creature, seizing the assassin’s throat midair. He lifted him from the ground and pressed his neck with one hand like a pair of tongs. His eyes flinched, he was feeling a familiar chill as blood poured from his chest armor joints. The cultist’s spine snapped but he was done too.
“Gare!” Alaric cried. The priest made a hopeless attempt to call Pyria’s healing hand, but the knight was too far, the blue healing stream vanished meters before reaching him. The knight blinked, smiled to the priest upwards: “We tried” and then he dropped to his face like a cut redwood, his armor echoing in the surrounding corridors. For a brief second the knight looked into the lifeless eyes of Taren and then his breath was spent, urging him to meet his friend.
Triumphant cries filled the cavern, and the remaining cultists thrust their blades in the three bodies finishing them off. And then they looked upwards. Alaric was hit by guilt; he had to leave his friends’ remains to these demon worshipping beasts. He struck the scout and opened his head with a wild swing of his mace. Then he turned to the original corridor running upwards, like a coward. Unlike his friends who lay dead against the darkness. Sword, bow and mage’s spell refusing to yield. They were the heroes and he was meant to be the messenger of ill omens, if he survived.
Alaric ran with all his strength and when he reached the exit to the destroyed temple, he noticed a short corridor ending in piles of looted grain. That was why those vermin reached the surface. To resupply, to which destination, he never knew. He stood and called Pyria’s name again, white light burst and the crates exploded into fire quickly consuming the exit tunnels below. This would keep his assailants off him, perhaps giving him a chance to flee. Men screamed from the deeps, cursing in their defiling tongue. He could understand part of the threat. “Get him” they screamed. “Don’t let him warn the surface dwellers”. Father Alaric now truly understood fear; he was now prey, and they would not stop until they cut him down like the rest of his group. In his mind his friends’ faces were staring at him, their judgement harsh. He had left them unburied.
He ran away from the temple like crazy. Even if his assailants reached him, he had to leave a warning behind. He reached the nearby hills and marked a stone with Pyria’s sign, hastily writing his notes on the battle. This was meant to be his last entry. Father Alaric wrote: “I fear we are not seeking omen. I fear the omen is now seeking us.” The final pages became stained. Water or Blood? I cannot say with certainty after all these years. Perhaps both. The handwriting grew desperate. Then he hid the journal beneath the signal stone and prayed someone would one day find it.
I fear we are not seeking omen. I fear the omen is now seeking us.
Alaric log entry Day Twenty-one.
We crossed the northern passes. Skalen was less than six days away when my party went in the cursed entrance. I heard their screams. First the ranger brought down by the cultists, I could hear a battle hymn from Gare and Ecyle casting a spell. I tried to run but I was too late. Their voices ended. What I feared the most, what I had been trained by my master to avoid at all costs. In the far north Theril is drinking the last light. I hear them near, it is my turn to fade. Whoever finds this, deliver it to Dymarth, our king awaits.
Eolon’s Annotation
The remaining text was smeared. Only a few fragments remained. He probably met what hunted him. No more heroes followed their group as there was no time.
The four never reached Skalen. The Grand Oracle was never consulted, for I could not uncover such an entry in the monastery records even after days of strenuous study. No explanation for the celestial phenomenon was ever recorded there. Yet several years later similar reports emerged across Therasya of constellations shifting and stars appearing where none had existed. Ancient prophecies had been reawakened. The journal remains one of the earliest surviving accounts.
What troubles me most is not just the death of the company. It is a single sentence hidden among Father Alaric’s final notes, written smaller than the rest. Almost as an afterthought, as though he hoped nobody would notice. “I have failed them, my friends and my teachings”. And for that reason, I have worked tirelessly on this journal so that finally the truth is uncovered that the company died seeking an answer we were not meant to find, all five of them heroes in my eyes.
Myormid in Thergen means massive blade.
— From the journal of Father Alaric of Dymarth
