Dark Reign: Portal to the Gods Book 3: Portal to the Gods

By Scott Spangler

The dramatic conclusion to the Portal to the Gods Trilogy.  

 

Dartain's group treks across fiery Xenos in their quest to bring Tiberius back from the dead.  But they are lost, dehydrated, and starving deep in enemy territory.  All hope is quickly dwindling as they question even their own survival.

 

The reeling human armies finally gain some momentum, but they might be too late.  The nether-spawn armies are massive and the combined might of the humans, elves, and dwarves might not be enough to overcome them even if they can be convinced to stand together.  And they must face the mighty black dragon as well.

 

When Athol Myr is breached, Griff is forced to make a desperate last stand at the very threshold of the Portal to the Gods with humanity's continued existence teetering upon the outcome.  But he is no match for the demon that he faces.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Spangler
• Release date: Sep 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310768453

Scott Spangler

Scott is 45 years old and lives near Kansas City. He wrote the first book of his fantasy series, "Portal to the Gods" in 2005 and has recently published the third book in the Portal series, "Dark Reign." He is also the author of "The Demon Hunter: 21 Days". He is currently working to complete his zombie apocalypse book, "PerfectTown." Scott welcomes comments on his work at: [e-mail]

Book preview

Dark Reign

Portal to the Gods Book 3

Scott Spangler

Copyright 2014 by Scott Spangler

Smashwords Edition

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Other Books by Scott Spangler

The Demon Hunter Series

The Demon Hunter: 21 Days

The Demon Hunter: Retribution - Forthcoming

Portal to the Gods Series

Portal to the Gods

The Other Side of Existence

Dark Reign

The Last Paladin – Forthcoming

The Apocalypse Series

PerfectTown

Birth of a Supervillain – Forthcoming

Giant Robots - Forthcoming

Prologue

Ikorak dangled in his harness with both feet flat against the side of the building. Two thick leather straps ran across his chest in either direction, connecting to a heavy leather swing that fit him almost like an infant’s diaper. Two ropes attached the harness to a light crane mounted on the temple’s roof – the first rope attached to a steel ring at the midpoint where the left and right straps crossed his back. The second one was a safety rope connected to a metal ring attached to the wide belt just below his stomach. It was kept with a little more slack so that he could pull it out of the way to do his work, but it still had the annoying tendency to flap into his way. A leather pouch containing a whole assortment of tools dangled from a third rope a few feet away. A thin string ran from the rope holding the pouch to the safety rope ring in his belt. It was upon this string that he now tugged to bring the pouch within reach. At the bag's arrival, he dropped the chisel and hammer that he had been using into its depths, foraging through an interior side pocket for a rasp. He plucked one out, inspected it, dropped it back into the bag and pulled out a different one. Satisfied with this rasp, he let the tool bag swing free, turning his attention back to the frieze over which he straddled.

He ran a leathery finger over the rough edge that he had recently carved, shifting his body so that he hung at a slight angle from the carving. He then began to gently file away at the rough edges with the rasp. After a few passes he ran his finger across it again. He leaned forward to make another pass when the rasp suddenly slipped from his grip and fell. He watched it spin away and fade into the distance, becoming a barely visible dot until at last the poof of dust arose when it finally hit the ground. He groaned. It was a long way down to retrieve it, but it was his only rasp of that size. Thankfully nobody had been traveling along that section of the road at the time. An object like that falling from this height could very easily be lethal.

The temple where he currently worked stood at the edge of the high cliff that towered over the inland city of Mors Binea. The city was considered the hub of Agamene. Many called Mors Binea the Queen of the Northlands, others the Jewel of Agamene. It was a thriving and prosperous city with the grandest mixture of trades. Mining was foremost with the city being located at the northeastern nexus of the two great mountain ranges – the Kazarant and the Septre. They mined everything - gold, silver, copper, diamonds, and all other manners of precious stones along with various spices and fossil fuels. Vast farmlands stretched across the flat plains that sprawled away from the mountains and beyond the city. Rich black soil offered up food treasures of every sort, creating a massive agricultural industry. Ironically, the fish trade ranked high on the list as well. The great mountain streams, lakes, and rivers ran bountiful with yellow mountain perch and spotted trout. The great ocean-faring cities cursed the hole this created in their market for salt-water fishes. There was no other city in the world that sported the industry and wealth of Mors Binea. With industry came commerce. The city was filled with markets and shops of all shapes and sizes and more than enough people to own, work, and buy from them.

Ikorak glanced downward again at the six hundred feet that separated him from his rasp. He really should go retrieve it before someone found and walked off with it. He squinted at the sun. It was close to midday. Perhaps he would take his lunch in the city this day and maybe even take the afternoon off. They were weeks ahead of schedule, after all. He glanced back over his shoulder toward the sprawling city. It was somewhat ridiculous if one thought about it. He had spent the last month hanging over the edge of a cliff carving a frieze that nobody would ever be able to see. That likely explained the nature of the scene itself. The front side frieze had displayed earthly heroes battling it out with monsters of all shapes and sizes. This side, however, depicted an intricate step-by-step scene of the assimilation of a god by the Creator. It was Tupir, the father of Mol, King of the Gods, who was the previous god-king, if he wasn't mistaken, although his theology wasn't too up to date where human deities were concerned. He simply carved what they requested. The point being that this side of the massive temple contained no great marble pillars, but rather a tall flat stone wall that butted up against the precarious edge of the cliff. There was no walkway or path along the cliff's edge for an onlooker to be able to view this side of the temple. And this particular frieze wasn't the only carving on this side. Not far away there was a great thunder cloud and bolt - the token sign of the god, Mol, for whom this temple was dedicated. It covered most of the wall and could be faintly seen from the ground - at least on a clear day. But only the gods would see the frieze itself once he and his fellow sculptors had dangled their last days there.

He wrapped the safety rope around his arm and began to haul himself up. Tools were expensive. He would go fetch the rasp and then take the afternoon off. He had already been paid an advance and the rest would be paid upon his sculpture’s timely completion. There was little doubt that he would be finished in time. He reached the edge of the unfinished roof, pulling himself up. He reeled up the tool bag, in turn lowering it through the open interior rafters to the marble tiled floors below where dozens of workers scurried to and fro. He then untied the ropes and dropped them to the floor as well, where he would coil and stack them in a little corner that had been reserved for the sculptors to store their tools. That being done, he made his way across a wooden rafter to the edge of the building where the top of a shaky ladder poked its head just above the roof level. He had just mounted the ladder and taken a step downward when a glint far off in the distance caught his eye.

Something was moving in the mountains to the north and west of the city. They were little more than specks from this distance and nothing could be seen beyond an occasional glint of light. It wouldn't have garnered his attention, but for the location and size. For it to be that noticeable, it must be a fairly large group. That was hardly irregular for travel through the mountains and plains that surrounded Mors Binea. Caravans and even armies came and went frequently. But something about the location of this group was rather strange. There was no pass of which he was aware of in that direction and he well knew that these enormous mountains were virtually impassable except by a few well-marked avenues. Perhaps a new mining claim had been struck in that area. It wasn't unheard of. His eyes useless to discern any more from this distance, he shrugged and descended the ladder.

The temple was an anthill of activity with sawing, grinding, and hammering prevalent throughout the area. Workers moved in every direction - some with piles of lumber slung over their shoulders and some pushing wheelbarrows heaped with dirt or sand. Masons piled stone high, securing it with mortar, while carpenters framed walls and built rafters, and sculptors carved intricate patterns on marble columns and tiles. The fresh smell of sawdust mixed with the slightly pungent odor of concrete. Ikorak moved toward the front of the temple, dodging scurrying workers as he went. He exited the building into a wide courtyard that dominated the remainder of the bluff. He stepped several feet out into the courtyard, dodging a heavy oxcart that had recently arrived with a new load of raw marble, turning to face the temple. It was shaping up into a magnificent structure. Eight massive spiral columns made up the front face that rose to support the unfinished roof. A gigantic lion's head was carved in the center of the front wall directly above the main entrance. Marvelous work, he thought.

Several out buildings were at the beginning stages of construction. There was a simple square building that he guessed would end up being the temple guards' barracks. A similar and slightly more elaborate columned building adjacent to it would likely house the priests. The base of what would be a huge fountain marked the very center of the courtyard, but not much had been done to it as of yet. A few storage sheds and utility buildings were already beginning to take shape. He had heard rumors that a small university would be part of the campus. One the far side of the courtyard was enough space to house such a structure, but no work had been done there yet. At the moment, that area was a parking space for twenty or thirty oxcarts waiting their turn to haul refuse down the bluff. That was their method. They hauled supplies up the bluff and then hauled refuse back down. He had been hoping to catch a ride on one of these, but as it was close to lunchtime none were making the trek downward at this moment. As a matter of fact, he couldn't see that any were even loaded. It would be at least an hour before the first would begin its slow, awkward journey downward. He stole a glance down the dusty road. A few tumbleweeds skidded, rather than tumbled across the road on a light breeze that showed enough ambition to move them, but not enough to make them display their true tumbling form. The sun beat down harshly, creating the illusion of ripples of water flowing across the road. The red-hued dust swirled about and bright white stones and boulders strewn randomly along the road created bright glares from the sunlight. With a sigh, he set off down the road at a leisurely pace.

The dusty road wound back in upon itself, rather than wrapping around the bluff, and the long cross roads descended at a shallow angle to decrease the effort of the animal-drawn traffic. This resulted in sharp curving descents at each corner to drop to the next lower level. In good weather, the oxcarts had little trouble making their way to the construction area at the top, depending upon the weight of their load. Wet conditions made navigating the slippery curved rises a little difficult. A wagon and ox team had been lost early in the spring when their wagon - overloaded with marble - slipped backward in the mud. The driver had managed to leap to safety after desperately fighting a losing battle to save the sliding cart. The team of oxen, wagon, and a fortune in marble hadn't been so lucky.

Ikorak descended several levels, never meeting another soul the whole way. He glanced up at the sun, which now stood directly overhead. The noon meal was an important affair in Mors Binea and little activity occurred in the hour or two around it. The city grew a little larger with every level that he passed. From his current height, he could still see the concentric walls that encircled the city. Although they appeared to have been neatly strategically planned, he knew that they weren't. They had simply risen up with necessity to securely accommodate the rapid growth of the city. The furthest wall from the bluff - the third or outer wall - appeared as little more than a line that was drawn on the ground from this angle. It was still under construction and would be for at least another year. The thousands of buildings that made up the city seemed to slide away from the foothills and down onto the plain. They butted up against the walls at each level. It was quite obvious that each level had filled up to bursting before they had been forced to build beyond the safety of the walls. Then it had been necessary to build a new wall to encircle the overgrowth. Each successive wall seemed to be larger and more imposing. This had happened three times in twenty years. The current city fathers seemed to have gotten wiser and were building the newest wall a considerable distance away from the city. The cost and material need was tremendous, but with two enormous mountain ranges to draw from, it was not unheard of. Ikorak had heard of a few farmers who were disgruntled about having a massive stone wall divide their fields. But it was a price that must be paid in the name of citizen safety.

He rounded another curve in the road and had just begun making his way across the next level when a figure appeared at the far end. The figure was little more than a silhouette from this distance, but as the gap between them grew shorter he could discern details. He had originally thought that it was a horse-mounted human, but as he drew closer he knew the figure to be a centaur - those noble half-man, half-horse, immortal beings that made up the vast bulk of the city guard. He soon began to make out distinguishable features.

The centaur was shirtless - as most usually were this time of year. The only adornment that he wore was a simple leather sword belt with a silver buckle that supported a scabbard. The scabbard was decorated with a dull black and red triangular checkered pattern, housing a short sword. A small leather pouch swung from the opposite side along with a thin dagger - more a utility implement than a weapon. His chest was muscular and relatively hairless, but a dark beard shrouded his face. Long black hair draped over his shoulders. His horse torso was brown and he had a thick, black, silky tail. Ikorak recognized his friend, Arkametros.

Good day, the centaur said when they came face-to-face. How strange that we meet here - I was coming up to lunch with you.

Ikorak scratched behind one of his pointed ears. I dropped a rasp when I saw you coming, he replied, but I guess I missed. He tapped his head with a bony finger. They both got a chuckle out of it. I figured that I'd better fetch it before someone finds and ferrets it away. Tools are growing expensive these days.

Ah, and I was so hoping to see the temple's progress, Arkametros sighed. They both glanced upward toward the bluff. They were presently more than halfway to the bottom. Perhaps next time, the centaur added.

It's just as well. The temple will be there for a long time.

I suppose you're right.

Ikorak slapped him lightly on the flank. Let's take lunch in the city, shall we? Arkametros swung around to join him and they started the remaining descent down the bluff. Did you not have duty today?

I had outer wall duty early this morning, Arkametros replied.

Ikorak looked up at him. "Outer wall? You mean the new one out on the plain?"

The centaur nodded.

Then what are they now calling the old outer wall?

"Why, the Tartanus wall, of course."

Of course, Ikorak agreed.

Tartanus was the chancellor of Mors Binea. Since the death of the last King, Antwynos, Mors Binea had been ruled by an elected group of councilors with the chancellor being the foremost. He wasn't quite a king, but sometimes it appeared that he might as well be. They were not elected by the masses, but were rather selected from a pool of the gentry by a larger pool of the gentry. The city had flourished under the ruling group, so the lower classes never really complained. Antwynos had died without leaving an heir or even a close living relative. Rather than engaging in a costly power struggle, the nobility had established the ruling council and had effectively kept the peace. Some said that that was what contributed to the incredible prosperity of the city. Others claimed that had the nobles known the level of prosperity that the city would attain, there would have been a bloody power struggle.

Ikorak cocked an eyebrow. "So what do they now call the inner wall? No, let me guess… The Cochel wall? The Demarkus wall?" Cochel and Demarkus were leading council members, second only to Tartanus. They were known for their frequent and highly visible confrontations.

Arkametros stopped walking, glancing down at his goblin friend. "I don't believe they've renamed the inner wall. If they decide to, I suppose it would be called the Antwynos wall. That would seem to make the most sense."

Ikorak shrugged. They made it to the bottom of the bluff where the road humped over a couple low foothills. At the second hill he went to the side of the dusty road, rooting through a few dried clumps of scrub brush. He finally found the rasp, holding it up for Arkametros to see before tucking it into his belt.

Where shall we lunch today? the centaur inquired once his squat, green-skinned companion had rejoined him.

Ikorak tugged one of his pointed ears with a clawed hand. "I don't know. I was heading to that goblin joint near the guild district before I ran into you - The Stone Carver I think it's called. But that place isn't too centaur-friendly. It has narrow benches and low seats and they don't serve the honey nectar that you seem to like so well."

"How would you feel about The Brown Elm? Arkametros offered.

The goblin grunted. You aren't much for variety.

Maybe not, the centaur replied with a grin, but they are perhaps the most accommodating establishment for all the races.

"Alright, the Elm it is, Ikorak said, shaking his head. It's nice that they have the comfortable straw bedding for your oversized torso, but their ale runs a bit stale and their mutton is overcooked."

Arkametros arched an eyebrow, cocking his head sideways as he looked down at his friend. We could go somewhere else - perhaps an outdoor cafe? It's a pleasant day, after all.

Nah, I say we stick with something familiar. I merely said it was overcooked - not inedible.

They made their way further into the city out of the shadow of the temple bluff, passing through avenue after avenue of new construction. The population of Mors Binea was swelling to the point that it was literally bursting at the seams. The covered wagons of elf settlers lined the streets, patiently resting there full of household goods as their fancy dwellings rose from the ground beneath the efforts of at least a hundred elf carpenters. Elvish women nursed their young beneath the silken wagon canopies and elf children played in the streets making a racket that vied with the construction efforts in terms of being the noisiest. The city was a melting pot for all the races. They got on quite well with one another for the most part, but ethnic communities had still risen to make up the major parts of the city. The ward through which they passed was largely elven with its simple, yet elegant architecture and abundance of plants and trees. The humans had established residences along the eastern wall and the dwarves to the southwest in the shadows of the nexus where the mighty Septre and Kazarant Mountain ranges converged. Goblin and centaur dwelled in the heart of the city, having largely been its first inhabitants.

Has there been a new ore strike in the northern Septre? Ikorak inquired of his friend once they had passed out of the elven ward and moved into the more bustling city center.

Arkametros glanced down at his goblin companion. There are many such claims all along both ranges.

Ikorak shook his head. No, this would be a big one - up near the outskirts of the Wildeland.

I've heard no such news, the centaur replied. Why do you ask?

The goblin frowned. "I saw a large mass of someone descending the mountains from that vicinity, he grunted. I hope it isn't more religious pilgrims come to preach in our streets. That last batch was thoroughly annoying."

Arkametros gave him an inquisitive look. There are no settlements in that area - especially not so close to the Wildeland. Even the humans are not so presumptuous as to settle in that inhospitable area.

"Well, there was someone up there."

Perhaps it was a hunting expedition, the centaur offered.

Ikorak shook his head vehemently. It would have to have been a large army.

As they neared the city market and prepared to turn up the alley leading toward The Brown Elm the fervor of the bustling crowd had grown unusually chaotic. Ikorak and Arkametros paused to exchange perplexed glances as a heavily-armed contingent of human soldiers rushed past in the direction of the city's main northern gate. There seemed to be a tense spirit in the air of which everyone else was aware. Before either of them could even begin to voice a question the distinct sound of warning bells began to toll from that direction. In a chain-reaction the clamor spread across the city.

They're calling out the militia!Arkametros exclaimed with his eyes suddenly widened to their extremities.

Ikorak ducked beneath his friend as another centaur galloped past, awkwardly buckling a steel breastplate onto his chest as he went. On another occasion the goblin might have hollered a slanderous expletive after the reckless fellow, but the maddened clamor would have overshadowed it in any case.

I must report to my unit, Arkametros announced, advancing several steps in that direction. He turned back toward the perplexed goblin. You should see to your family. With that he galloped up the street and out of sight, vanishing into the panicked crowd.

Ikorak stood in the center of the street blinking in the direction that his friend had gone. What was happening? Why had Mors Binea suddenly turned into a madhouse? He glanced to the southeast in the direction of the dwelling that he shared with his mate and four children. Tukreta would be feeding the children in preparation for their afternoon lessons, although the deafening alarm bells were likely to have driven her nerves to near hysteria. She was not one to deal with stressful situations. Surely she had sense enough to remain indoors. Perhaps he should make his way home to see to their safety, but he couldn’t resist the temptation. He had to find out what was happening.

He made his way quickly up the main north avenue, passing terrified women moving in the opposite direction - babes clutched in one arm and dragging half-empty laundry baskets in the other. Shop doors slammed shut, bolting tightly, and street vendors hastily gathered their wares to retreat to safer locales. He ducked off the street to where a fat goblin shopkeeper hastily rolled up his red and white striped canopy as an armed contingent of elves raced past. Returning to the street, he followed as quickly as he could, his squat goblin legs unable to keep up with their fleet-footed pace.

The main gates stood wide open when he arrived at the high inner wall - a long line of human, dwarf, elf, and centaur soldiers filing through from every direction, merged into a tightly-packed bottleneck at the gate. The ramparts were strangely deserted, aside from a handful of spectators gazing out and gesturing toward the northern plains beyond. A crowd of civilians had gathered at the base of the wall shouting inquiries that were lost in the deafening clamor to those above. Pushing his way through the throng, Ikorak arrived at the base of the winding stairwell that climbed to the ramparts. Civilians were not usually permitted upon the walls except on festive occasions, but there were no guards present to deny him access. With a final glance over his shoulder, he mounted the steps and ascended quickly. He reached the top, moving a few paces away from the steps lest some official notice that he was there and order him to depart. The crenellated wall was too high for him to see over from his current position, so he moved to a gap between crenellations and there he froze.

All the forces that Mors Binea could muster from its various races were formed into deep lines beyond the Tartanus, or old outer wall. The new outer wall was being constructed well beyond that, but was presently little more than a gate and fifty or sixty-foot section of incomplete stone wall standing alone amid the knee-high saw grass. But it wasn’t Mors Binea’s army that made him pause - it was the ravenous swarm that was descending upon it from the north. Although he couldn’t say for certain at this distance, they appeared to be goblins. Hundreds - nay – thousands of them, and judging from the hostile manner in which they bounded across the northern plain it was evident that they had no intentions of parlaying. Like a formidable colony of army ants they swarmed over Mors Binea’s finest as if they were merely a hive of hapless termites.

Ikorak backed away from the wall, his breath caught in his throat. After a moment’s hesitation and an uncontrollable shiver, he turned to scramble down the steps. Pushing frantically through the steadily-gathering crowd, he raced up the street toward his home. His lungs cried out for mercy, but he had no intention of stopping until he passed through his dwelling’s threshold and maybe not even then. Tukreta’s eyes widened and she let loose a shriek, dropping an empty clay pitcher as he burst through the door. The pitcher shattered against the clay-tiled floor, sending shards spinning off in every direction.

Gather the little ones, Ikorak gasped, doubling over to catch his breath, we’re leaving this place!

What is happening? she inquired, her voice trembling. I heard the bells - are we in danger?

Ignoring the question, Ikorak fetched a knapsack from beside the door and went to the pantry, where he began stuffing it full of food.

Ikorak?

Do as I say, woman! he snapped, dropping as many items to the floor as he managed to insert into the sack.

Trembling, she did as she was told, disappearing into the back room to where the young ones were attempting to concentrate on their studies despite all the mayhem outdoors. She returned quickly, ushering four bewildered young goblins ahead of her. Tiny voices jumbled together as they voiced unanswered questions. Without even a word to his mate, Ikorak pushed them through the door into the chaos-filled street.

Where are we going? Tukreta voiced finally, corralling the children in her arms lest they become separated and lost in the panicked crowd.

Ikorak slung the knapsack over his shoulder, taking the tiny hand of one of the children, his narrowed eyes seeking out the best avenue of escape. His gaze settled upon the snowcapped peaks of the mighty Kazarant Mountains to the south beyond the temple acropolis. To the mountains.

The mountains? Tukreta gasped, tears welling in her eyes. Ikorak, please tell me what is...

She was interrupted by furious hooves beating against the cobbled street and parting the crowed as they advanced. Ikorak! a voice called out.

Ikorak turned to see Arkametros galloping in his direction, the centaur’s mate following close upon his heels. He had a noticeable limp from a gash in one of his forelegs and his steel breastplate was splashed with blood. He tightly gripped a crimson-stained sword which left a dripping blood trail along the ground behind him. His mate, Reena, had a longbow slung over her shoulder as she carried their young colt clutched tightly to her breast.

We’ve been overrun! Arkametros exclaimed, coming to a halt before his friend. Ikorak bent to examine the centaur’s injured leg, but Arkametros waved him away. There’s no time. We must flee to the mountains.

That was my intention... Ikorak began.

Arkametros shuffled forward, nudging the goblin backward. Then let’s be gone. They’ve already overtaken the inner wall and will soon be upon us if we linger.

Who are they?

Arkametros started up the street, his usually serene facial features shrouded in a darkness the likes of which Ikorak had never before seen on his friend. Goblins, he answered once the rest of their small group joined him in his brisk pace, "but not like your kin - they are bloodthirsty savages from the rotted lands that lie north beyond the Wildeland."

What do they want? Ikorak inquired. Why are they here?

Arkametros shook his head sadly. Who can say? But by all appearances they desire only death and destruction.

They made their way in silence through the city toward the southern edge and the narrow gate leading toward the mountains. The clash of arms faded into the distance, replaced by the terrified shrieks of the city’s inhabitants. After what seemed like an eternity they rounded a corner in the elven district and the gate came into view, jam-packed with fleeing citizens. Just as they dared to hope that they might find their way to safety, the rattle of armed warriors came to their ears, accompanied by the horrified screams of the crowds.

They’re upon us! Arkametros cried, shoving Ikorak forward toward the gate. Go - flee into the mountains - I’ll hold them as long as I can.

Before Ikorak could protest, the gallant centaur wheeled about and charged toward more than a dozen bearded savages. Reena edged toward Ikorak, shoving her babe into his arms. Keep him safe, I beg you, she whispered, stroking the young colt’s head a final time with tears in her eyes. Then she turned away, her bow appearing quickly in her hands with an arrow notched to the string. Gathering his family, the colt in his arms, Ikorak fled toward the gate.

It wasn’t until they had climbed halfway up the wooded slope of the nearest mountain that Ikorak finally paused to look back upon Mors Binea. Coming to a rocky clearing, he climbed atop an outcropping, looking out across the city far below. Smoke billowed up from within the walls, painting the sky black. Mors Binea burned. His stomach turned at the thought of how many souls were being ruthlessly slaughtered. A long line of refugees - mostly goblin, but a splattering of elves and dwarves - wound their way up the slope. Thankfully there was no sign of pursuit. The savage goblin invaders from the north were too busy looting and pillaging.

What do we do now? another goblin inquired, climbing to the outcropping to stand next to Ikorak. The fellow was pale even for a goblin, looking as if he might sick up at any moment as he gazed down upon the dying city.

Ikorak glanced down at the centaur babe in his arms and then back toward the narrow mountain path to where his mate waited and attempted to comfort their sobbing children. We make our way across the mountains to the human lands in the south. But what happens then is anyone’s guess.

*****

The goblin king’s head jerked abruptly upward as he woke from his restless sleep. Blinking sleep-filled eyes, he gazed distantly out across the empty audience cavern. It took a moment or two to realize where he was. He had been falling asleep in his recessed throne too often as of late - a thousand years finally beginning to take its toll upon his weathered body. Straining against a sore back, he slid from his perch to an awkward stance upon the cold stone floor. He wasn’t surprised to see the faithful guard standing at attention adjacent to the throne.

Go to bed, Radrak, the king muttered, inclining his head toward the stone-faced goblin. If I’m not safe within our own corridors then all is truly lost.

The guard bowed. I would see you to your chambers first, King Ikorak, Radrak replied.

Nonsense, Ikorak spat. I am king and as such I order you to your chambers. The guard shot the king a final defiant glance, followed quickly by a defeated head nod. Ikorak patted him on the shoulder as he passed by. Your diligence is greatly appreciated, but I will be just fine on my own this evening.

He watched with hands on hips as Radrak disappeared into the shadows of one of the dozen shadowed side corridors, as much to collect himself as anything else. The years were taking their toll not only upon his body, but his mind as well. Glancing up at the magnificent artistic panorama carved high upon the cave walls he recalled the recent dream in his mind. He had little fear of the details slipping away like a fleeting dream, because it wasn’t a dream at all - it was a memory.

His gaze slid across the panorama, having seen it a million times before, but finding it as deeply meaningful now as in the first days it had been carved. The history of his people was etched into that smooth stone - at least their history up to this point. He had personally carved the first of the scenes those many long years ago, following their flight from Mors Binea and hardship-filled journey over the Kazarant Mountains. Athol Myr had been ancient even then, welcoming them to refuge in the world of men. It was a relationship that had lasted until the plague that had driven them from the northland descended with all its fury upon the human kingdoms. From there, they had been forced to retreat into these caverns to stew for nearly a thousand years upon their misfortunes.

But perhaps that period of exile was coming nearly to its end. Turning away from the historical carvings he passed from the greenish moss lantern light into the shadows of a corridor three or four down the way from where Radrak had taken his leave. Radrak was due for promotion he thought suddenly, passing from the green light of a moss lantern into darkness and then into the light of the next lantern further down the tunnel. Next to Vrok, Radrak was one of his most able and trusted warriors. He would certainly need able commanders in the coming weeks.

The corridor split off and then split again before opening up into a sizeable cavern. He could make out the gentle echo of trickling water even before passing through the runic-inscribed arch leading into the cavern. The Crystal Garden was his favorite place in the entire subterranean kingdom. He had spent hours upon hours lost in the brilliant sparkles recalling long lost memories. Even at this late hour he couldn’t help but stop near the narrow waterfall and rest his arms upon the rock ledge dividing the path from the walls embedded with a million colorful crystals.

The crystals had existed long before the goblins had occupied the caverns - their exquisite beauty lost to all but a few crawling insects and stray bats. They had been formed when the world was young, exuding their own mysterious lights in every color of the rainbow. They seemed magical in nature and for that reason the goblins had left the cavern largely untouched, aside from carving fanciful arches at either entrance. They contained no real power, he knew, other than the feeling they gave him as he gazed wonderingly upon their beauty. He had been here a thousand times before, but their radiance never looked the same twice. They were mesmerizing.

You’ve been sleeping at your throne again.

Lost in the crystals as usual, he had not heard the telltale clip-clop of hooves upon the stone floor. The familiar voice took him back a thousand years. It wasn’t exactly the same as he remembered, but close enough that there could be no doubt as to its origin. So what of it? Ikorak answered. An old goblin needs his sleep wherever he can find it.

You have seen many years, but a thousand years is but a blink of the eye to the immortal races.

The goblin king turned toward his friend - the newcomer’s bulky form still lingering in the shadows. An occasional red or green crystal sparkle would light up a bearded face. I’m not immortal like you. Goblins live long, it’s true, and I’ve lived longer than most, but eternal sleep creeps ever nearer to me and I’ll readily admit that there are times in which I long for it.

You miss my father.

Of course, Ikorak replied, among others.

Then mayhap you’ll soon get your wish, because the time draws near.

So you keep reminding me, Ikorak growled.

And I’ll keep reminding you. The sooner you accept it, the sooner you will act accordingly. Time grows short.

Don’t you think I know that? Ikorak hissed.

His hooves clopped against the stone floor as the centaur emerged from the shadows into the million pinpricks of colored light from the radiating crystals. You can’t let fear for my safety delay your actions. Such folly will doom us all.

Can’t I? Ikorak grunted, raising his voice a notch. "The centaur race is extinct - you are all that remains. Don’t you think that factors into my decision? Your parents entrusted your life to me before they sacrificed themselves so that we might live. You have your father’s heart as well as his name, Arkametros, which is no small compliment. He was the bravest creature that I ever met of any race. But I love you as more than simply my best friend’s son - you are my own son. No father wishes to send his offspring to such hopeless folly."

But again, failure to do so will destroy us all the same, Arkametros countered. "The world is slipping quickly into darkness and sooner or later it will find its way to these caverns - it’s only a matter of time. But for now we may still act to forestall such a fate."

Ikorak sighed heavily, turning back toward the waterfall. Before I was burdened with kingship I was merely an artistic stone mason.

The centaur laughed. "A goblin stone mason? That’s like saying you’re a faun who likes the drink of the grape."

Ikorak shrugged. Maybe so, but even after a thousand years it is difficult to discern how this mantle fell to me. I was always happiest with hammer and chisel in hand... wedge and shim... but then all that remains of our people were thrust into my care when even the gods had forsaken us.

And now you have the chance for your people to perhaps be born anew.

But at what cost? Ikorak countered.

Arkametros shrugged. I suppose that is what we shall have to find out.

The goblin king nodded. Then you will soon get your wish. This afternoon I dispatched a messenger to our allies, the faun, announcing that the Chukata Goblins are preparing for war.

Chapter 1

The narrow plain between the easternmost edge of the Great Forest and the high walls of Coventry was a muddy, rutted mess. The steady stream of refugees over the last months had laid waste to the dirt and only slightly graveled road, making it virtually impassable by wheeled vehicles. The autumn rains had not done it any favors, creating gaping chasms out of the treacherous pits with which it was already pockmarked. Thankfully the last few weeks had seen the stream of refugees slow to a trickle and then cease altogether. That was good in the sense that the city walls were already bursting at the seams with dislocated people. The earliest arrivals - at least those who could afford passage - had booked ships bound for the south. But those ships were long gone and not expected to return anytime soon. The inns were filled far beyond capacity, as were most warehouses and stables, prompting the city’s regent to dispatch militia soldiers to assist in quartering them in private residences. Ramshackle huts - miniature cities within the city - had sprung up along the base of the city walls and on the beaches surrounding the ocean-going docks. And now word was spreading rapidly across the city that the granaries were running low and that the meager fleet of fishermen could no longer keep up with the demand for food. Coventry was fast becoming a worn structure just waiting to collapse beneath its own weight.

Tars Owen walked his late morning duty along the top of the city wall near the western gate, stifling a yawn as he leaned heavily on his eight-foot halberd. Lately that duty included keeping an eye turned inward toward the shanty huts a hundred feet below as much as watching for activity along the forest’s perimeter. Thievery was rampant, as was murder these days. It was sad to see the length to which desperate and broken people could sink in their innate need to survive.

The junk cities were already bustling with life this morning as the men went off to wait in the bread lines while the women made their way with whatever vessels they could muster for fresh water from the fountain in the city square. These days it simply wasn’t safe to carry food through the streets despite the tripled guard, so men went together in armed groups to fetch whatever they could put their hands on to feed their families. It had been a miracle of the gods so far that disease had not broken out.

Quiet morning, eh, Tars? a voice called out from behind him.

Good morning, Sergeant Yural, Tars replied, keeping his gaze fixed upon a pretty young peasant girl who had just emerged from a slanting hut made up mostly of mud, switch grass, and broken wagon parts. Her faded blue dress was dirty and her hair tangled, but her curves more than made up for the lack of presentation. In another month or two those curves would disappear beneath the ravages of hunger. It was a crying shame.

A lass like that belongs in a dance on the village green - not living in a louse-infested mud hut beneath a city wall, the sergeant sighed.

Tars watched her disappear up a side alley heading toward the city center and then turned to face his companion. Has there been any news from outside, Sarge?

Yural turned the other direction, resting his clasped hands on the crenellated outer wall. It’s the same as yesterday - no new ships and no overland messengers. He exhaled deeply. Mol’s beard, it’s as if we’re the last outpost of man in the whole world.

Tars joined him looking out over the muddy plain. This is madness, the guard grumbled.

I don’t see any smoke today, Yural noted. Perhaps that’s a good sign. Over the course of the last couple months smoke could be seen at various points in the far-off distance as the beasts rampaging the lands burned out settlement after settlement. Each passing day brought a new black billow rising over the forest treetops - sometimes nearer and sometimes farther away. But little had been seen for the last week or so. The terrain seemed eerily quiet.

The sergeant leaned further over the parapet, resting on his elbows. Has the morning patrol gone out yet?

Nope, Tars replied, looking back over his shoulder toward the east and the rising sun so that he could gauge the time. They’re a bit late this morning.

It’s no wonder, Yural mused, with the double shifts we’ve all been pulling and all the chaos surrounding the refugees. He suddenly squinted at something in the distance, leaning forward to have a better look.

What is it, Sarge - Smoke?

Sergeant Yural shook his head, extending his hand toward the southeast. What do you make of that?

Tars shifted his halberd from one hand to the other, leaning out over the wall. Birds.

Aye, the sergeant agreed. Something is moving through the forest and spooking them.

Tars leaned even farther over the wall. It could be anything. Perhaps a bear, or else more refugees?

Yural shook his head. Nay, there are too many. Look in the distance - whole flocks of birds are springing from their roosts. That wouldn’t be the case even if it was a large pack of wolves.

Should I put the men on alert, Sarge?

Suddenly a figure burst forth from the woods, running as hard as it could toward the open plain and the city walls upon which they stood. Once the figure cleared the shadows of the tall trees they could clearly make out the green and brown tunic of an Amadorian Ranger. The figure was soon joined by three, then five, then nine more fellow rangers - each man in full stride as if he fled from the Demon Lords themselves. The ten rangers made perhaps sixty paces beyond the tree line and across the muddy, unstable plain before the air darkened around them. From the city walls it looked as if the rangers were fleeing a swarming mass of hornets, but from the way the tiny specks arced first upward and then curved downward it was obvious that a tremendous volley of arrows had been loosed from within the forest. The missiles rained death down upon the fleeing men, dropping four of them to the muddy ground.

Sound the general alarm! Sergeant Yural barked.

*****

Colyn’s lungs burned and his legs felt weighted like stone columns as he splashed through ankle-deep puddles and leapt deep, water-filled wagon ruts. It seemed as if they had been running forever, but now the high city walls of Coventry were in sight and he almost dared to hope that they might actually make it to relative safety. He cringed as the twang of a hundred bowstrings sounded from within the forest. But he didn’t slow his stride. If the gods willed that he fall within sight of his home, then so be it.

He maintained his stride as the black arrows began falling like hailstones all around him, leaping them as they crossed his path and dodging as his peripheral vision caught a blur of movement on this side or that. They flew so close as to literally part the hair on his head from the displaced air. But he remained singularly focused upon reaching the wall - the ring of safety growing ever larger in his sight. There was a yelp and then another as his companions were struck down, but he dared not look back for the imminent threat of being overrun. They had discussed that very point during the last stages of their flight - as the hated enemy encroached ever closer upon their heels. The dash across the plain was every man for himself - it had to be that way. But each successive cry infuriated him. He wanted nothing more than to draw his weapon, turn back, and charge headlong into the rampaging horde nipping so hotly at his heels. Such a death would be a satisfying and noble thing, but would do nothing to warn Coventry of the hell about to be unleashed upon it.

Aleric appeared in front of him - the youthful ranger from the south of Amador running for all he was worth. His younger legs remained strong where Colyn’s began to falter, taking long, sturdy strides across the unforgiving ground. But an arrow suddenly appeared in his back, followed by another in his leg before his body could even tumble to the ground, and Colyn could bear it no longer. He slid to a halt, breaking his own strict rule, scooping the lad over his shoulder. Two other fleeing rangers passed them by as he grunted and groaned his way forward thankful that at least they had sense enough to follow instructions. He didn’t need to look back to know that they were hotly pursued. The triumphant and belligerent cries of the goblins were enough, along with the metallic clank of their lightly-armored bodies and drawn rapiers, ripe for human blood as they advanced ever closer. But then he was passing through the partially-opened city gate and the bowstrings that twanged were from the Amadorian archers atop the walls. The shrieks and cries of pain were from goblin mouths.

He came to a halt not far within the gate, depositing his burden gently onto the ground in the presence of a score of bewildered guardsmen. He could hear the creak of the gate as it was hastily shut in his wake and his heart beat sorrowfully at the realization that no more than four of his rangers had made it past the stout wall. Bent over with his hands on his knees he gasped for air, dropping to a knee at Aleric’s side.

Blood trickled from the corner of the youth’s mouth as his eyes fixed upon Colyn. We made it, Captain, the boy mumbled, his lips curling into a crimson-toothed smile.

Two guards bent over the lad as Colyn straightened. See to this man, he barked, his cold gaze seeking out the nearest ladder leading to the upper ramparts. His weariness momentarily forgotten, he scampered up the ladder with urgent haste.

The scene atop the narrow walkway spanning the top of the wall was chaotic to say the least. The threat that had been looming over Coventry for the last several months had finally materialized and nervous guardsmen scampered about like mice in a granary preparing for attack.

Hold your fire! a grizzled sergeant was shouting, walking up and down the line slapping men on their mail-covered backs. They’re out of range. Save your arrows.

Colyn pushed forward to the crenellated wall to look out over the plain from which he had so recently fled. Across the plain not far from the forest tree line perhaps a thousand goblins lingered, brandishing their shining curved scimitars in the air and hurling taunts toward the walled city in their vile language. Even if they were within earshot he wouldn’t have understood what they were saying, but the gestures were clear enough. Arrow-riddled goblin corpses were scattered sporadically across the ground, some still writhing on the ground, or else crawling slowly back towards their own line. Colyn’s gaze landed upon a solitary ranger lying face down in the mud midway between the city walls and the shrieking goblins. The man held an imploring hand aloft toward the city as if begging for someone within to reach out a godlike hand to haul him to safety. Embedded arrows lined his back like the spiked spine of a dragon.

Colyn turned away, yanking the long bow from the wide-eyed guard who stood nearest to him. The man opened his mouth to protest, but something in Colyn’s hard eyes prompted him to hold his tongue. Notching an arrow to the string, the ranger turned back toward the plain, closing one eye to sight in his target. The bow twanged and the arrow flew straight and true, planting itself into the top of the fallen ranger’s head. The extended arm dropped to the mud and moved no more.

The sergeant, having witnessed the affair, clamped a hand upon Colyn’s shoulder. Are you out of your bloody mind, mister? You just killed one of your own!

Colyn ignored the sergeant’s hand on his shoulder, handing the bow back to the ashen-faced guard. What’s your name, Sergeant? he rasped, staring the man down with a cold, fierce look.

Noticing the officer’s stripes on Colyn’s ranger tunic for the first time, the sergeant’s eyebrows arched. Sergeant Yural, Sir.

Colyn nodded. I did that man a favor, Sergeant Yural. You haven’t seen what those beasts do to their prisoners. Trust me - you don’t ever want to see that. You’d best spread the word about that fact.

The sergeant backed away, throwing up a quick and awkward salute as Colyn moved to descend the ladder. The racket made by the goblin horde penetrated the wall, paralyzing the terror-stricken crowd gathered in the shanty town at the base of the wall. Colyn ignored the sound, the clamor made by the hell-spawned beasts already committed to his restless memory. He had lost an entire army of highly skilled warriors in a couple short months fighting the creatures and would see their hideous faces in his dreams for the rest of his life. He reached the bottom of the ladder and was met immediately by a forlorn-looking ranger - one of the three who had made it to the city with him. Bendar had been with him since the beginning and if they had not been the best of friends over the course of their time in the Amadorian Rangers, these last two months had certainly brought them together. Bendar was several years older than Colyn - a stout man in his late thirties with a graying beard and streaks of white in his auburn hair - but he was a peak physical specimen who could keep up with the youngest of the rangers.

He’s asking for you, Bendar said, his gaze boring into his captain as if he knew exactly what had transpired atop the city wall.

How is he doing? Colyn replied, his gaze attempting to seek out the other two rangers amid the thickly-gathered crowd.

Bendar shook his head. It’s not good, Captain. We removed the arrows and plugged the holes as best we could, but... He clapped a hand on Colyn’s shoulder to urge him forward. "I sent Ergo to fetch a surgeon,