Dark Lord: The First Tome of the Chronicles of Greywolf and the Goddess

By Greywolf the Wanderer

Greywolf is the general of an anemic militia that guards the frontiers of the idyllic land of the Fae, Tir-na-nog. All appears peaceful along the northern borders, until he sends animals to spy across the Mysts, that mysterious veil that separates the Human lands from the enchanted Lands of the Fae.

He rushes back to his homeland only to be scorned as an opportunist by the ruling council. Almost single handedly he strives to stem the flow of the enemy not only into his own lands, but into all of Tir-na-nog itself.

Will he succeed? Can he rally the kingdoms to defend the lands in time? The answer may surprise you.

Enter a wayward Goddess hell bent on revenge! Diana arrives in Tir-na-nog to avenge the destruction of her temples And the murdering of her priestesses. The first living soul she encounters upon arrival is Greywolf. The Sparks fly as they form an unlikely partnership to do battle against Dark Lord!

A bold fantasy tale laced with drama, comedy, magic, mystery, bloodshed, and romance. Where mythical beasts and races come alive, and interact in a world of splendor. It is a classical struggle between the forces of Good and Evil. He receives reports that in a land of an ancient enemy, troops are amassing at a fortress known as the Tower of Terror. Then the reports abruptly cease. He travels to the land of Humans himself only to discover that an invasion is being planned by an evil villain. A villain he himself used to call friend.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 8, 2000
• ISBN: 9781475903102

Greywolf the Wanderer

Laura Perrotti, writing under the name of The Goddess Diana, is originally from Baltimore, Maryland. She moved to New Jersey at an early age. She has been writing poetry and short stories since childhood and has culminated her literary skills in her latest work, Dark Lord, the first in a series of full-length novels. A graduate of Norwich University in Vermont with a degree in Psychology, Laura has written numerous academic works, including a thesis, which concentrated on the affects of Alzheimer's disease on the family dynamic. Currently a resident in North Western New Jersey, Laura is now focusing her skills more toward creative writing and raising her family. David M. Rountree, who writes under the pseudonym Greywolf the Wanderer, was born in Suffolk, Virginia on May 22, 1954. He and his family moved to Florida during his eighth year, to the quiet little town of Delray Beach, where he developed an intense love for both the sea and flying. The freedom of the sky inspired him to join the Air Force in 1972, where he completed his degree in Electronic Engineering. His experience in Vietnam inspired him to write, and in 1994, he became co-editor and contributing author of The Feary Rad magazine. This opportunity spawned many short stories, articles and poetry about weapons, love, war, and legendary races. He left the magazine in 1999 to concentrate on the completion of Dark Lord, his first full-length work. His poetry appears in selected anthologies titled Nature's Echoes, and his work will be featured in a new anthology titled Friends of Morningshade. His poem "Laura" was selected by the International Library of Poetry to be published in "Poetry's Elite-The best poets of 2000". David is currently working on a book about paranormal technology. David and Laura were married in 2003 and have a five year old son, Ian.

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All Rights Reserved © 2001 by David M. Rountree and Laura L. Perrotti

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Writer’s Showcase an imprint of iUniverse.com, Inc.

For information address: iUniverse.com, Inc. 5220 S 16th, Ste. 200 Lincoln, NE 68512 www.iuniverse.com

ISBN: 0-595-14692-9

ISBN: 978-1-4759-0310-2 (ebook)

Contents

Dark Lord

Dark Lord

Dedication

Epigraph

List of Illustrations

Foreword

List of Contributors

Introduction

PART I

Reconnoiter

Dark Lord

Escape

Deals and Death

Moonshadow

Recovery

The Politics of War

Prelude to War

The Business at Hand

Surprises

Lessons

The Winds of War

A King Takes the Throne

Something Wicked This Way Cometh

A Little Light Where Darkness Grows

But Darkness Grows

PART II

Homecoming

Oberon’s Keep

Destination: Oak Keep

The Battle for the Peninsula

The Fall of Mountainview

The Battle of Willows

The King and the Goddess

Taking the Goddess

Yule’s Eve

Naked runs the Wolf

Love heals all

A Change of Hearts

Education

The Night of Sorrow

The Funeral

Princess Fenya

The Eve of Destruction

The End of Innocence

Epilogue

Afterword

About the Author

Tome of Knowledge

Months of the Elves

THE HISTORY OF THE SYLVAN ELVES (HISTORY AS THE WOOD ELVES RECKON)

Family Tale of the Wolf Clan As told by Greywolf

THE KINGDOM OF THE SYLVAN ELVES

THE ROYAL LINEAGE

MILITARY ORGANIZATION

THE MILITIA

THE CAVALRY

CITIES AND TOWNS OF THE SYLVAN ELF KINGDOM (Prior to Dark Lord’s invasion)

A Guide to Locales

A guide to the Fauna

Races

The Heroes

The Villains

Terms of Note and Colorful Metaphors

Artifacts of Note

The Deities of Tir-na-nog

The Realm of Olympus

How the Goddess Came To Be

Cartography

This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events portrayed in this book are purely fictional, and any resemblance to real people both dead or alive or actual factual incidents is completely coincidental.

Edited by Diana Sinclair

Chapter illustrations by:

Cindy Priestess Sudano D. Rook Lavallee Jayni Raven Morris

Map illustrations by: David M. Rountree

Dedication

This Tome is dedicated to my Father, Wolfmaster, who was the bravest man I have ever known.

To my Mother, the Sorceress Cecelia Starfire, for teaching me magic.

To my daughter, the Princess Fenya, because every little girl needs a dream.

Last of all, but certainly not least, to the Goddess Diana, for without her gentle prodding, this work would have never come to fruition.—Greywolf the Wanderer

My part in these chronicles is dedicated to Lydia, a goddess herself, who selflessly lent her support and remained truer than any sister could by keeping my writing a secret until the proper time.

To my loving parents, Zeus and Leto, who had the wisdom to stand aside and give me the freedom I needed to explore this strange world.

And to my writing partner and life-long friend, his majesty lord Greywolf, who helped me break down the barriers that separated me from my true talents. Thanks Wolf. Without you, I would have never known my creative side.—Diana, Goddess of the Moon

Epigraph

The art of war is of vital importance to the state. It is a matter of life and death, a road either to safety or ruin. Hence under no circumstances can it be neglected. Sun Tzu

Deep in the inner recesses of the fathoms of one’s soul, fear lies in wait. It is up to each of us to sojourn there and defeat it, for fear is our staunchest enemy. Greywolf the Wanderer

What you have and what you accomplish carries value because of the price you pay to gain it. What gives a thing worth is the degree of its cost. Goddess Diana

List of Illustrations

Frontspiece: Greywolf’s Saga

(Cindy Priestess Sudano) Chapter 1: Reconnoiter—The Tower of Terror

(D. Rook Lavallee) Chapter 2: Dark Lord—Greywolf and Falgar

(Jayni Raven Morris) Chapter 3: Escape—Escape

(Cindy Priestess Sudano) Chapter 6: Recovery—Skull and the Four Winds

(D. Rook Lavallee) Chapter 8: Prelude to War—Raum

(D. Rook Lavallee)

Chapter 9: The Business at Hand—Goddess (Cindy Priestess Sudano)

Chapter 10: Surprises—Ka in Battle (Cindy Priestess Sudano)

Chapter 14: Something Wicked This Way Cometh—Hatfen

(D. Rook Lavallee) Chapter 15: A Little Light Where Darkness Grows—Skull after battle (Cindy Priestess Sudano) Chapter 17: Homecoming—Ka the Regent (Cindy Priestess Sudano) Chapter 20: The Battle for the Peninsula—Tor (Cindy Priestess Sudano) Chapter 22: The Battle of Willows—Strider (Cindy Priestess Sudano) Chapter 23: The King and the Goddess—Contemplation

(Jayni Raven Morris) Chapter 25: Yule’s Eve—Demons

(D. Rook Lavallee)

Chapter 26: Naked Runs the Wolf—Chains (Cindy Priestess Sudano) Chapter 31: The Funeral"—Goodbye

(D. Rook Lavallee)

Chapter 32: Princess Fenya—The Singing Sisters of the City of Flower

(D. Rook Lavallee)

Afterword—Greywolf and Diana (Cindy Priestess Sudano)

Tome of Knowledge—The Ride (Cindy Priestess Sudano)

Cartogrophy—Tir-na-nog (David M. Rountree) Northern Tir-na-nog Southern Tir-na-nog Eastern Tir-na-nog Western Tir-na-nog Deep Wood

Foreword

When I was first approached with writing this forward, I thought about all the events that lead up to its creation and the untold story behind the scenes as it was being put to paper. I realized, of course, there was no way I could fit all of my thoughts in just a few paragraphs, so I have tried to sum it up as concisely as possible.

To describe the process in just one sentence, this book was written with blood, sweat and tears.

Not enough? I will go on, then.

When I first met Greywolf, he was in the middle of a painful divorce. Dark Lord was about three chapters long, at the time, a serial in a club magazine. He was basically knocking out a chapter every two months as filler and background for a live role playing organization. As the co-editor of the group’s publication, it was only natural that he publish his work in the magazine to test the waters. I have to admit I looked forward to each new issue to see what the main characters were up to next. This book, as the teaser hints, is a rather bold fantasy tale.

Several years later, he told me he was going to make the Dark Lord serial into a novel. I encouraged him to follow his plan, as what I read up to that point held my interest, and I had no doubt, it would captivate an even larger audience. During this time, no one who read the chapters had a clue as to where the story would end. I don’t think he did either, but the pages continued to unfold.

To further test the story’s worth, he began to post it online, a chapter at a time. His idea to do this worked like a charm. The chapters continued to be posted, some of which were seen, for the first time, by an entirely new audience. His fans wanted more.

During this stage of production, Greywolf met the Goddess. At first, she reluctantly agreed to edit the work, but in time, a metamorphosis took place. The Goddess took on the role of co-author, adding story lines, new characters, and more depth to the characters already introduced.

Just as her own character entered the story in the online postings, Greywolf and the Goddess agreed to pull the chapters from public view. The writing was then surrounded by total secrecy, as the two coordinated their individual writing styles into a free flowing story.

Diana rewrote the earlier chapters, adding her insight and influence, and at the same time, she and Greywolf worked closely to weave the rest of the tale. With the melding of their efforts, the book changed, becoming smoother and more detailed, revealing the influence of their private lives within the pages of the book.

As one of the first readers, I was mesmerized by the story, which described a betrayal by an old friend and the steadfast loyalty of new ones, a sojourn undertaken into a strange land; the loss of loved ones; the end of one adventure and the beginning of another. In the midst of these events, a close friendship between a Goddess and a Warrior bloomed.

Sounds like a plot for a fantasy novel doesn’t it? But, in a way, much of the work mirrors the lives of its authors as they journeyed through this book’s creation. What resulted, only proves to me that art imitates life. Yes, I know I reversed the saying, but I believe this version is truer than the much-used quip. So when you read this story, remember that real life, many times, melts into the realm of fantasy, and you, too, may find yourself living within these pages.

Rolaine F. Smoot

List of Contributors

The authors wish to thank Cindy Sudano, Bob Harper, Roxane Scott, Joe Miller, Kort Kramer, Robert Stone, Pat DelaPiana, and Scott Hester for their contibutions to this story.

Introduction

Take another arrow and try again, Greywolf, Wolfmaster instructed his son. You must learn the ways of a warrior.

The young Elf placed the arrow on the bow and set it against the string.

You must learn the tools of the trade. The bow, for example, should not be fired as you do it. It must be plucked like a delicate instrument. The string should sing like the finest lute.

Greywolf aimed the bow at the target, a sack filled with dirt. He pulled back on the string and released it. The bowstring sang this time, and the arrow flew true to its mark, striking the bag of dirt dead center.

Very good, son! Wolfmaster patted Greywolf on the shoulder and locked him in an embrace with one of his strong arms. Every arrow must be fired that precisely. You must practice until you can do it consistently, even in the face of a charging bear; the gods forbid, one day even against a man. But you must shoot to kill, not merely to wound.

It is hard, father. My hands shake from holding the string, complained Greywolf, as he wriggled free of Wolfmaster’s strong hold.

It is because you have not mastered the ways of a warrior. A warrior must have control, discipline, forbearance, timing, and an impeccable will. Master these five things, my boy, and you will excel in anything you do, be it love or war. Now let’s go wash up for dinner.

The young Elf retrieved his arrows and followed his father back to their treehouse.

After the evening meal of venison, wild rice, glazed carrots and berries, Greywolf helped his mother tidy up as his father sat at his massive wooden desk, poring over papers and mumbling about the King’s budget for training and the cost of arrows. As the evening drew to a close, the young boy sat by the fire with his mother. She told him tales of high adventure and of the goddess. And she taught him magic.

Practice the levitation spell again, son, and I will tell you of the goddess Diana.

Wide-eyed, Greywolf listened to his mother spin a tale about a white stag, Diana, and the vow that she made to the gods. To Greywolf, the story was enthralling. He listened as he levitated a small stone between his hands and dreamed of one-day meeting this goddess that was called Diana, mistress of the moon, goddess of the hunt…

PART I

Darkness Comes

Image277.JPG

Reconnoiter

Greywolf surveyed the bleak, desolate, and somewhat surrealistic landscape stretching panoramically before him. To call the cratered, pockmarked plain a lifeless desert was less than accurate, for even deserts have some life in them. Nay, this land was altogether void of life. This land was Shadow Walk, a place where even the tumbleweed fail to survive.

Looking over his left shoulder, he scanned the intimidating walls of The Great Barricade Mountains, a natural barrier between the Lands of the Faye and the lands of men. Its labyrinth of canyons wound through its body, undulating like the entrails of some gigantic beast, making simple passage impossible. Constant landslides and flash floods changed the course of existing passes regularly, not to mention the instabilities that occur when two planes meet, adding to the defensive value of the immense range. And somewhere in the midst of the maze lay the Myst, a bank of cosmic fog that separates all existing realms. One could travel through time and space if one knew the secret of navigating that endless domain. From the Dawn of Men, it had effectively stemmed the flow of Human migration and invasion.

He looked down at the red gem that he held in the palm of his hand and lifted it up towards the sun so that its facets exploded in a dazzling array of crimson light. This blood-colored gem, scant moments before, had accurately delivered him to this godforsaken locale. Even still, it contained a significant magical charge throbbing in its facets. The stone was an enigma known as Dragonshard!

As he stuffed the gem carefully back into its pouch, he thought back on how he had acquired this rare and precious stone. A certain dragon struck a bargain with him, and he had accepted. The dragon, of course, got the better end of the deal (which, of course, is to be expected when dealing with such a beast).

Two hundred and fifty-six years ago, during the waning years of the Dragon Wars, Greywolf had flown on dragonback fighting the evil Drow in the great air battles that pitched the good dragons against the evil. After one particularly intense attack, his dragon, Viendahl, had suffered mortal wounds, and in the ensuing crash, the beast died. As a result, Greywolf found himself on foot and with few supplies in the heart of enemy-controlled territory.

To make matters worse, a snowstorm blew in from the north, leaving him exposed to the brutal elements. Hoping to survive, he entered an ancient cavern and followed the twisting passages deep beneath the mountains. At last, he came upon a majestic, underground chamber that housed a huge, ageless Platinum Dragon. He had stumbled into the lair of the King of the good dragons, the Great Bahamut.

The very wise, ancient dragon bargained with Greywolf, beseeching him to retrieve the artifact, The Orb of Dragonkind, which had started the Dragon wars thirteen years before. After sharing a meal with the sagely beast, Greywolf set out to infiltrate the enemy camp. The journey seethed with danger; but after several days of travel, he finally came upon the camp of Prince Marlech, the Drow general who originally invaded Tir-na-nog and stolen the artifact. Greywolf fought the Prince in open battle and killed him, escaping with both the Orb and his own life. Without the ability to control their dragons, the Drow were soon defeated. In return for his brave deed, Bahamut gifted Greywolf with the shard.

The blood-red gem had limitations, and for a time, Greywolf found it difficult to maintain its magical charge. He often found that the stone was left without power because he had over-utilized it. Still, the gem had proven itself quite useful in Greywolf ’s many adventures since its acquisition, due largely to the fact it could store magical spells within its facets. Once the gem had been used up, it had to be recharged by a competent wizard, and the fee was exorbitant. The choice of the spells was entirely up to the owner. The stone was, he found, infallible. He would need everything in his bag of tricks on this adventure if he hoped to survive.

Looking off to the west, he could just make out the closest outpost of the suspected enemy, a darkly foreboding place known as the Tower of Skulls. It was a common enough name for a fortress on the fringes of Human territories, as Greywolf ’s many travels could attest; yet this one was quite different. This fortress was constructed of Human skulls and the bones harvested after centuries of battles against Humans and Faye alike. It was a testament to how truly foul life’s conditions could become.

He shifted his gaze to the north and carefully picked his way down into the foothills, for north was where his quarry, the Tower of Terror, lay. That abomination had housed the tortures of thousands of Humans before they were fed to demons while still fighting for their lives. That was over six hundred years ago, yet Greywolf could remember every horrid detail. Shaking off the image, his thoughts wandered deeper into the mysteries that lay before him.

As he picked his way carefully down the rugged slope, he thought about how, at his headquarters in Selenor, messenger hawks reported that a high degree of military activity occurring at the tower. Then, suddenly, the reports ceased altogether. All further attempts to send hawks prying into the activities resulted in the disappearance of the great birds of prey without a trace. All other attempts to gain knowledge of the on-going activities failed miserably. Having no other alternative, Greywolf decided that a spy must infiltrate this territory and investigate.

It had only been a month since Greywolf arrived at his camp in Selenor. Hidden within a thickly forested region, this Wood Elven village was located north on the Serpent River in the upper reaches of the Sylvan Elf Kingdom. He journeyed from his keep far to the south in the principality of Wolfden Weyr to begin his two months of active duty with the militia. He formerly held the rank of general in the King’s Army. However, with the death of good King Elemmakil some eighty years ago, he now served the High Council, a body that ruled in the absence of an elected king. He commanded an elite group of battle-hardened veterans, some of whom served with him as far back as the Demon Wars. Known as the Wolf Brigade, they were a troop of elite fighting Elves. Though the kingdom was at peace and had not kept a standing army in almost thirty years, he and his soldiers did not use their active duty for happy reunions and rest. Nay, he and his men trained and trained hard. He believed the more one sweat in peacetime, the less blood would be shed in wartime. So it had been standard operating procedure to send out messenger hawks to reconnoiter the borders. It stood to reason that sending hawks through the Mysts to the nearest realm was a wise decision. When reports returned indicating activity in the land of an old enemy, it had been a foregone conclusion to concentrate one’s efforts on discovering more. When the reports ceased altogether, it was time to act. Sending a spy to investigate made good military sense, and he sent the best one available. Trusting only his own eyes, he had undertaken the mission himself.

He felt some trepidation towards the High Council’s reaction when news of his unauthorized mission reached them, but they were not military minded folk and would not understand the need for security. However, if what he suspected were true, understanding would come soon enough.

As he carefully made his way across the barren, windswept landscape, he struggled through the ankle deep sterile dust of the vast plain. Shadow Walk was a land that boasted a notoriously dark and sinister past. He, himself, fought against an evil mage who had ruled the realm many years ago. That mage, a despotic man, placed value not in life, but in power. He referred to himself as The Dark Lord. This misguided mage was determined to rule the world through the enslavement of mankind, and, coupled with the history of Shadow Walk itself, rife with legends of dark-souled Humans who climbed to power through domination and subjugation, it was no small wonder he rose to power. Fortunately, the surrounding Human kingdoms rose up in rebellion and thwarted this megalomaniac, and those of his ilk, before they could succeed in their quest. It was in the service of just such a kingdom that Greywolf found himslef fighting the former Dark Lord. On this occaision, however, the circumstances were different. This time he was in the service of his homeland, no longer a two-bit mercenary fighting for gold, revenge, and the right cause. The stakes were significantly higher.

For two seemingly endless days he crept northward, enduring the extreme heat of day and the chilled, wintry conditions of night. He slept by the light of the sun and traveled by the darkness of night, taking his meals cold and setting no fires. As a guide, he used the map of the Elves, which is known to Humans as the constellations. The turbulent sky in the Human realm was somewhat different from the gentle sky of his beloved Tir-na-nog, but after traveling many years in this land and fighting numerous wars, he grew to know the positions of all the major stars.

At sunrise on the third day, he finally glimpsed the tower of his quest, marking the end of his fitful journey. Much to his surprise, he discovered something else…a camp! In all his years of being a soldier this camp was the largest he ever beheld. Crawling carefully on his knees, he peered from his vantage point atop the tallest of a group of surrounding sand dunes, staying low to avoid discovery. He observed many strategic details of the hosting fortress, as well as the ominous war camp sprawled out before it. He needed, however, to understand more. The only road to that neccessary knowledge, and the discovery of the motivations behind it’s very existance, led straight into the camp that lay before him.

The general was precisely in the midst of this thought process when he felt the sharp, cold steel point of a spear touch the skin behind his right ear. He silently cursed his inattentiveness.

Move a muscle, Elf, and I’ll skewer yer brains. An’ what would yer bizzness be out here spyin’ on the mighty war camp of our lord emperor, Falgar the Magnificent, the brutish voice demanded.

Greywolf moved, ever so slightly, shifting his weight to the right. His efforts were rewarded by a slight puncture of the skin behind his ear.

Speak up,ya pointed eared devil, the voice barked.I’m not a-jokin!

Greywolf cleared his throat, his mind racing to find a weakness in the sentry’s position. In a steady voice he replied, I am the half-Elf mercenary known as Greywolf the Wanderer. I served with your Lord Falgar in the Kaldarin Wars. The fact of the matter is I saved his life. When news reached me that he was building an army of conquest, my dutiful decision was to sojourn here and lend my sword to his most worthy cause.

Your tongue is forked I see, you Elf scum spy, the voice behind him spat. Our Lord Master would never fight on the side of an accursed Faye, no matter the desperation of his plight. Let’s stand up easy now and hand me that sword…hilt forward, mind you.

Greywolf calculated the distance of the voice with meticulous care. As he slowly rose to a squat, he spun left in an incredible burst of speed, palming the spear aside while leaping up, avoiding the startled sentry’s delayed thrust, which stabbed the air harmlessly where Greywolf had previously knelt.

Your mother should have taught you better manners, Greywolf growled as he landed, cat-like on his feet, before the startled sentry.

Then again, perhaps you didn’t have one.

Quickly making a fist, he punched the man in the throat. Wide-eyed, the sentry lost his grip on the spear and fell to his knees, choking for air.

Why don’t you lay there and try to breathe for awhile, Greywolf continued, almost casually. He watched closely as the man’s eyes bulged out from suffocation, his windpipe collapsed. He gazed coolly into the man’s panicked stare, as he dusted the sand from his faded tunic. The stricken sentry fell prone on the hot sand of the desert, a horrified look on his face. He rolled over on his back, twitching and turning blue, gasping to breathe. Greywolf watched him thrash around for minutes, offering the doomed man no aid. He stood motionless in a silent vigil, until at last the sentry heaved one last time and stopped moving. The seasoned warrior paused to search the man for any useful items. Finding nothing of value, he swept the sand around the lifeless body with his hands, effectively removing any sign of his presence. He crawled backward from the still form crumpled on the ground, erasing all impressions in the sand as he moved, until he was well away from the body. Satisfied with his work, he stood up and tidied his garb, concealing the fact that he had just been in a fight. Turning northward and walking across the hot, baking sand, Greywolf headed straight toward the huge camp.

Image287.JPG

Dark Lord

Greywolf had not lied to the man who now lay dead, stiffening in the dunes behind him. He had served with a Human named Falgar during the Kaldarin Wars. That man went by the name Falgar the Furious, and the battle took place more than a hundred years ago. The man he recalled was in his twenties at the time, so he would surely be long dead by now. Humans rarely lived over sixty years, and those that did were usually aided by magic. Falgar had been a great warrior, but a mastery of the arcane arts was beyond his grasp. Therefore, the name of this new potential menace matching that of his old friend had to be a coincidence, he thought. It could be nothing more. Setting these thoughts quickly aside, his vision assessed the camp that lay before him, a sea of canvas that was large enough to be called a city. It bustled with a din of noise and feverish activity as any settlement would have. The only key difference was this city bristled with armament.

Twenty-foot tall siege towers encircled the camp, forming an outer defensive perimeter. The exact count of these war machines had yet to be determined. Each tower, upon closer observation, appeared to contain a heavy catapult and a variety of lesser artillery pieces scattered about on the upper platforms. Ballistae and arrow machines littered the lower platforms, positioned twelve feet above ground level. Men moved about on the towers like ants crawling over a fresh dead carcass. He was completely impressed with the engineering incorporated into the tower’s design. Had he not known better, he would have sworn that this moble fortress had been designed and built by the Dwarves.

Drawing his dusty and faded cape about his neck, he pulled the hood over his head to hide his ears, an obvious revelation of his race. With his face also partially hidden, he approached and blended in with a group of soldiers milling about the camp’s southern gate. Listening to their small talk while looking around to assess the situation, he entered their domain, passing unnoticed through the portal.

Greywolf was impressed at the immense size of the bivouac. There were thousands of soldiers toiling in plain view, performing the routine tasks essential to running an efficient war machine. He walked and watched, making mental notes of the activities he witnessed. After several hours, he assembled a fairly competent estimate of the numbers entrenched in this forsaken place. Over fifteen thousand men!

Then he stumbled upon the wicker cages.

Slave pens! Six huge corals filled with thousands of Human captives—males, females, elderly, even children. Naked and starving, they were forced to perform unspeakable acts, by their captors. Greywolf averted his gaze, fighting the urge to wretch. Elves, as all Faye, loathed slavery with a fiery passion. It was considered the scourge of the Human race. Greywolf vowed to himself, as well as to dozens deities, that regardless of the intent of this Falgar, he would exercise everything in his power to free these pitiful people.

Suddenly, a dull ache throbbed in his right shoulder, the pangs of his old war wound, as the hairs on his neck stood at attention. Evil magic! He sensed it very near to him. Since that day long ago, when the sword of the original Dark Lord wounded him, Greywolf could sense when evil was about. Instinctively, he reached over his shoulder for Demon Slayer, the sacred sword of his ancestors, only to check his movement, remembering that he left it in safe keeping in Selenor. Spinning around, he beheld a sight that made his blood run cold. Twelve Death Knights guarded a single Human who appeared to be in his early thirties. This man looked exactly like Falgar the Furious!

Hello, old friend, Falgar smiled, you look as if you have just seen a ghost.

It is the company you keep. Undead warriors! What kind of evil abomination is this? It cannot be you, Falgar, Greywolf marveled.

You should be long dead.

Oh, I assure you Wolf, I am quite alive. But you are correct in your assumtion of the condition of my guards. Come, I have much to tell you and it has been, as we say, too long.

Falgar motioned for Greywolf to follow. The Death Knights parted their ranks like mindless liches as he approached, and with a shudder, he entered their circle. He could smell the musty odor of the grave upon them. Their ever-grinning skull-like faces held no expression; their hollow, pitted eyes held no spark. The Death Knights closed their formation, and the circle of life and death began moving. Greywolf felt the chill of evil around him. As they walked, Falgar told his tale.

He spoke of how after his service in the Kaldarin Wars he had quit the army and succumbed to wanderlust. In the course of his travels, he strayed across the borders into Shadow Walk. There, he met a mysterious woman who assisted him in sacking the ruins of the former inhabitants. Together they found an artifact in the ruins and accidentally triggered one of its functions. It opened a gateway to the Abyss and allowed wondrous demons to enter this world. The grateful creatures bestowed powers of magic upon him as a reward. With the help of his fiendish friends, he began rebuilding Shadow Walk. But the evil spirits told him that Shadow Walk alone would not be big enough to comfortably house the hosts of the Abyss, so again with their help, he began building an army. He ended his tale with the matter-of-fact statement that he would, of course, have to take over the world. It appeared he was quite mad from his associations with these monsters. Or maybe he had stayed in the sun too long.

Some tale, thought Greywolf, This is a yarn of sheer madness.

They soon came to a huge, lozenge-shaped tent in the center of the encampment. A guard comprised of skeleton warriors surrounded it, which by this time did little to ease Greywolf’s discomfort. They entered the tent with little pomp and ceremony as the Death Knights followed them, the air thick with dark magic. It reeked of rot, decay, and death inside his former friend’s shelter. Greywolf fought hard to keep his composure and the contents of his stomach, yet somehow managed.

Well, Falgar, Greywolf asked, fishing, whatever happened to this artifact? He was searching his memory for the knowledge buried there of the ancient artifacts, the power icons of the Eldar race. He was trying to remember which one could summon demons.

Falgar’s face formed into a maniacal grin that Greywolf knew he would come to hate.

Oh, it is quite safe, my curious friend. I have hidden it in a place where no one would ever think to look. But enough about me, brave general; tell me, old great Wolf, what of you? Have you come here to join me?

Shaking his head whistfully, he answered himself.

No, I think not. Wait…I know, you are a spy! You have been sent to observe what goes on in Shadow Walk. You are serving your Elven masters. How lovely! Well, now that you know, should I kill you? Let you go? Tell me, great Wolf who walks through the Mysts. What would you do if you were me, Falgar hissed mockingly.

Greywolf grimaced visibly. I cannot believe you have asked me that. First, I can not begin to imagine being you, and second, you know that I would kill me if I were in your shoes. And I will kill YOU if I get the chance, he replied evenly.

"Astutely stated, Wolf! I always admired you for your brutal honesty. Of course I cannot just let you go back to the Land of Promise and raise the alarm. I am not quite prepared to invade yet and that could spoil my plans. I see by that look on your face that I have surprised you. Ah…you

did not realize that my plan was to invade Tir-na-nog, did you? More’s the better! If their greatest stratigest has failed to assess my intentions, then victory is already mine. But now you see, I have given it all away. And there is this little matter that I must await besides, of course, waiting for the arrival of the rest of my army. Oh, and then there are the details of the arrival of my dragons to consider, he smiled with glee. Wherever shall I house them all?"

Dragons?Greywolf gasped, taken further aback, You have dragons?

Four big red ones, he giggled. They will be arriving soon. And it seems that because of someone else, who is very close to me, I have won the allegiance of a certain group of White Dragon Lords. Ah, I see by that look you know the ones of which I speak. Good. But I stray. Back to the matter of your death. I could, of course, just kill you and be done with it. But alas, I feel that I owe you somewhat more than that. You did save my life once. I have you to thank for all of this. He opened his arms before him as he spoke, You see, if you had not accomplished that seemingly insignificant act of heroism, none of this would have been possible.

You are such poison, Falgar! Do not point the finger of blame to me for the sickness that sups upon your brain! Nay, do not tempt me to end it here and now with my sword buried deep in your breast, said Greywolf as he fingered the hilt of Flame Song, his broadsword.

My, you are entertaining, Wolf. Spoken like a true warrior poet. Your sense of honor nauseates me…Wait! I know! I’ll give you a sporting chance. My father always told me, ‘If you cannot play a sport, at least be one.’ I will give you…oh shall we say…an hour’s head start. Then four of my best assassins will ride out, hunt you down, kill you, and return to me with your head. I like that. It seems more than fair, Falgar laughed.

And what, oh powerful Lord Falgar, will stop me from drawing my sword and killing you here and now? Surely you realize I have no fear of death, for you know my methods quite well, Greywolf countered.

Ah, good Wolf of the Faye, I know you much better than you guess. I stand before you unarmed. To kill me that way would be… Falgar smiled, then added somewhat distastefully,

Dishonorable.

He stopped laughing and reached for an hourglass at the end of a nearby table and turned it over.

This is your life, Oh Great Wolf of the Elves, flowing like the sands, flowing away. I suggest you get moving before the sand runs out. Flee in terror, knowing that death stalks you.

We will meet again, Falgar. Do not think that this is over, Greywolf yelled back over his shoulder as he sprinted away through the tent, knocking skeleton warriors aside on his way out.

IT IS OVER, WOLF! Falgar shouted after him. YOU ARE JUST A DEAD ELF RUNNING FOR YOUR MISERABLE LIFE!

With that, Falgar turned and called for his aide Barabacus.

Greywolf ran through the tent past a large table littered with battle plans. He seemed to have stumbled upon a war room. He paused just long enough to scoop up a map, a pile of scrolls and without missing a step, stuffed them into his tunic. As he approached the tent’s entry flaps, he unsheathed Flame Song. As it cleared the scabbard it issued forth a piercing roar, bursting into flames, becoming a lethal torch in his hand. He ran through the entry flaps swinging the fiery sword before him. The skeleton warriors guarding the tent entrance were relieved of their skulls before bursting into blue-white flames, scattering thier bones onto the tent and setting it on fire.

Burn in Hades, Falgar, he hissed as he headed for the slave pens. The inferno Flame Song sparked in his wake caused a major reaction in the camp. Soldiers ran past him with little or no concern, heading for the flaring tent of their Lord. Greywolf reached the slave pens unchallenged and began cutting through the locks with his great sword of fire. He freed the slaves in each of the holding cages and slew several guards in the process. The camp that was already in pandemonium soon erupted into complete anarchy. Under the cover of this chaos, Greywolf hacked his way through the camp toward the main gate, leaving a bloodied, smoldering trail of dead soldiers behind him. Not all of the slaves would escape, but he hoped that possibly some would find their way out of their prisons. Those that died in the attempt would at least die free. It was far better in his eyes to die free than to live in bondage.

He ran through the gate and exploded out into the desert, killing several guards that attempted to impede his forward momentum. Into the Dunes of Madness he sprinted, blood lust clouding his eyes. He passed the body of the sentry he had previously slain and saw the carrion had already feasted upon the remains. He fled as though demons were on his cloak tail. Perhaps soon they would actually be stalking him.

Deep into the dunes he stopped. Winded, he reached into his pouch and pulled out the Dragon Shard. It no longer contained the power to get him back to Selenor, but it would carry him deep into the mountains and give him an advantage. Quickly, he thumbed a slot on the gem. His body shimmered in the darkness and then vanished.

Falgar cursed as he watched his tent burn to the ground. His aide Barabacus looked on in silence. Surrounded by four darkly dressed, solemn figures, he spoke, making an obvious attempt to control his rage.

The bastard Elf will be heading for the Mysts in the mountains. If he reaches them before you catch him, he will escape and you will not be able to follow him. That would be most unfortunate. Do not let him get away. I want his head! I want to put it on a stake and march with it as if it were my banner. If you fail, do not dare to return.

The four darkly cloaked figures shuffled silently away. Within minutes they rode out of the camp and into the night. At the same time, in the deep silence of darkness, a lone wolf howled in the distance.

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Escape

Greywolf materialized in the northern foothills of the Great Barricade Mountains, where he initially stood three days before. His abrupt appearance startled a small fox that had been chasing a rather large rat. Both scattered before Greywolf could get his bearings. He was still not used to shadow travel, as the wizard called it, and it always left his stomach queasy and his mind a bit unsettled. Fortunately, he did not do it very often. In a few moments, Greywolf was again confident of his location. He knew the assassins tailing him would, at the very least, be on horseback, and though he failed to discover any provisions for housing flying mounts at Falgar’s camp, he could not discount the possibility that the Dark Lord did indeed have access to airborne steeds. Either way, it would only be a matter of hours before they would catch him, as even he could not outrun horses on foot. He was sure the assassins would not be impeded by his disappearance either, and he knew that he would have to outrun them to the Mysts that veil Tir-na-nog from the lands of men. He was not yet sure how he would do that, as another wayward idea struck him in midthought. Falgar had said he planned to invade Tir-na-nog! That meant the son-of-a-slug had some means to breach the veil. He could not allow the assassins to follow him into the Land of Promise, therefore he would have to stay back and kill them first.

He paused for a minute to look at the chart he had pilfered from Falgar’s tent. It was a map of Shadow Walk, which showed numbers written next to each fortress. He had also picked up a plot of the encampment along with a list of troop strengths. He smiled to himself. If he made it back alive, he would have a definite advantage in repelling the invasion. Hopefully, it was too late for Falgar to amend his plans.

Greywolf walked out to the edge of a parapet, and, standing in the wind and turning to face the south, he closed his eyes. He formed a mental picture of a valiant winged steed, snow white in color, and envisioned the rippled muscles not unlike those of a heavy mountain warhorse, much like the warhorses of the plains that the Wild Elves bred. Yet it was not a horse that he envisioned; it was his Pegasus, Moonshadow, with whom he had pair bonded when he passed his ordeal to become a Ranger. He thought back on how he had met his mount and trusted friend.

When a Ranger completes his formal training, he must pass an ordeal before he is officially called a Ranger, an ordeal known as The Pair Bonding. Basically, a Ranger travels on foot from where his training is finished, to the Pegasus Mountains, taking no food, and little water. At some point during his stay in the mountains (and before he starves to death), he encounters and bonds with a Pegasus, and they remain paired for life. This bonding forms a friendship and a kinship, and they become a fighting team. Should one of them die, it is quite rare for the other to ever pair bond again. A Ranger who has lost his Pegasus is called a Horse-Bound, or Earth-Bound, Ranger.

Greywolf recalled his Pair Bonding with Moonshadow as if it happened only yesterday. The journey started on a Crazy Day in the Moon of the Last Circle, or what Humans call October. A Crazy Day is a day that cannot decide what to do weather-wise. During portions of the day the rain falls, then comes the hail, next sleet, then snow, and maybe the sun shines. It is as though the weather can’t make up its mind.

On this Crazy Day, Greywolf had faithfully completed the Twelve Paths of his Ranger training. The paths entailed learning the arts of Healing, Herbology, Stalking, Tracking, Mapmaking, Blending, Survival, Woods Craft, Animal Language, Search/Rescue, Land Navigation, and Diplomacy. He began his quest from the School of Diplomacy, which was taught in Pelenor deep in the Western Marches. He traveled through the Marches and crossed the Mountains of Sighs, wandered across the Forest of the Hippogriffs, crossed the Copper Mountains and the River of Blossoms, and entered the Forest of the Fae. At last he reached the Pegasus Mountains, where his final ordeal would lay. Whether or not he would truly become a Ranger would be decided in those mountains, not by any master teacher, for his fighting partner, a Pegasus, is the one who chooses his Ranger. The Pair Bonding makes the difference between a Ranger and a well-trained soldier. He was determined to earn the green beret, which was the headgear that true Rangers wore. It was the symbol of their elite rank among warriors.

The trip to those towering spires was an adventure by its own right and a story for another time. Suffice to say that he eventually found his way into the foothills haggard, hungry, and without weaponry. The sun was setting with a peculiar clarity that one who has ever gone without food would understand. The air grew crisp and threatened a frost. His cloak and boots were tattered, as his last altercation had been with a pack of Drow-Elves and he had nearly been beaten. All of this took their toll upon his constitution and sanity, yet as the shadows of those enchanted crags fell upon him, he became awash with various emotions and a strange new energy that he had never before experienced. He was more determined than ever to be accepted by a winged horse.

With a single purpose driving his fevered mind, he began his ascent up the mountains. Darkness fell and a full moon rose in the evening sky. The going had been relatively easy, that is, until he met the troll.

The landscape was still heavily forested and visibility was somewhat limited. The rate of incline was about twenty degrees and the climb was an effort. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a large, mean-spirited, nasty looking troll sprang out from behind a rather eldritch looking elm tree. Spittle fell in long, sticky strings from the creature’s jaw as he grunted out the closest thing he possessed to a greeting.

You long, long way from home, elfkind, he growled. You have no sharp steel. Good stew meat. You make fine dinner for troll.

"Out of my