Dark Lands: The Forgotten

By Lyn I. Kelly

The Glorian Council has been decimated. The Willkeeper is missing. And the Dark army has grown virtually unconquerable. In the final volume of Lyn I. Kelly’s Dark Lands series, a confluence of tragedies has unsteadied the Dark Lands, tilting it mercilessly in the Dark Man’s favor. As he begins his march to destroy Glorian and claim the living world for his own, a desperate plan is unleashed to try and still the Dark Man’s reign. Webb Thompson and a select few Glorians ride out for the haunting Passage of Oradour, intent in bringing this plan to fruition, while Kane, Raven, Caleb, and the remaining Glorians engage in a harrowing battle with the Dark Man’s forces. Time, the most enigmatic of all elements in the Dark Lands, is waning, and the ultimate battle for the living world is in play. Through the most traumatic of moments, one will rise, one will fall, and the Dark Lands will never again be the same.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Sep 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781483490489

Book preview

DARK LANDS

THE FORGOTTEN

Lyn I. Kelly

Copyright © 2018 Lyn I. Kelly.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-9049-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-9048-9 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Cover and Logo Artwork by Mike Murdock, http://iamthecog.wixsite.com/mikemurdock

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 09/13/2018

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

T his is a first for me, coming to the end of a series. I have written one-off stories, but never invested myself into cultivating a story that needed to be told over several volumes, taking close to a decade to complete. It is an endeavor I both cherished and lamented for varied reasons at differing times. Now, that the Dark Lands has come to its conclusion, I look back over the years and reflect on those who helped me to this point, without whose help this series may not have come to fruition.

My life has been richly Blessed and influenced by three women. My wife, Hera, has been my biggest supporter, providing me with encouragement and stamina when mine was lacking. Being the wife of a writer is not an easy or enviable task. There are mood swings and sheer moodiness, but she has navigated them all and made me a far better person. She is everything I am not, and I Love Her for this and so much more.

My mom is another of these great women. She has always been there for me, supporting my endeavors. I do not exaggerate when I say that she has always sacrificed so that my brother and I, and our respective families, could succeed. I have not ever known a moment when I did not feel her Love and support around me. She is one of my greatest treasures, and I Love her dearly.

My maternal grandmother, Meme, is the third woman I wish to mention. She has been gone for over a decade, but there is not a week that goes by when I do not think about her. She was very selfless and always there for me when I needed that other perspective, someone to listen when I mistakenly thought no one else was. I miss her very much and wish she had been here to see this book series. I Love You, Meme.

Hera and I have four children between us, all Blessed with their own unique talents and gifts. Our oldest daughter is Kalyn, an aspiring professional wrestler who struck out on her own at an early age with a drive and focus lacking in so many twice her age. Seth, our oldest boy and the first of what we call our musical trio, is a bass player with a fascination for forensic science. Logan is our youngest boy with an incredible talent for guitar and computers. Lacey, our youngest daughter, is quite the accomplished guitarist in her own right, as well as a fantastic artist. I Love all four immeasurably, and they teach me just as much as I have taught them.

I have been Blessed with two brothers in this world, one biological and the other through friendship. Owen is my biological brother, but he is also one of the greatest men I have ever known. Whether it be as a brother, father, husband, doctor, or any other facet, he personifies selflessness, drive and perseverance. I could not have a better brother or be prouder of him. Mike is my best friend and other brother. He has Owen’s traits, but in a much more relaxed style. He is also the artist for the Dark Lands, having designed the covers for War of the Sentinels and The Forgotten and the character art displayed at the varied shows I attend. Owen and Mike embody the qualities I strive to attain.

My Dad is another important part of who I am. From him I developed my love of running and reading, both of which influence my writing. I have often said that boys do not understand or appreciate their respective dads until they are much older, when they realize that these men have so much to offer and always have. I realize how true that is the older I grow. I Love You, Dad.

I wish to extend an exuberant Thank You to Angela Thang, my editor for the Dark Lands series. She has been with me almost from the start, and her skill and guidance are inestimable. I also want to thank Darryl Gregory and Daniel Ringquist, both whom I met when the Dark Lands was published and marketed through FST Pulp. They provided marketing assistance and opportunities I would not have otherwise had. I also want to thank the publishing teams at iUniverse and Lulu for their expertise and professionalism. Across the pond, I need to send a Thank You to Benj Foreman for spreading the word about the Dark Lands over in the United Kingdom.

There are countless others who have supported me that I also need to thank such as Linda and Dale Gray, the Kelly clan of Jenny, Lucy, Hattie, and Evie, Kalee, Erik, and Olessya Wulfers, Leslie, James, and Beau Stegmeier, Suzi Kelly, Lou Murdock, as well as the rest of the Murdocks (Karen, Delaney, Jack, and Ryan), Katie Grace Kelly, Hank Kelly, Tami Schneider, and Carol and Ron Bafus, Ivan King, John McCarthy, and Jeffrey Fleck. Of course, I must also thank the fluffy members of my family, Bunny, Sydney, and Harley. There are others whose friendship, insight, and dedication are invaluable, and my apologies for not listing each of you here by name. I am Blessed by the Good Lord to know you all.

Finally, to you, my readers, it has been a long journey, but I thank you for your commitment to the series. I appreciate the feedback and encouragement you have given me through email, Facebook, and Twitter. I hope that you enjoy this final book in the Dark Lands series. God Bless You and Yours.

A REQUEST FROM THE AUTHOR

S ue Kate Webb. Wendi Taylor. Keith Friend. Tom Natale. Tommy Thompson. These were all people close to me taken away by Cancer. Too often, Cancer is reflected on as something that happens to the other person, until it does not, until it happens to you or someone you know. Despite the progress made, there are still various Cancers on the rise.

With over 91,000 new cases expected to be diagnosed in 2018, Melanoma is the fastest growing Cancer in the United States and worldwide, and the fastest growing amongst young adults. This is not just skin cancer. On average, one person dies every hour from Melanoma. I invite those not familiar with this Cancer to visit the American Cancer Society (www.cancer.org), AIM at Melanoma (www.aimatmelanoma.org), or the Melanoma Research Foundation (www.melanoma.org) and learn about Melanoma and its implications.

Metastatic Breast Cancer (MBC) is another aggressive Cancer. Of the over 200,000 Americans annually diagnosed with breast cancer, an average of 30% of those will progress to MBC. Yet, only 2% of breast cancer funding goes to MBC research, the rest being spent on Awareness Campaigns and pink ribbons. METAvivor (http://www.metavivor.org/) is currently the only organization in the United States that exclusively funds MBC research. Their goal is to take a terminal disease and turn it into a manageable disease.

Cancer not only destroys lives physically and emotionally, but can also financially ruin families, leaving them bankrupt long after the disease has run its course. Heavenly Mimi (https://www.heavenlymimi.org/) has been established solely to help those in financial need during such trying times.

I would ask those of you prone to charitable causes to visit one of these five sites and consider donating. Cancer is a disease that has cost us too many, and effects more than anyone can fathom, because when one person has Cancer, we all have Cancer.

Thank You and God Bless.

Dedicated to

Linda Gray,

Your Strength and Perseverance are

matched only by Your Love and Kindness.

And the heroes came silhouetted in the sun

Their steely legs across their fallen comrades run

They too soon died across the battle lost

Their forgotten names history now only embossed

But to those who knew, those who recorded all that was done

Know it was those forgotten heroes who truly won

- Unknown

CHAPTER ONE

THE ROAD THAT LED THEM THERE

"I don’t understand, Webb, Sundown said inconsolably, her arms wrapped tightly around her left leg which she had nestled under her chin. I don’t," she repeated, vainly fighting back tears.

What’s there to understand? It was more a statement than a question. Webb glanced quickly over to his little sister before returning his eyes to the road ahead as it rushed under the wheels of his Camaro. Make sure your seatbelt is on, he abruptly said.

With a deliberate sigh, Sundown snapped her shoulder strap out and back. It’s on, Webb. It’s been on since we left the house.

Sorry, Webb replied. The testiness in his sister’s response was loud and clear.

I thought Mom and Dad were happy, Sundown continued, ignoring her older brother’s apology.

"They are happy, Sundown…" Just not together, he wanted to add, but stopped. That would do nothing but add salt to her already open wound.

Today had been the day Webb knew was coming. He had seen it creeping over the horizon for the past few months. His sister, though, had been blissfully unaware. She had not heard the late night muffled arguments or the hushed conversations, nor had she noticed the abject distance between her parents both physically and emotionally. Or maybe she had, but had opted to ignore it.

Their parents had called them to the living room for a talk. It seemed innocent enough, but Webb had known—just known—what was coming. He was old enough to appreciate that these types of talks were rarely harmless. They almost always had an ominous undertone to them. He wondered if other kids in similar circumstance shared the same sense of foretelling.

Their mom had been seated in the overstuffed chair that always seemed so out of place in the living room, their dad standing uncomfortably behind her. Webb had found that hypocritical—their presenting a united front for what was inevitably an announcement about their getting a divorce—and he wondered if his parents appreciated the preposterousness in their presentation. He could tell his mom had been crying, her eyes red-rimmed despite her best attempts at looking calm. His father just looked stern, his salt and pepper hair only accentuating the seriousness of his face.

Webb and Sundown had been directed to the couch across from the mammoth chair and that was when the inescapable conversation began—or at least that was where it should have begun, Webb reasoned, were it not for their mom’s impromptu phraseology. She had begun by telling them both how much she and her father loved them followed by a soliloquy of starts and stops that almost saw her disintegrate into tears before their father finally took over and bluntly announced that they were separating. He did not say divorce, but it obvious he was just being amenable.

The room had gone silent after that excepting a few sniffles from Sundown. Webb was unexpectedly shocked now that his suspicions had been proven a reality, but Sundown was just heartbroken. He had put his arm around his little sister, feeling her melt against him as he did so, but they did nothing else, neither asking any questions despite both parents grasping and trying to ply something—anything—out of their stunned children. After a few more ticks of silence, Sundown had bolted for her room with her mother giving chase. Webb had just nodded in his father’s general direction before heading back to his room, putting some distance between himself and the announcement.

The first thing he had seen as he walked into his room was a picture of himself and his family in Corpus Christi, a coastal town in Texas just around nine hours south from where they lived in McGregor Falls. He and Sundown were in the forefront of the photograph with their parents behind them, lovingly embracing them both, the waves caught breaking in the background. It was a black and white photograph from just a few years past, one he absolutely loved until today. Now, it was a mockery, and he loathed it. Funny, he recalled thinking, how perspective changed the simplest things. Even the crashing waves in the background now had an ominousness about them.

Webb had hastily raised his hand to smash the picture across the room, but stopped at the very last second. It had hurt to stop. The anger churning inside him had been denied an outlet, but there had been enough destruction on this day. Instead, he had grabbed the keys to his 1980 Chevrolet Camaro. He wanted to get far away from this house of pretense.

He was halfway through the door before he ground to a stop. Turning, he had moved across the house to his sister’s room where he had found his mom trying to speak to her through the closed door, tears and sobs hindering what could not be much of a conversation. He had given the door a quick tap, calling to Sundown and mentioning something about ice cream. A few moments later, the door had opened and Sundown quickly walked out for Webb’s car, not even acknowledging her mother’s humbled figure.

I will talk with her, Webb had assured his mom before following after Sundown. A turn of the ignition later and he and Sundown were en route to Maggie Moos, an eccentric little ice cream shop right in the town square with customized flavors such as Caramel Peanut Butter Swirl and Chocolate Butter Blast. Webb had needed the drive. Sundown, he knew, just needed the time.

How can they be happy, Webb? Sundown asked, pulling Webb from his somber recollections. They’re getting a divorce.

"They’re happy with us, Sundown. That’s what I meant. They’re just having issues with each other, but it has nothing to do with us," Webb replied.

What are you? A counselor? Sundown said chidingly.

We’re not the only kids in the world who’ve had to go through divorce. Unfortunately, a lot of parents do this.

"But they’re our parents," Sundown countered.

"This is about them, Sundown. Not about us," he replied, trying to come up with something to change his little sister’s perspective. He understood that she was fourteen, and the world revolved around her, and any change to her surroundings interrupted that revolution. And this was a monstrous change. But as much as it hurt her, and him too by the way, it surely hurt their parents even more.

"But it is about us," Sundown replied quietly, her eyes staring ahead. Her unreadable expression was almost vacant.

Webb opened his mouth to reply, but closed it just as quickly. Instead, he turned on his stereo, sourcing it to his CD player. In a few seconds, the song he wanted started.

"This is one of your old songs you like so much," Sundown grumbled.

"First, it is not that old. 1977 to be specific—"

Ancient, Sundown interrupted.

Second, listen to the lyrics and you might appreciate what they’re trying to say, countered Webb.

I don’t even know the name of the song, Sundown replied distantly.

"Carry on Wayward Son. It’s by Kansas," answered Webb.

And what is this ancient song supposed to tell me? she asked, still looking stoically forward.

That you’ll get through troubled times, no matter how bad, and once past them—

There will be new problems awaiting me, Sundown said sullenly.

Webb switched the song off with a defiant turn of the knob, the rumble of the Camaro’s V8 engine again now the only sound humming through the car. He would start over once they got to Maggie Moos, when she was taking solace in her ice cream and he had a little bit more time to reconfigure his speech. We’ll get through this, Sundown, he said almost as an afterthought.

"I think I want Peppermint Split," she said shortly, the ironic name and non sequitur not lost on Webb. But he would take it as a sign that she was looking ahead, even if just a few minutes ahead, instead of looking behind.

"We could get a burger first. Lou’s is just around the corner," he offered with the slightest of smiles.

Maybe, she replied. Her face was still absent of emotion.

Webb saw the town square approaching, and he removed his foot from the accelerator, coasting his Camaro towards the upcoming intersection. He blinked and—strange—he thought he saw a figure in the road. He blinked again, and it was gone, but he was positive something had been there, a dark something. Webb felt a chill, but let the moment go as the tricks of the setting sun.

Further up ahead, he saw a beat-up pickup truck, a 1950’s Chevrolet with a big front end grill, ambling towards them. It was Mr. Braniff’s truck, a vintage, but not so much in vintage condition. The old man was nice enough despite his curmudgeonly demeanor that his truck only complemented. Webb moved the steering wheel slightly right to give the oncoming truck more room.

Inexplicably, a sunburst of light exploded from the center of the street, causing Mr. Braniff’s truck to swerve erratically. Webb turned his face away from the light only for another massive illumination to catch him full bore. For a moment, the world before Webb was one of light and dark, strings and shapes parading about reflexively. He slammed on his brakes as the nonsensical madness continued to swarm his vision. Through the squealing of tires and grinding of brakes, he heard Sundown scream.

Webb blinked madly, his eyesight hazily returning in time to see the enormous grill of Mr. Braniff’s out-of-control truck coming hard for the passenger side of his Camaro—directly at Sundown. Instinctively, Webb spun the steering wheel at what seemed like an impossible angle while concurrently slamming his foot down on the accelerator. The Camaro fishtailed and spun around, the driver’s side now in line for the inevitable collision.

Webb looked over to Sundown who was still in the middle of a scream, but strangely there was no sound. In but a second, the truck would plow through his door, critically injuring, if not killing him, but at least Sundown would be…

Wait.

Directly outside the passenger window stood the enormous lush oak of McGregor Falls, a tree that had been rooted there hundreds of years with a colossal, grizzled trunk that shamed all trees in Fortean County. The truck’s impact would be massive, certainly driving the Camaro’s passenger side hard into that tree. Sundown would be crushed!

Webb opened his mouth to scream her name when the overwhelming impact happened, sending him spiraling into darkness, the distant drone of a truck horn fading behind him—that and the curious, yet unmistakable, sound of callous laughter. His last sensation was of an inherent anger. That was what overrode him, incensed him. Webb was so infused with anger that he could not define where it started or ended. There was anger at not being able to save Sundown, anger at the helplessness of the moment, anger at himself for suggesting the drive, anger at his parents’ making the announcement that placed them here, anger at anything and everything. And anger at the evil, mocking laughter.

The anger boiled over him and consumed him. This was not supposed to be how it ended. He raged at the anger, and it stayed with him, following him down into the darkness, becoming part of him. After that, there was nothing. Not even a memory.

Webb jerked at the suddenness of the cruel dream, but then just as quickly melted back into his coveted state of languid tranquility, floating in the darkened room, an ethereal spray of blue suspending him from all reality. But he was not aware of his predicament, just the serenity enveloping him.

He had heard voices fade in and out, mixed as they were with the dreams he was having, creating quite the cornucopia of sensations. The voices and dreams had all run the gambit of emotions, but he had not felt their true intensity. He was caught in the most wonderful of slumbers, that lazy feeling of waking tired from a deep sleep, but content with the knowledge that there were still several hours remaining to quench the sleep deficit. So he drifted lazily throughout his past, present, and future obsolete. He would gladly waste away in this slumber because, within it, there was no pain or worry. He was forever locked in tranquility.

CHAPTER TWO

UNLOCKED

"A nd whose grand idea was this?" Kane snarled, his bloodied and unkempt form accentuating his foul disposition.

Mine, Sundown immediately replied. And Webb was in complete agreement with it.

Kane looked up at Webb’s suspended form, a net of blue lighting swarming and encircling him. Of course he was, spat Kane. "How could he not be, given the state he was in and the fact that his now older sister had apparently compelled him to do it?"

You are not being fair, Kane, protested Sundown as she looked up at her brother. She wrapped her arms around her slight octogenarian frame, thinking that her sudden appearance to Webb—as an old woman and not the fourteen-year-old he knew—had been understandably jarring, but it had not made him more agreeable to a locking. He did not just immediately defer to her because of her age. No, that could not be, she told herself.

"Fair is where you eat cotton candy and win prizes. This is the Dark Lands," Kane retorted.

Cute, Sundown volleyed back. But you didn’t see him like I did.

I am sure he was a mess—

He was more than just a mess, Kane, Sundown interrupted icily. He was gone. And a locking was the only salvation left to him. She looked around the room and shivered.

The room itself had a preposterously simple name, the Room of Locking, but that was the only simplicity to it, especially given its purpose. Sundown had heard about lockings since her earliest days in the Dark Lands, Webb having been threatened with one after the incident at the Requiem, but she never appreciated the reasoning behind them. It was only after being reunited with her brother after the events with the Not-Where, that a long ago conversation with Lucien resurfaced in her fading memory, rationalizing lockings and their usage.

Two Velocitors, their names Benedict and Willen, had fallen prey to a Vindicadive assault, and though Benedict had eventually…died…from his experience, Willen had been driven mad, or so it appeared. He was escorted away, and when Sundown had questioned as to where he was being taken, Lucien had presumed that he was being taken to a locking.

The pronouncement had shocked her as she had thought it was solely used for punishment, but Lucien had revealed that a locking could serve also as therapy. Though whether punishment or therapy, the process was the same. His exact words had been …a locking can free them from the madness infesting their soul. It is a literal suspension.

Those were the very words she had recalled when coming across her brother staring despondent and angry across the plains of the Dark Lands. Webb’s morose disposition had been understandable as he had been the one who opened the Not-Where, unleashing its angry hordes upon Glorian. His actions, though he could not appreciate it at the time, had also been the catalyst leading to Sundown’s inadvertent opening of the rift between the Dark Lands’ past and present, the rift that had cast her into the past, only to bring her back to the present, albeit much older—an eighty-year-old plus standing where once had been a teenager.

There were extenuating circumstances that pardoned—at least partially—Webb’s culpability, the infection by the Mind-Stalker being the most prominent, but Webb could not, or would not, see anything but abject blame. By the time Sundown had found him, Webb’s anger with it all had transitioned into an unmerciful pain and guilt. Maybe it had been her familial instincts, or maybe it had been sheer cowardice in that she could not bear seeing her brother so hurt, but Sundown saw a locking as a temporary reprieve until she could conceive a better solution. She had suggested it to Webb, and he had readily accepted it without question.

That had been days prior, the first time Sundown had stepped foot in the Room of Locking, when she had watched her brother wade almost lifelessly into the dark, shapeless room and climb into one of the many transparent blue lattices that drifted lazily about and then finally curl up into quiet obliviousness. There had been no instruction as to how the process worked. Webb had just seemed to know, and Sundown wondered if all who had been sentenced here, whether voluntarily or otherwise, had the same instinct. After all, Webb was far from the only soul adrift in the room. Sundown could make out the unclear forms of others, surrounded as they were by their own respective blue nettings, hovering about like jellyfish in a dark ocean. She suspected one was Willen, but the others were anonymous to her, souls that could have well been there long before either of her times in the Dark Lands, past or present.

It is very easy for you, Kane, to second-guess me. You were not there, Sundown finally said, drawing herself back from the blue luminescence before her.

"No, I was not. I was surrounded by monsters and covered by several feet of soil, having to dig myself out and get myself back into Glorian, Kane replied. My apologies that I was late for that special moment with your brother."

Sundown let loose with small, disheartened laugh. We could spar all day, Kane, but we would still come back to the same place.

Yes, staring at your brother.

Sundown sighed. Then release him. I am not stopping you. I was the one who brought you here when you asked about him.

How did you manage to get the Council’s approval for such—

The Council is gone except for you, myself, and Hays, Sundown again interrupted.

Kane’s mouth dropped aghast, the first such time that Sundown could ever recall his being stunned to silence. …Mathias? Pilot? Hardon? Peter? All of them? he finally managed to ask.

Sundown nodded her head, biting her lip in the process so as to still her lips from quivering. She now regretted being so abrupt about the announcement, but Kane’s heated demeanor had only incited her own anger.

"Are you sure they are not just missing? Out in the Dark Lands somewhere?" Kane offered humbly.

There were witnesses, Sundown replied sadly.

Then the three of us will just have to make do, Kane responded hastily, turning back towards Webb’s suspended form. Where is Hays?

"Babysitting the rest of Glorian, Sundown replied. And probably wishing he’d listened to reason," she added bitterly.

Kane looked towards her.

Sorry, she quickly interjected. He mocked and disbelieved everything I had to say and offer, then and now. Maybe if he had been more reasonable, we might be in a better situation.

Hays only did what he thought was best. His hesitation to believe you back then was not unreasonable. Many of the Council followed him.

But they eventually came around, Sundown argued. Yet Hays had to be dragged kicking and screaming. And even after the War of the Sentinels, he was still unforthcoming in regards to increasing training and defenses.

Your memory is shaded, Kane said distantly.

I think not.

Kane remained silent, gazing back towards Webb.

Hays and his discourses about trying not to predict an unpredictable future, Sundown continued distastefully. "They were the same then as now. Excepting now he knew what was coming, but still remained hesitant in his actions unless they pertained to my brother."

A valid point could be made about his predisposition towards Webb, Kane replied evenly. "The War of the Sentinels took its toll on Hays—on all of us—and knowing that Webb would potentially unleash the Not-Where made him—"

A hypocrite, Sundown finished. "Trying to keep Webb hyper-controlled was his way of trying to change the future—something he lectured all of us time and again about not doing."

War changes a man.

It also changes a woman, or have you forgotten I was there that day? I watched as all your Sentinel brethren were destroyed one by one. I watched as the Velocitors were slaughtered in one crushing blow.

And I watched my son die! Kane spun around, thundering loudly. "Do not dare get sanctimonious about that day and what you saw. I was there. You were there. And so was Hays. We all have our own personalized horrors we must reconcile. I begrudge no man—or woman—about how they do that."

Sundown said nothing, Kane’s fierce response and her own memories muting her.

Kane looked away. My apologies, he finally said. I know how much Lucien meant to you.

He meant a lot to both of us, Sundown softly responded.

Kane nodded, but said nothing.

Why do you need Webb? Sundown asked, hurriedly changing the subject back to the matter at hand, the heat of the previous exchange draining from her cheeks. You have called him impetuous more times than I can count. I should think his being locked would be ideal to you.

"It is for the same reason I did not want him locked when it was first proposed by Hays before the Council. Webb is what we used to call a wagon-puller, and when I was out there, surrounded by the hordes from the Not-Where, I realized that he and his…impetuous…ways would serve us better than any careful trotting Glorian ever could."

Sundown looked curiously at Kane, her old eyes filled with the years of understanding that her younger self had always longed for, dissecting his reasoning, pondering its measure of truthfulness. There is something else there. Isn’t there? she finally asked,

For a moment, Sundown thought she registered the slightest of expressions in Kane face, but if there was truly some wayward admission, it quickly disappeared, and Kane returned to impassivity. Believe what you will, he said, brushing away Sundown’s question, but the Dark Man is rallying for his final assault. He will soon be here. We need everyone available to us. Kane looked about the room, mournfully gazing over the other Glorians adrift, and then added in a fading breath, "Or at least almost everyone."

Through the ambiance, Webb could perceive voices, not those within his sequestered dream-state, but voices outside of his newfound world. They initially seemed ripe with hostility before becoming more somberly conversational. He faintly thought he should recognize them, but his cocoon of lethargy precluded much introspection on the matter. He was content to drift in mellow obscurity.

"Webb…"

He jerked slightly at the interrupting voice, more like an echo.

"Webb," called the disembodied voice, more urgently this time.

He opened his eyes, or thought he did, and searched for whomever was calling to him, but the drifting of darkness around him continued unabated.

"Webb, you need to listen to me, as there is not much time," called the ghostly voice.

He looked around again, but still could not find who was addressing him. It was the voice of a young girl, familiar to him. Okay, he heard in response, a hollow distant voice that he vaguely recognized as his own.

"I told you once that things would get bad, really bad. That is about to happen," came the girl’s voice.

Webb said nothing, still uncertain what he was hearing and why.

"When it is at its worst, that is when you must bring him to us. You must unlock us."

Who is him? Webb thought. And what exactly was he unlocking? There was that locked word again.

"Webb! cried the voice, pulling him from his drifting. You have to remember this. Now, the voice was pleading. Otherwise, it will all be over. You have to remember…"

Remember? He was becoming confused. He knew he should ask a question, but the importance of doing so seemed to dribble away from him, and he could not recall how to speak.

"It will be soon, Webb," the voice again pleaded.

Who are you? Webb heard his voice ask.

"There are millions of us, Webb. I told you that once. There are millions of us, all, now, nameless and forgotten. Bring him to us."

Webb sensed the urgency in the little girl’s voice and felt a stirring amongst his languid surroundings. Despite his trance-like suspension, he knew this was something important to heed, understand, and, moreover, remember. He opened his mouth to speak when he swiftly felt a bitter splash of cold overtake him. He gasped deeply at the intrusion, his body madly trembling, and suddenly he was no longer floating. He was lying rigid on his back.

Webb! a voice screamed. It was not the little girl’s voice anymore, but one much louder and more pronounced.

Webb! the voice screamed again.

Webb ripped his eyes open, ready to scorch whoever had the audacity to tear him from his peaceful abyss and interrupt the enigmatic pleadings of that distant voice, the memories of which were rapidly fading from his consciousness. He launched up into a sitting position, finding himself in a curiously darkened room, two figures hovering about him.

Webb, one of the shadowy figures called, the same voice as had pulled him from his serenity.

A blue, anomalous shape floated lazily over him, giving his unaccustomed eyes the briefest of light. From this, Webb could immediately discern Kane as one of the two figures. The other was an older woman.

Webb, are you okay? asked the old woman. Hers was the voice he had heard while in his tranquil state. He did not respond, instead trying to understand who this woman was—this woman speaking so familiarly to him. The fog on his brain began to dissipate, and, within moments, his eyes lit up with recognition.

Sundown, he gasped.

Welcome back, Webb, said Kane ominously.

CHAPTER THREE

MIND’S EYE

T he Willkeeper sat nauseously immobile, watching the army of monstrosities before him grow from hundreds to thousands and then to tens of thousands without reprieve. And there seemed to be no end to this ever-growing abomination. He was all too familiar with some of the creatures. Others, he had never seen before, and he wondered what kind of soul could author such creations. But he needed not look far to find that answer. Behind him stood the Dark Man, the heat of his glare almost palpable on the Willkeeper’s back.

The gathering of an army before a battle is the most glorious of sights, second only to scourge of victory, the Dark Man hissed shrilly, a single voice consisting of thousands of inflecting voices.

The Willkeeper said nothing, instead remaining affixed on the army gathering in the entrenchment below him. There was an unnatural blistering wind that swarmed about, carrying embers from the burning fires blazing within the Dead Forest of Kenan, fires sparked by the lightning the