Seed: Book I of Magician's Realm

By M. Patrick

Seed unfolds in the land of Shamar where Pel, an orphan taken in by his adoptive father, Oredel, believes it is his destiny to inherit Oredel’s land. When a vagabond bard, Dolan, comes to the farm, however, things begin to look different; until one night, Dolan vanishes.

Pel is left without direction, when early one morning, he is awakened by a clarion call; an awakening of the sort that tells him it is time to leave the only family he has ever known. As he attempts to sneak away, he is taken by surprise by a friend he has known all his life. Shane, despite Pel’s valiant, yet half-hearted attempts, will not be denied.

When they leave, Dolan is waiting.

The three depart, not only to find the life that awaits them, but also those who are to accompany them: Rhelg, a giant in heart and in stature; Stryker—to call him gifted is to call shadow dark; Kurn, a woman of extraordinary skill and beauty; Queys, a mercenary; and Jurad, a slave brought to their shores by an unintentional act of Pel’s.

Now they travel, finding the road set before them, while evading the hands of kingdom soldiers and mercenaries alike, all under the command of the Keeper of the High Seat of the Twelve, Dorma. The kingdom of Shamar groans under a heavy load, for she has no king, only an oppressive usurper to a throne that can never be his.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LifeRich Publishing
• Release date: Mar 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781489726094

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Copyright © 2020 M. Patrick.

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Interior Image Credit: Amy Liseri Lupo

ISBN: 978-1-4897-2741-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-2609-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020901555

LifeRich Publishing rev. date: 03/13/2020

Contents

Prologue

The Visitation

Empty Bunkhouse

The Game, The Visitor, Celebration

Plans

Decision

Ambush

Rendezvous

Captain Pamilease

Borrowed Horses

Gibbs

A Few Pikes

Wind

Flame

Kurn

Reminiscence

Attack

Healing

Images

Hide and Seek

New World

The Way of the Foot

Coramean

Trouble

Escape

Cast of Characters

Glossary of Terms Used

Elvish Dictionary

Kwenese Dictionary

map---.jpg

Prologue

In the beginning, before the beginning of all things, the great God, El Reen (God of Gods) walked about and surveyed the dark void. There was only emptiness. The void cried out to Him that it might be filled. This pleased Him; for the darkness, He thought, is not good.

So El Reen raised His right hand, and before Him the darkness parted. And behold, between the two darknesses a mist appeared, not darkness and not light. The mist whirled and glowed with a soft argent color, turning to azure, then gules. The colors became one and behold a kind of portal appeared, from which an intense light showed. Through this portal stepped the first of El Reen’s creations—a god. From his body all the colors of the portal shone forth like the Shekinah glory of El Reen Himself. This god bowed deeply and reverently before El Reen (his creator) and took his place beside his master. This one was called Shellig. He would be chief of the lower gods.

Again, the portal opened, and there stepped forth another, lesser god, all of white, and the same Shekinah glory shone within him. This one bowed also, first to El Reen and then to the first god called out of nothingness. This one, too, took his place beside his lord, Shellig and his creator. This one would be called Ishar.

As he took his place, another stepped from the portal. This one, all of silver, also radiated with the glory of El Reen. This one bowed deeply, first to El Reen, then, as Ishar had, he bowed also to Shellig. He too, took his place beside the other gods. This was the god Ruge.

A fourth time the portal opened and the third lower god stepped through. This one was the color azure, like the color of the sky; and glory shown forth from him. This one bowed also. He came to stand beside the god Ruge. His name was Palar.

The portal opened for the final time. From it there stepped the fourth of the lower gods. Like the others, he burned within and without with the glory of his creator. His color was gules. This last of the gods bowed, as had the others, first to El Reen and then to Shellig. He joined the other gods, and El Reen closed the portal. This last of the gods was called Telis. Thus the creation of the gods was finished.

These four were to rule in the four ends of creation, with Shellig as their chief. Shellig was to give service and all honors to El Reen.

Then El Reen considered, and out of the darkness He called for light. With a rumble, the darkness rolled back and the stars flared into life. Then, with a word, El Reen pulled the worlds out of the nothingness about them and set them in motion, spinning upon their own axis. Then He called for life upon the worlds, the green grass, the trees, the birds of the sky, the fish of the sea, the animals that cover the ground. Last of all he called for man and elves and dwarves and the rest of creation. And all of this, with a word came into being. When El Reen saw His creation, it pleased Him, and He gave it His blessing.

Now to Ishar, Ruge, Palar and Telis, El Reen gave charge, with Shellig, as their chief, to oversee all of creation. To them was given power and authority to reign and to rule, as they deemed right. Only Shellig, and the other four lesser gods, were to give service and honor to El Reen.

Now Shellig saw the creation and knew that he and the other gods were given the responsibility to rule and to oversee, yet that he must serve El Reen. And Shellig considered this and envy arose in his heart. In pride and in the heat of wrath, he coveted worship and the very throne of El Reen.

And it came about, in the passing of time that Shellig spoke to the other gods, to Ishar and to Ruge, to Palar and to Telis. Why should we worship and serve El Reen? he said. Are we not gods? And they heeded his words and hardened themselves and rose up in rebellion against their master. Before His throne they came. Why should they worship Him? Were they not after all, gods? Why should they serve Him? And they would not yield.

Then was El Reen wroth with them. Yet He was unwilling to do away with them. Rather, He banished them from before His presence. From paradise He cast them. From His throne they were cast forth like lightning. They were thrown down and came to Miodene.

In great wrath Shellig spewed forth curses, like poison against El Reen. In terrible fury he cast forth lightning and made the thunder roll with such anger that the ground shook. He called down great hailstones to destroy all life on Miodene. If he could not have all honors, then none would.

Then El Reen came down. He would not allow this destruction of His creation. When He came to stand before His opponent, then Shellig spoke.

Have You come down now to receive Your worship? he said mockingly, "We bow down to Your Magnificence. Now watch as we, the gods You have made, destroy Your creation."

Then El Reen spoke, and when He uttered His voice, everything else quieted. From this day forth, Shellig, He said, you are cursed. You are a god, the chief of the lesser gods, the first of my creation. But now your place is taken from you. Have you chosen to oppose me? Then, from this day forth, we are opposed, one to the other. Be assured, your defeat is certain.

Shellig roared his fury. Then it is war, El Reen! And I shall destroy You, and I shall reign supreme!

And the contention was great. The ground shook beneath them as they battled. And the earth quaked so that the ground split asunder and the earth fell in upon itself. Thus was created the Valley of the gods.

Now Shellig and the other gods fled, screaming from the presence of El Reen, to Dark Mysrian¹. El Reen did not pursue. Instead, He remained and surveyed the great valley now stretching across the face of the ground. It is there to this day, for El Reen thought to let it stand as a testament to the power of the gods and their treachery. It is there that the fabled Blue Rose blossomed and grew. It remains there today, for the healings of the nations of men and of elves, of dwarves and of other folk.

Now there was a man, known to El Reen, Jarriel by name. This man revered El Reen. To him El Reen taught the secret of great magic. This man was to watch over the chosen line until all was fulfilled, the time that the redeemer should come.

The first of the great chosen line was Vol Great-Shoulders. This man was crowned king of Shamar, also known as the Great Western Continent. Into this man’s hands Jarriel placed the keeping of the great sword, Spirit.

To his son, Eric the swift, Vol Great-shoulders presented the sword while lying on his deathbed. And Eric the Swift, to his son Jaris Bear-Slayer and so down the line.

Only the chosen line could wield the sword. And the saying was, He who holds the sword, holds victory. As long as the chosen line sat upon the throne and wielded Spirit, victory, it was said, was assured.

Then it happened, in a time when Jarriel was away that a servant in the palace of Deil Iron-Heart, Harmon by name, led servants of the Dark Lord² into the palace by night. They stole in secretly and slew the king and his wife, his daughters and his sons. Everyone, whom they found of the king’s household, they slew. And they sought to lay hands upon the sword, but they could not find it. Unable find Spirit, they fled, lest they should be discovered and slain for their dark deeds.

It was upon his return to Shamar that Jarriel learned of the treachery. When Jarriel had learned that the sword was now missing and understanding that Harmon had not taken it, he inquired for one of the stewards, Endel. Not finding him, he left the palace without, not even bidding a farewell, allowing no one to accompany him. Now when those in the palace learned that Endel was missing and that the sword was missing, it was concluded that he had taken part in this treachery.

Jarriel, however, would speak of the matter with no one. None knew it, but Jarriel left seeking Endel. Those in the palace and of the kingdom of Shamar might believe the steward a traitor, but Jarriel believed different.

Now Endel had been the youngest of the king’s stewards, about seventeen, and one loved much by him. It had been his plan to make him a squire on the day of his eighteenth birthday. Jarriel also knew Endel; for they had conversed many times and were fast friends, though many years separated them. Jarriel trusted Endel, enough to entrust him with the king’s welfare in his absence. So Jarriel sought out Endel, and found him. No one knows what happened when they met, but it is said they parted in peace. It is also believed, to this day, that Endel had the mighty sword, Spirit.

When Jarriel and Endel parted, they were destined to meet again, though no one could know what tidings this meeting would portent.

As taken from the Book of the Oracles of Sarth.

Transcribed by Bikius the Scribe.

The Visitation

It was a day like any other on Oredel’s farm. It was only two hours before noon and already the sun was high in the sky, bringing with it a scorching heat. It was normally very dry in this part of Shamar, this time of year, almost arid, the rainy season having come and passed. But there had been a hard rain the night before, which left the air heavy. Clothes stuck to the skin, making the heat more oppressive and uncomfortable.

Not infrequent was the need to stop and sit in what shade was available, taking what shelter it offered from the balmy heat and drink long draughts from the water pail, as it was passed around, waiting until the ringing in their ears passed. Then, it was back to work. The only other relief was the, all too infrequent, breeze from the north, which chilled the air for only as long as it lasted, and seemed, at the same time, to drive away the humidity. All too soon though, the breeze would pass, and with its passing, the sweltering heat would return.

Pelnic was in and out of the barn repeatedly, having already put the animals out to pasture, and now was cleaning out the stalls. The hot, wet air hanging like a mist in the barn, combined with the dust kicked up by Pelnic’s activities, and the frequent visits by hands seeking this implement or that, combined to create an affect within the walls of the big building, which resembled the arch of a rainbow, but with colors of brown and yellow and green. This, combined with the ‘aromatic’ atmosphere which is characteristic of most barns, accounted for Pelnic’s willingness to brave the sweltering and direct heat outside and as often as possible. Indeed, it was a hot day. But Pelnic, or Pel, as he had come to be called by most, and the others kept at their work, as much as the heat and their own endurance would allow. Oredel, the farm’s owner, was not a harsh man, by any standard. On the contrary, if anything, he was overly kind. Oredel had learned long ago the truth of the proverb: A horse well treated will strap himself to the cart to please his master. The man had held to this philosophy for many years now, with the result that those hired by him found that they would do anything he asked and more. Anyone who finally left, as most eventually did, (they had to move on with life, after all) usually felt the better for the experience.

Pelnic had been with old Oredel for as long as he could remember. Both his parents had been killed when marauders attacked their village, according to Oredel. How he had come to be on the farm, Pel was never completely certain: something about someone escaping the attack with Pel under his arm, and after wandering aimlessly for days, he stumbled onto the farm. The tender hearted old farmer took them in at once. And then, for reasons unknown, Pel’s deliverer mysteriously disappeared. Oredel, never having had a son of his own, indeed, never having married, took him as his own. So Oredel would be as near to a real father as Pel would know. The young man grieved over the loss of his parents now and again during his idle time, when he had nothing better to do than brood. He even thought, during those idle times, that one day he might ride away and find those who had murdered the parents he had never known and pay them back in full. But, invariably, it seemed that whenever he found himself brooding in this fashion, Oredel instantly read his thoughts and gave him something to do. It wasn’t too long, then, before all such foolhardiness was forgotten. This was not far from the truth, either (that, in a manner of speaking, Oredel read Pel’s mind) for the old farmer knew Pel better than he knew himself, and loved him. Oh, yes, there could be no doubt, that in every way that mattered at least, Oredel was Pelnic’s father.

Pel was outside now. He paused for a moment between armloads of wood to take in another cool northerly breeze, which brought with it respite from the merciless heat. All around the farm, activity ceased and the men stood still, taking in the chill breeze, sighing under the heat and grateful even for this smallest measure of relief.

Then something struck Pel. Something in the wind had changed. The heat of the day still beat down upon him, but he no longer felt the breeze, though it still blew. Instead coldness now gripped him inwardly. Cold, like the icy coldness of death, it was, as it wrapped itself around his heart.

Pel could feel the muscles in his chest and throat constrict. His heart began to pound. He couldn’t breathe. What was happening? Where was this… dread coming from? Even as he felt himself tremble with unexplained terror, he looked in the direction of the wind, from which it seemed to flow.

There, on the horizon, approaching form the north! Clouds? No. A… darkness, a darkness which brought a terror that swept over the ground and enveloped him. There was a foreboding, as though death in its most terrible form, was coming, coming for him, coming for Oredel, coming for everyone he knew.

He looked again at the others on the farm, waiting for someone to tell him what to do. To his surprise, they were all looking in his direction. And he could see, in their unspoken thoughts that they were waiting for him, Pel, as though he had some hidden power to do away with the doom which announced itself in the approaching darkness. But what could he… Gods! He suddenly realized, I don’t know any of them!

As Pel looked on, it suddenly occurred to him that he was looking into the faces of strangers—strangers, who only moments before wore faces that he knew—strangers with dark skin, others with strange, angular eyes and whose frame was lean and somewhat shorter than his own. Others were short and thick bodied and still others who bore resemblance to both man and beast. He knew none of them. Yet they seemed in some way… familiar, like faces he should know, though he could attach no names to them.

Then Pel’s attention was drawn from his momentary speculation, back to the scene upon the horizon. The darkness was still advancing, and with it came a new terror. For out of the midst of that darkness there came the whirlwind. And that whirlwind was created, not by storm, but the pounding of hooves.

Pel looked in spellbound terror as out of shadow they came. Their horses seemed without number, as the earth quaked beneath their hooves. They went forward with such speed that their pounding hooves barely seemed to touch the ground.

As Pel looked on, it occurred to him that these were not ordinary horses. They seemed almost to fly, as with impossible speed, they covered the distance between them and their hapless victims, screaming in triumph. From their mouths, it seemed to Pel, they spit wisps of fire. Firehorses, he thought, the ancient demon steeds of legend. Pel had heard of them, in stories he’d heard from an old bard, who visited the farm now and again, but he’d always believed them to be nothing more than fairy tales, things of story. Yet, here they were before him, their horned heads now visible. Their cold, steel gray eyes, which legend said could turn a man into anything they wished, if caught in their gaze, moved from side to side, beckoning anyone who would to look.

Upon them sat their human like masters. Their appearance was something out of Pel’s worst nightmares. They were suited all in black armor from head to foot, their broadswords plainly visible and clanging at their sides. The foremost of them—their officers Pel supposed idly—wore black capes that, instead of whipping in the breeze, hung motionless behind them.

Their helmets were of work never before seen upon Miodene. Covering their wearer’s entire head, they were fastened where the necks and shoulders met. From the sides, above where the ears would have been were two horns, which rose upward and curved away from the helmet. Above the horns, rising in the same manner, there were two snakes. These snakes were like no others Pel had ever seen. As their bodies rose and turned into heads, Pel could see that one head on each serpent faced outward and the other—for they head two heads—faced directly ahead. Their mouths were opened menacingly and their fangs extended threateningly. Their eyes glowed with an eerie white light, which stood out against their black heads and seemed to foretell of death.

The most frightening part of the ghastly helm, though, was the face, which in contrast to the black helmet, shone bone white; for it was not a face at all. But rather a skull could be seen grimacing with a hideous grin that, like the serpents, promised horrible death. The eyes burned with an unholy yellow fire that seemed to have its origin in someplace dark and dreadful.

The raiders were so close now that Pel could hear the horses blowing; he could almost feel the heat of their fiery breath. He could feel the burning hatred in the eyes of the riders, their loathing toward their victims, whom they considered to be weak and inferior.

Suddenly, something inside of Pel came to life. His instinct for survival overcame him, and he knew he must escape. He turned to run, but even as he took his first step, it was as though his legs were weighted down, like some unseen force held him in place.

Behind him, he could feel his pursuers closing, dogging his every step, closing on him. Blinded by fear like a deer pursued by curs, Pel dug his heels into the ground and pumped his arms and legs until they ached and his lungs burned and he felt as though his heart would burst. Still they gained.

One of them seemed to whisper his name. Pelnic, the voice hissed. Pelnic. Do not resist us. Your death will be quick.

Pel suddenly became aware of his own mortality. He was certain he was going to die. There was no escape. Everything around him turned to slow motion, everything, it seemed, but the deadly hunters. Still, the hunted ran.

Behind him, Pel could hear the terrified screams of the dying, the pleas for mercy, the cruel laughter of the merciless riders and the furious roars of the demon steeds. Pel could feel himself tiring. It would be only a matter of time. He wanted more than anything else, to stop, to let himself to be caught, as the voice of the rider had urged him; to allow inevitable death to take him and take him quickly. Still he ran. He must run, he thought, run until his legs could no longer carry him, or his lungs collapsed. First they would have to catch him and then they would have to kill him. With these thoughts came a new burst of strength. He could go on.

Then, in front of him: a familiar face.

Run, Pel, this way! Hurry!

It was Shane, his closest friend.

Quickly, Pel! Shane shouted, I have horses!

I’m running … as fast… as I can, he panted between strides. Horses, he thought. Now we have a chance. A ray of hope shone in his mind.

As he closed the gap, Shane spoke again, Hurry, Pel. We can get aw…

Shane gasped and clutched at his chest, just as Pel heard, even felt the bolt whiz past his head.

No! With one last push, Pel reached Shane’s side, even as he sunk to the ground, clutching the bolt in his chest.

I’m sorry, Shane, Pel cried. It should have hit me. I’m sorry.

Run, Pel, Shane said weakly. The horses, he coughed and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, that way. He pointed blindly to the ground.

Pel looked. Where, Shane? Where are the horses? he asked, lifting his friend’s full weight from the ground. Shane…

But, even as he got Shane to his feet, he noticed he was not moving and that he hung limply in Pel’s arms.

No, Shane, no! Please! he shook him. Shane’s head rolled to one side, and Pel’s eyes filled with tears as Shane’s eyes stared away blindly.

Terror! Pain! Anger! Hatred! All of this struck Pel like a fire bolt, as he lowered Shane to the ground, in cold death. Pel could see nothing now, nothing but a world of red. He was filled with the blood fury. The only thing that stood in dark contrast against the red world was the slow moving, murderous attackers. All that mattered now was killing these loathsome riders and the beasts they rode on. He would kill them, or be killed. He looked at his hands. No weapon. Very well, his hands would have to do. He had hatred, the strength of rage on his side. That should give him some equal footing with these dogs.

But even as Pel tried to square himself, to face his opponent, he found he could not move his legs. Pel looked down, and to his astonishment he saw the earth shifting around him, that he was sunk past his ankles, pulled downward by the earth. He struggled, pulling at his legs to escape, but it was no use. The ground was up to; or rather he was down to his knees now. Absently he thought that everything looked so much bigger from down here.

See here, now he mumbled to the ground, as much as to himself, I cannot be expected to fight from this ridiculous position. They would only laugh at me. But the ground did not heed or release him.

Pel was so absorbed in his dilemma that he did not see the horsemen—two of them—closing on him until they stood within, what he called, spitting distance of him. The two horsemen, one with a crossbow aimed at Pel and the other standing on his feet beside his wraith horse, sword drawn, looked on silently. The amazing scene before them, the sight of a boy sunk now passed his waist, apparently being consumed by the ground, seemed to cause them to forget if only momentarily, why there were there. But the pause was only temporary.

Pel looked on, almost expecting them to help or pass him by. Any such hope was dashed, against the harsh stones of reality. The rider with the crossbow—he had to be the one who killed Shane—steadied himself to fire. You cannot escape, he uttered.

Pel screamed in terror. To die like this, this was not the way it was supposed to be. He was supposed to find his parents’ murderers, to travel the world and be famous, to inherit Oredel’s farm, anything but this. He searched for something to grab hold of, some way to free himself from his horrible would-be tomb.

He was now up to his chest in earth. He absently wondered if this was what it felt like to be a rabbit. He screamed again in fury, at his helplessness in the face of certain doom and swore that if he ever escaped from this situation, he would never kill another rabbit, for as long as he lived. He pounded his fists on the ground almost comically in his frustration.

Suddenly there was a voice, a voice that seemed to come from everywhere, a voice that shook him to the core, and made him tremble. Yet somehow the voice came from within.

Pel, don’t fight it. It’s the only way. You must trust me, Pel. I can help you; but you must trust me.

With that voice a calm assurance swept over him, even as the crossbow bolt whizzed past his head, to stick in the ground behind him. The last thing Pel heard, before the earth consumed him completely was the frustrated curse of the crossbowman, when he saw that his arrow had somehow missed its mark.

Pel examined his new surroundings. To his surprise, things were nothing like he expected. His first thought was for breathing. He found that this came easily, indeed without effort. Oxygen seemed to be coming to him from every place, refreshing him, reaching down into his deepest parts.

He opened his eyes, or had he? It was no matter. He could see perfectly, though everything appeared shaded by a sort of gritty gray-green mist. He could see the roots of trees from a distance, though he found to his startled amazement that if he looked at any root, any submerged stone, anything at all and felt any inclination to move closer to it, he was suddenly there. The roots of trees and grass, stones and… things that lived in the earth whipped past him. Or had he whipped past them? He couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. He had no restrictions. Distance and obstacles had no meaning. He could move more freely through the ground than he could upon the earth.

Then it hit him. He wasn’t able to do these things simply because he had become a part of the ground. He was the ground, Miodene itself. Somehow the world that was his home had surrendered itself, its strength, its very core, to him. It was almost more than Pel could contain. Exhilaration turned to exaltation, as he suddenly realized his great power.

But even as his mind grappled with all of this, even as he rejoiced in his new found strength, he was shaken out of his revelry by shouts from above. Suddenly remembrance of the unprovoked attack bore down upon him, even as he heard the gurgling cry of another dying victim. The blood of the innocent poured out into the ground. Sorrow filled Pel as he felt the life of the dying man seep into the ground, which was he.

Then, as he looked on, Pel realized, to his horror, that the victim, whose blood he was now drinking, was… No, it couldn’t be. But it was. Oredel!

Why did you bring me here? he cried to the voice that had spoken with him earlier. My friends need help.

Almost instantly, yet very calmly, that voice responded, "I brought you here, I made you what you are now, so you could save your friends and those with them." The voice still shook Pel.

But how can I… The voice cut him off.

"You are Miodene," the voice responded. "All of the power of Miodene is yours. Use it."

But I don’t know how, Pel insisted.

"Yes, you do, the voice assured him, almost scoldingly. And you will do it. You must."

Now Pel began to protest. Who did the voice belong to? How did he know he could trust… it? What did… it want with him? Why had it done this to him? How could he be expected to do anything? Was he not, after all, still just Pel, Pel, the adopted son of Oredel, a farmer?

Why me? he protested. But it was too late. The voice was gone.

Again, Pel was jarred from his musing by another agonizing wail and the sound of steel tearing into flesh. Then and there, he decided that the voice was right. It had to be. It was the only way. He would end this, in whatever way he could find.

Even as the sounds of battle intensified—blade on blade, men crying out, black riders laughing spitefully—Pel decided upon his course of action.

Up above, the merciless black-clad warriors continued their assault, charging wildly into the sea of humanity, elfdom and dwarfdom, trampling underfoot those in their way and going out of their way for those who weren’t. Swords gleamed red in the darkened sun, as arms raised repeatedly to come down again and again upon the defenseless men, women and children. Terrified shrieks filled the air as the dead and dying fell under the killing blows. Their life’s blood poured out like water and covered the ground like a sea of crimson. The Firehorses reared and pawed at the air, as the battle rage sent them into a wild frenzy, their nostrils flaring at the smell of freshly spilled blood.

Elsewhere, men and elves, dwarves and other folk took sword and shield in defiance of an enemy without mercy or honor. Noble men, valiant warriors, whose skill and spirit had been tested in battle, stood against an enemy they knew must defeat them, determined to make them pay the cost for their victory. Elves moved with remarkable speed and agility, dodging blows, charging and thrusting at a now surprised enemy, darting away before the counter blow could strike.

Dwarves, the ever sturdy and faithful dwarves, who faced death with near indifference, cast themselves into the melee, praying to Obriel³ for the strength to overcome this foe and drive him back to the dark place from whence he had come. So fierce was their attack, the enemy paused in his advance. Here was an opponent with some heart. Yet their thoughts held no admiration, only disdain.

The other folk, whose heritage could not be known—they resembled man and beast—joined in the fight with the cunning of man, the strength of beast, and the courage of dwarf. Their skill in wielding of sword, their great courage, and their unequaled strength held horse and rider at bay.

A ray of hope dawned in the hearts of the hastily assembled army. The enemy they believed undefeatable appeared to be giving ground. Those they expected, at best, only to inconvenience, were held at bay. This enemy did have a weakness. He could be defeated. The allies pressed the attack, changing from a defensive to a more offensive posture.

But the ill-fated attack was doomed from the very start. Even as the rag-tag army prepared to charge the hated enemy, a piercing shriek cut through the tension in the blackened mid-morning air. The hearts of men and elves and dwarves froze at the sound of the pitiful wail. Eyes widened in terror untold at the sight of a man who had ventured too close to one of the Firehorses. The beast seized the opportunity and engulfed the man in searing flames.

Another beast followed, this time throwing its terrible breath at an elf that drew his bow to fire at the first. Even as the elf was engulfed in flames and the stench of charred flesh filled the air, something even more hideous now filled the eyes of the shaken onlookers.

True terror was visited upon all. As men turned to face their companions and elves and dwarves their brethren, they were aghast as, before their eyes, their companions, their brethren were… changed, transformed into whatever forms the demon steeds desired. As men locked eyes with the dreadful beasts, their companions would sense an evil chill and turn to face stone statues, where men of flesh and blood stood only a breath before. Another turned, hearing his companion’s shriek die out, into a rasping groan to stare, not at his companion, but into the white empty eyes of a troll, mouth agape and dripping, and back bowed so that his hands almost touched the ground. Comprehending, now, only fear and confusion, the pitiful beast fled, howling madly.

Dwarves, always so immovable in their manner, wept and fell to their knees, as before their eyes, their beloved brethren fell to all fours and faces turned to snouts; hair grew and feet turned to paws and their brothers changed into wild dogs. Others were transformed into goblins, one of the most despised of creatures upon Miodene, the expressionless round, black eyes stared dumbly into the faces of the brethren from whom they were now estranged. The hearts of the dwarves went weak. Dwarves despise weakness, especially in themselves. They wanted now more than ever to destroy these horses and their riders. Yet, they had not the strength left in them to look at their enemy or to raise sword or battle-ax.

Elves, who hold to the sacredness of all life, wanted nothing more than to kill, to obliterate these, their enemies, down to the last one, as they saw their brothers instantly change from elf to bird. Ridiculous looking birds, whose bodies were obviously too large and awkward for their tiny wings, as they ran, leaping into the air, flapping their wings desperately, only to come down again hard upon the stony ground beneath them.

Then the horrible black snakes upon the helmets of the dark riders seemed to come to life, as they locked their gaze upon man, elf and dwarf and others, foretelling of doom and paralyzing their victim sacrifices with fear.

The black riders were never really held at bay, it became apparent. They took no real note of this pitiful band. It had been a taunt, a trap intended to draw their opponents into a false sense of security, allowing them the delusion that they actually had a chance of defeating them. It was intended to cause the greatest disheartenment when sprung by the reality that they could not win. The strategy worked. The army broke and ran, panic stricken, stumbling over everything, even each other, in a desperate attempt to escape.

The black army strode forward, swords whirling, laughing coldly, certain of ending that which they had begun. The dark horses stamped the ground and bucked impatiently as the riders brought them abreast, preparing to charge into the panic-stricken mob and trample and hack until nothing living was left.

One of the black-caped riders raised high his left hand, intending to extend it outward in silent command, to signal the charge. Even as his arm dropped, his demon horse screamed abruptly, in confused fury, toppling its riders to the ground.

The riders paused briefly in their advance, confused at the odd event—Shadow riders are not easily unhorsed—to see what had felled their leader. Now, for the first time since this horrible visitation, the spirit riders were truly confused, thrown off balance, as they watched their leader struggle to rise. As they beheld, some rising up on their stirrups to see, all attention was drawn away from the task before them. As they looked on, the wraith horse which had been carrying their leader was actually sunk to his shanks in the seemingly solid earth. The horse struggled and screamed in confused rage as the ground relentlessly drew its first victim down into its belly. The steed flailed wildly, breathing its horrible fire at the ground, which held it in its grip, but to no avail. The other riders watched in amazement as the pitiful beast, its face now twisted in confused terror, was swallowed up completely by the hungry earth.

Their leader, having been thrown onto his back, cursed madly as he struggled to stand, having no clear idea what was happening to him. The earth about him could be seen shifting, like the ground itself was alive. At the same time, it made a slithering sound like a serpent uncoiling itself. Hands seemed to reach up, earthen hands, which grappled with arms legs and torso, drawing their unwilling victim ever downward. The last thing left protruding was an arm, which flexed and reached pleadingly toward the sky. An earthen hand reached up to meet it in a handshake like grip and drew it also down to its inevitable grave.

Other horses screamed in rage mixed with fear, as they too, felt themselves beginning to sink into the living earth. Many riders, thinking to escape this fate, lept from their horses, landing on their