Stone Warriors: When Worlds Collide

By Dennis Dyer

Stone Warriors takes us from the coal mines of Eastern Australia, to the sweeping plains of Agortha. We search for the Bora Rings as we look to the Dreamtime for answers. Witness epic battles and the struggle of the Dharawal people and the mining community of Birkdale to protect their land and their jobs. The characters include Warriors, Magicians, miners, tribal Elders, mystical deities and savage beasts known as Talions. The story boasts many strong and intriguing characters such has Gamic, Cerocer, Historre, Freckles, Warwind, Princess Mook and Jacob Bremen. Discover who are The Captinels, learn about the Veltures and dare to journey through the Wildersnaire. Stone Warriors weaves a rich tale of Good and evil but above all it is a rollicking good adventure

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tablo Publishing
• Release date: Dec 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781685831363

Book preview

the battle of agortha

An unseasonably bitter wind shuddered through the valleys, screaming out of the heights and rushing noisily across the open plains of Agortha. It was a particularly chilling middle season this year, unnaturally so in fact. It was physically challenging to merely stand in the open, let alone engage in a desperate battle. 

Arrayed on the seemingly endless plain, two armies had positioned themselves as strategically as the lie of the land would allow. They now defiantly stood their ground, hard up in the face of the foe, openly seething across an expanse of once peaceful grasslands. 

The opposing armies were noticeably unevenly matched, one vastly superior in the sheer number of troops stood ready at it's disposal. Formed up in an haphazard, seemingly unprofessional line of battle, the ragged formation extending from one far horizon and back to the other. Thousands of  banners, tattered and unlaundered, neglected by the endless years of war, slapped and fluttered briskly in the continual bluster. Unpolished blood stained armour and weaponry, barely glinted. The sweat lathered  grimy faces of the chemically maddened troopers were angrily twisted, their eyes though visibly dulled, still  held a deep unforgiving glint, the gutteral noises emanating from among their boiling ranks, audibly portrayed a deep seated greater evil.

Standing against this crazed human wave, was a numerically smaller almost fragile looking army of men. Well drilled and disciplined they now found themselves at this desperate point in Dimmu Sorayo's sad history. Formed up on the fields of Agortha, stood the last remaining war battered battalions of the Ghilt confederation, the last dwindling remnants of a once great and feared army, now facing it's darkest hour. Apprehension among their ranks was great and based in lessons from cold hard experience. The sheer weight of numbers opposing them reason enough to strike great enduring fear in even the bravest of hearts. 

The sweeping plains of the Agorthan basin were the final approach to the grand old city of Nede, the last free bastion in this tiny world. Only a miracle of the greatest magnitude could save Little Sister from plunging headlong into an evil darkness, a darkness that would aggressively impose itself on the very fabric of their once great and enlightened society. 

Once having trampled across these unimposing plains, the dark forces would encounter their only natural obstacle between themselves and victory, the river Delatic. A wide swiftly flowing body of bubbling swirling water, a powerful river that had but one solitary bridge across it’s broad expanse. A full one half day’s march in length, six men could stand shoulder to shoulder across it's breadth, the ancient but sturdy stone and wrought metal structure, would be the focal point of the Ghiltian defence. The defenders believed with some confidence, that so long as the bridge stood unconquered, the enemy would swarm to it's majestic stone arches, allowing the defenders to deal with the numerically superior force on a much narrower and manageable front. 

Detailed fallback plans had however been wisely formulated, sizeable working parties would be employed to remove key flagstones from the old stone structure. The critical keystones once removed, would allow the collapse of individual sections of the bridge. To further enhance the defence of Nede, the Ghiltians had spent many days clearing all craft from the surface of the river and from along it's banks, those that could not be removed were simply committed to the depths of the mighty river. 

To the rear of the tightly massed enemy, loomed the sinister and imposing Raffain mountains. The enemy had expended much of their time and manpower in crossing these rugged ranges in the face of a desperate defensive effort. A defence that had inevitably spawned many heroic deeds which in turn had given birth to tales of epic proportions, tales that ensured these deeds would live on forever in lore, to be fervently retold around the campfires and in the hustle and bustle of the taverns. By comparison the low rolling plains that now faced them, gave both hope and encouragement to the mindless force preparing to pour across them. 

There would be no degree of subtlety nor any great measure of military flair in the manner of the attack. More a disorganised rabble than a disciplined fighting force, tightly packed ranks of  howling human madness would heave forward as one and charge fearlessly toward the Ghiltian lines. The leading ranks would contain foot soldiers. Axe and sword wielding men who would choose death rather than return to that from which they came. Wearing little or no armour, they were a blunt uncompromising battering ram, carelessly used to bludgeon great holes in the defensive line. Waiting impatiently in the wings were legions of fearsome hybrid creatures feared throughout the land, Talions, terrifying creatures most certainly spawned of dark magic. In appearance they were every inch a large well muscled horse, except for their huge fearsome heads, which closely resembled that of a short maned Lion, they were capable of unbridled ferocity. Stout metal and leather muzzles strapped tightly across their drooling snapping mouths were removed when and only when they reached the enemy lines. Obedient only to a point, a riderless Talion was a formidable challenge to both friend and foe alike, they became the focal target for defenders, who preferred to deal with the thrashing snapping Talion first and the much more predictable fallen rider secondly. 

To the rear of the massed army followed the Velture brigades. Elite within their army, closest to their master, they drove the army on without reason or pity. To fall wounded or worse still, to turn and run, meant instant death at their willing and well practiced hands. They were readily recognisable, uniform in appearance they wore long black flowing cloaks, knee high boots made from the tanned skins of the Talions, thick leather tights and jerkins held at the waist with broad leather belts, at the centre of which was a shiny metal buckle. On their heads they wore colourfully plumed helmets made of a brassy metal, they were tightly sculptured around the head and ornately engraved. The various plumes were the only items, other than physical attributes, which distinguished them from one another as individuals. They carried with them a variety of conventional weaponary along with two weapons of an unconventional nature, one was a wand like piece of apparatus carried by only a few senior Veltures. The wands were half a grown mans arm in length and a dull blue in colour with a thick black hand grip on one end. When activated and pointed at the selected target a sharp blue flash would streak out through a shower of white electric sparks, it appeared to find the intended victim more by thought than deliberate aim and rendered the hapless victim momentarily senseless and incapable of meaningful resistance, this was the method used to enslave captured enemy fighters. The second unconventional weapon which they wielded was an unbinding fear, entrenched fear that was rooted deep in the never sleeping dark figure who watched over his minions, the evil figure who’s hate filled eye’s looked out over the plains of Agortha from up high within the Raffains.

The Ghilt confederation forces were thinly spread over a wide area, they had concentrated their defences on the approaches to the bridge, but  troops were also required to maintain a vigil along the banks of the river, if enemy crossings were to occur, then further forces would be required to respond. To this end two mounted mobile forces had been formed, all the cavalry available were kept constantly on the move, they were under the command of two mounted Captinels, Steedmaster and Windrider. The squadrons of hardened horse warriors they led were a splendid sight, highly polished steel armour covered their breasts shoulders and legs, years in the field had left them fit and well tanned. Each carried a lance with his families crest proudly emblazoned on a fluttering banner at it's tip, on their hips sat a short double edged broad sword. Full faced steel helmets showed only their eyes to the enemy, often the last thing seen by a vanquished foe. Their mounts were War-horses, swift, large, and thickly framed steeds, trained from foals in the ways of war,  they were steady in the heat of battle, even in the face of the much larger and terribly ferocious Talions. Also present in this force were two troops of mounted bowmen, saddled up on much smaller but far more agile ponies. Dressed in lightweight green leather jackets, their dress was designed specifically for comfort and mobility. They carried with them the deadly and much feared Ghiltian bow, each individually hand carved by its owner from the tough wood of the Bewl tree.

Nede was not by nature a fortress city, the moment the river was crossed, the city would surely fall. Built on the shores of the Tredar sea, Nede was a centre of enlightenment, dedicated to learning, art and philosophy. It had been purposely constructed many centuries earlier in a golden era of peace and contentment when a need for defence could not even be imagined. It's builder and architect, the legendary King Fabelin, would surely weep at the dire predicament his beloved creation and his beleaguered ancestors now faced. 

In the days preceding the battle, the Captinels along with the city elders held regular councils. After much passionate and prolonged debate it was decided that only the fighting men of the Ghiltian army should be placed at risk, the general populace would not be called upon to face the approaching enemy. Many present, passionately objected to this decision, until the greatest Captinel of all, Grimslayer, stood and addressed the council. Thickly built and taller than the average man he was an imposing figure, dressed in the brown tanned leather uniform of an infantry Captinel he spoke to those gathered.

He moved confidently into the centre of the meeting, pausing for just a moment to cast an eye over all present.        

'If a man's body does not possess a Warriors Heart, then that man is not by nature a Warrior.'

He paused before continuing.

 'The way's of men are many and men's hearts openly reflect this, accordingly men should follow their own heart's calling.'

He opened up his hands and spread his arms wide, he turned slowly to ensure the full attention of his audience.

 ‘There is great honour and pride in achieving what your heart tells you is your true task in life.'

He smiled a knowing smile.

'If this great city falls, then the Warriors will have failed in their task, but the tradesmen, the artists and the philosophers among you will endure.'

He now nodded slowly and continued.

' You see success will then lay with them, for one day they will be required to rebuild that which the dark magic tears apart..'

Murmurs of understanding and reluctant agreement ran quickly around the meeting.

        'You see in reality there is no more to be said, the facts are sad, but no less they are facts.'

With that the people of Nede placed their fate firmly in the hands of the Warriors. In one form or another Nede would survive, the battle would be carried only to the nearest river bank, not to the city gates and beyond. 

There was another equally imposing presence at each of the councils, a mystical elder known to all as Gamic. Thought to posses magical powers and often connected to the mysterious Historre, he was well liked and genuinely respected. Before leaving the final Council circle, he rose and in a manner of knowing self assuredness made it clear to  one and all, that with patience and a little luck, the day would surely arrive when all would be put to right. 

Formed up in a broad arc which started and finished on the riverbank, the entrance to the bridge as the central point, the Confederations forces made careful last minute preparations to receive the impending attack. They were wise and battle hardened fighters who possessed many trick’s to show the enemy. Earthworks with sharply pointed wooden stakes protruding menacingly ran the full length of the lines, to the front of the earthworks ran a deep wide ditch specifically designed to ensnare the enemy, more of the deadly stakes pointed vertically up from the bottom, their deadly intent more than obvious. Ten Battalions of the finest infantry were firmly entrenched in the foremost positions, well armoured and resolute in the face of adversity, these men of war would drench the ground with blood before yielding even a single step. They would be led into battle by the last remaining infantry Captinels, Swiftaxe, Broadblade, Stoneheart, Steelwielder, and the mighty Grimslayer.

To the rear of the infantry, perched on higher ground, hundreds of archers were formed in two semi circular lines, ready to drop flights of deadly missiles into the oncoming ranks. Bowmaster walked calmly and with purpose among them, a large man with a steely eye, he was the brother of Grimslayer, he passed his easily acquired faith on to his gathered archers through his manner and his simple words,

We’ve faced worse than these curse, we can handle them, I doubt they can handle us hey lads.

As a large bank of dark clouds loomed up in the distance, a most welcome visitor appeared in amongst the Ghiltian lines. The mystical Gamic strode through the encampment smiling and waving freely as he passed. The troops recognised him instantly and called out loud friendly greetings, which he cheerfully returned, he halted when he reached the side of Grimslayer.

'Old friend I bring hope, walk with me I shall explain'

The two men talked briefly before entering a large tent. Grimslayer, at the request of Gamic sent forth messengers to his fellow Captinels. Within the hour a meeting of great importance took place. Gamic spoke calmly to an eager gathering, the Captinels listened intently and sure enough a glimmer of hope came from his most welcome words.

"Friends, I believe I have finally discovered the whereabouts of Cerocer’.

Words of disbelief echoed from among the gathered warriors.

He directs his hateful war from a lair deep within the Raffains.

Steelwielder was hopeful but still a little incredulous,

Worthwhile information, how much faith can we place in it.

Gamic smiled.

Great faith indeed, for reasons I do not yet fully understand, I have recently been able to connect to his mind, at times I can read his thoughts, I now know some of  his deepest secrets.

The warriors knew well that Gamic possessed powers they did not understand.

I believe I can pinpoint his whereabouts, It is up to you as to how we best use this information.

There was no argument, all present knew exactly how best to utilise this information. Amongst the Captinels, were three Warriors in particular whose skills had been carefully honed to take advantage of just such an opportunity. Plans were hurriedly formulated, a small window of opportunity had unexpectantly presented itself and all in attendance knew only too well that they could not waste such a timely gift. 

The same day, on the falling of darkness, three shadowy figures stole quickly away from the Ghiltian lines, known as Stielths they fought in the shadows. Swiftly and silently they blended easily into the quickly darkening night, they glided effortlessly across the moonlit plains and on through the enemy lines. Passing like the whisper of a breeze, they proceeded completely unseen and unheard, speeding on toward the Raffains. 

With the rising of the sun on the morning after the Stielths had slipped away, the Ghiltian encampment slowly stirred to life, surprisingly basking in a warm even sunlight. The wickedly persistent wind had faded away during the dark hours and had not as yet reappeared. The cooking fires were now well alight and the people of Nede had sent food aplenty across the bridge to their fighting men. The tempting aroma of fresh baked hearthen bread, brewed chaca and slowly roasted meat, fanned out over small gatherings of hungry Warriors. Taking turns in leaving the battle lines they indulged in hearty conversations and an even heartier breakfast, with a full belly and  their weapons well prepared, the unfamiliar warmth of the sun soothed their souls, and instilled in them a new found confidence. Hearts and minds were lifting accordingly, laughter and smoke drifted lazily through the camp, broad unconcerned smiles could be seen among their number, for a brief and precious moment in time, the war and all of its attendant horrors seemed distant and somehow unimportant. As so often happens, the welcome illusion was roughly shattered, an invasive deathly silence crept up without warning and settled over the countryside. One by one individuals slowly became aware of it’s evil presence, conversations fell silent until not a sound was to be heard. Not from the birds nor the insects, nothing even rustled on the breeze, no animal stirred, men sensed that some evil presence had somehow, without warning, entered the battlefield. For several fist clenching moments the Ghiltians stood still, stunned into immobility, listening hard, hearing only their beating hearts. The dark clouds over the Raffains now began to roll slowly toward them, the uncomfortable bluster returned in full with a sudden intrusive blast, the enemy were coming. With a sudden realisation that shook them from their unwilling lethargy, the Ghiltian Warriors quickly and instinctively mobilised,  they made ready for war. 

As the clouds loomed up and then rolled over them, the wind gradually strengthened and chilled further, light rain began to fall, the air around them became thick and uncomfortable, uneasy. A low dull sound rolled across the plains towards their lines. Grunts and howls, the distant clanging of metal, the tramping of thousands upon thousands of feet, countless shrieking horns and low rolling drum beats now became faintly audible. Then as if somehow carefully orchestrated, loud peels of thunder lashed out and crashed across the heavens, fearsome streaking lightning bolts followed, seemingly allied to the enemy. In the distance the first ranks of the advance began to move forward. As the rain became heavier, uncertainty and apprehension slowly crept across the defending ranks, it had not yet turned to fear, but at any moment it could easily do so.

 The Captinels came to the fore, striding out defiantly in front of their troops, clearly showing themselves to the enemy, they unsheathed their well honed swords and stood defiantly for all to see. Grimslayer turned and faced the enemy, there was no time to taste fear now, they would have to swallow deep and spit it out. Somewhere amongst them a lone powerful voice, cut powerfully through the thickening air, Bowmaster intoned the first few lines of an ancient Ghiltian Battle Hymn, his fellow Warriors stirred by the heroic lyrics gradually joined him in song, giving voice to the age old hymn until it resonated throughout the ranks and echoed out over the plains, spreading pride and courage amongst them like the seeds of hope and ending with a rousing chorus of cheers.

The field had been well prepared, the evil hoards would now learn to their great cost just exactly how well. Bright white marker posts had been placed at carefully measured intervals to aid the archers in finding their range, the enemy was now fast approaching the first of these, a few tense moments passed  until the range was right. Bowmaster commanded. 

'Archers, send them our regards, a rate of twenty', 

With those words the battle opened, a deadly flight of missiles whooshed savagely into the air, winged out searchingly over the heads of the wildly cheering infantry and sped on across the plains to the intended targets, they struck home hard. The leading enemy ranks reeled as if smote by a giant slicing axe, those in the following ranks clambered over their fallen brothers only to meet the same fate, a fate that was to be repeated many times over. 

The arrows seared unceasingly into the air to the centre and right of the fortified emplacement, the intention only fully realised when the advancing enemy slowly started to unconsciously push toward the left to escape the thickening enfilade. The area into which they pushed was a deep swampy basin, as a result the advance slowly but surely  blundered into the thick heavy ground. Others followed, rank after rank , men quickly became bogged and rapidly tired. A golden opportunity now presented itself to the eager Ghiltians, Grimslayer gave the order. 

Swiftaxe and Broadblade led a full bloodied charge down the slope, yelling wildly like the devil coming to visit, wielding their weapons high above their heads they smashed into the disorganised rabble that had only just gained solid ground. Swiftly and efficiently the enemy were put to the sword, many died quickly and ingloriously under the flashing blades, the Ghiltians handed out a short sharp lesson in warfare. The enemy howled abuse and cursed, they persisted in trying to go forward. They came on and they fell to swift and accurate sweeps of the broadsword, the seething hate in their eyes intensifying with each inglorious failure. The lesson continued until something unheard and unseen once again took an hand in proceedings, somehow, something silently directed them to withdraw, with their ferocity suddenly dulled, they fell back. The Ghiltians stood and cheered loudly and victoriously brandishing their weapons they saw the last of them off. Having completed their gruesome task, Swiftaxe and Broadblade led their Warriors triumphantly back up the slope to the cheers and accolades of their comrades. 

Despite this small victory, to the centre and right the enemy still advanced steadily, damage reeked by the archers made their advance slow , still they came on, heads bowed, walking into the falling arrows as if into an hail storm. They continued in this manner until the time came for the missiles to be conserved for more strategic targets, breaches of the line or worst still the expected attack from the dreaded Talion squadrons. Bowmaster gave a necessary but reluctant command,

' lessen your fire, a rate of ten',

The rate of fire was instantly halved. As if of a singular mind the advancing army sensed the sudden easing of pressure, heads once again lifted, their step quickened, a fast walk at first, now a steady run, still men fell but a way forward was now possible. They quickened their step, they began to roar wildly as they covered the ground, they in turn began to wield their weapons high, now covering the ground with increasing speed they thundered on. The earth began to shake, the Ghiltian lines braced for the first moment of impact, faster, faster, roaring onward, the final few yards were covered in what seemed like an instant. With unbelievable ferocity they crashed down into the ditch then without hesitation surged upwards and into the earthworks, an audible gasp rose up from the defending lines. It felt as if the entire line had been pushed backward under the weight of the collision. With madness in their eyes the ditch quickly filled with flailing men, they  attempted to climb up and over the earthworks, they died in great numbers on the sword and under the cut of the battle axe. Withdrawal was now impossible. The front line quickly became a slaughter house, the Ghiltians atop the earthworks held the high ground and thus the strategic advantage, their training and iron discipline allowed them to use the advantage well.

For many bloody hours the battle raged and the death toll rose steadily, few breaches were made in the line, the handful that did occur were met with a swift and deadly flight of arrows. On occasions groups of attackers were deliberately allowed through the lines to ease the pressure, Ghiltian Bows were designed for just such an occasion. 

From his vantage point in the Raffain’s, Cerocer watched impatiently and cursed loud and often, displeased and angry, he was alone, he had no one on whom to vent his anger. Hatred flowed from him like a stream of bile as he stormed petulantly around his quarter's, he did not however allow his growing rage to cloud his better judgement. If the attack continued in the present manner, the opposition was adept and willing enough to simply butcher his minions. Even with the great numerical advantage that he enjoyed, foolish warfare could easily see victory slip from his grasp. 

At the centre of the battle lines the fighting was at it’s fiercest, the enemy swarmed to this point like so many mindless animals and threw themselves with demonic fury at the overworked defenders. Grimslayer and Steelwielder were at their very best, with tireless arms and unrelenting aggression, their swiftly flashing blades slew many, they had now thoroughly warmed to their gruesome task. Once again, as had so often happened before, at a moment when the fighting seemed to reach a crescendo, the enemy as one fell back. Some unheard unseen command intervened in the violent bloody proceedings, the battle was abruptly almost prematurely brought to a close. The Ghiltians stood stunned and did not follow, they more so than the enemy needed the breathing space on offer.

Throughout the attack the rain had fallen steadily, driven along almost horizontally at times by the bitterly cold wind, it now withdrew along with the retreating enemy. The earthworks had been largely destroyed, the ground piled high with dead and wounded. Victory is often an expensive prize, this was one such occasion. As night fell and the campfires flickered like golden stars in the darkness, the dead and wounded were dutifully carried back across the bridge. One fourth of the defenders had ended the day as casualties.

Well into the shadows of the evening, the exhausted Captinels held council, each openly speaking his mind. The consensus was that the line must be shortened, a new defensive position had by necessity to be formed. Debate was continuing as to the details, when a mounted messenger entered the camp in a state of obvious urgency. The rider was led without delay into the council tent.

‘Captinels.'

He gulped and filled his lungs with air.

'I bring news from your brother Windrider'

He quickly composed himself before continuing.

'The enemy has crossed the river, lord Windrider’s force is stretched in dealing with them, he is forced to retreat back toward Nede’

The message changed things, Stoneheart quizzed the weary rider,

‘How did they cross the river? we took precautions against this’

‘Small boats my lord, many  of them.’

‘How then are our losses’

‘When I left they were light, but we are very hard pressed.’

‘Do you have news of Steedmaster’s force?’

‘No lord, they travelled upstream away from us,, but people are also fleeing downstream towards the city’

Knowing that time was of  the essence, Grimslayer gave the rider a directive,

‘You must return immediately, assure Windrider that he will be reinforced,’

Without hesitation the rider bowed and took leave, Grimslayer addressed his comrades, his tone unmistakably grave,

‘The decision has been made for us, we must fall back onto the bridge and collapse the first section, we need only a small force for this task, the remainder must go to the aid of Windrider and Steedmaster.'

He paused for just a moment.

'We must also defend the city end of the bridge for the enemy are now behind us’

With weary nods of resigned agreement, the council drew to a close. By the dawning of first light, fully three fourths of what had remained of the Ghitian army, were tramping wearily toward Nede. Through the night, a second rider had arrived, carrying further unpleasant news, Steedmasters force had also encountered the enemy in large numbers, their predicament was much the same if not worse than that of Windrider’s.

A small holding force, led by Grimslayer and Stoneheart, watched silently as their comrades marched off the bridge into the half light of the dawning day. A section of the bridge had by necessity to be collapsed. Large stones were in the process of being carefully removed in a preset sequence, a sequence that should have allowed a safe and methodical collapsing of the first section. However much to their dismay and great frustration, time and fate had took a hold of the stones and several were seemingly frozen into place.

Upstream from Nede, Steedmaster was engaged in a desperate struggle. He had encountered the enemy in small numbers at first and had met with little trouble in riding them down. The fighting had been sporadic and scattered; they had pressed on upstream dealing with the enemy as they came across them. It was on the second day of these encounters that they had learned much to their horror, that large numbers of enemy had somehow flooded in behind them. Steedmaster reacted quickly to the deteriorating situation, he immediately wheeled his troops about and set out to skirt back around, they were at a full gallop when to their front and right they made a worrying sighting. Much to their consternation the Talion legions had somehow  managed to transport a great many of their surly mounts across the river. Now heavily outnumbered, they were fighting a desperate rear guard action back along the river bank toward the bridge.

The collapsing of the bridge was still incomplete when the rain, the wind, and the enemy reappeared. Picking their way through the scattered wreckage of the old defensive line they swarmed up and over what remained of the earthworks and moved on unhindered toward the bridge. The partial collapse that had been achieved to date, served only to slow them minimally. Gradually they crowded up and over the rubble and onto the narrow bridge. Here they were once again dying in numbers at the hands of the willing Ghiltians, but slowly, oh so slowly, they edged the Ghiltians back along the bridge towards the ancient city.

Windrider's force had fared slightly better downstream, he had not been cut off from Nede, but had come face to face with large numbers of enemy troops. To this point he had slowed the enemy advance with well practiced hit and run tactics. But despite their best efforts they too were gradually falling back along the river bank.

Atop a low hill on the outskirts of Nede, Gamic paced back and forth, his mind clearly heavy with thought. He was well aware of the dire position the fighting men were in, but there was little he could do for them militarily. He knew of only one useful act he could perform at that moment in time, he turned and walked quickly into the city where fear had now taken a firm grip on the population. Pushing his way through the rampant panic, he slowly gathered around him an handful of willing tradesmen, labourers and engineers, after speaking with them briefly they gathered together a stockpile of various tools and supplies which they then loaded onto rickety hand propelled carts, he trooped them off in the direction of the besieged bridge.

Grimslayer and Stoneheart were fighting as hard as they had ever been known to fight, but their men were steadily falling and the enemy continued to press on relentlessly. It was at this moment, with disbelief, they saw the rag tag convoy of workmen approaching. They marched directly onto the bridge behind the hard pressed defenders and immediately set about the work of dismantling a section of the bridge. With the work under way, Gamic strode along the bridge, in a loud booming voice he called out.

‘My lord, you must hold  a little while yet, buy us some time.’

Grimslayer breathed deeply and spoke brokenly between sweeps of his mighty blade.

‘It  will …be… expensive   time…… but   you shall…  have it’

The answer received, Gamic returned immediately to his workers and encouraged them to re-double their efforts. Their expertise in their work, ensured them far greater success than that which had been achieved by the efforts of the less expert Warriors. The work finally completed Gamic urged his workers back to safety, but the dirt and sweat covered men would not leave, not until the bridge was collapsed would they consider their task fulfilled With no time to waste on pointless argument, Gamic hurried along the bridge carrying a large metal container with him, he poured the liquid contents out over a large area of the bridge surface, then called out to the hard pressed Warriors as the liquid quickly spread,

‘Disengage, you must leap the liquid.’

Grimslayer immediately understood the urgent directive, he ordered his men back while he and Stoneheart stood firm in the enemies face, his men broke quickly and retreated back along the bridge. At the last moment possible the two Captinels turned and ran swiftly after them. The well drilled speed with which they had disengaged, caught the enemy by surprise, they hesitated for just the barest of moments, then belatedly gave chase. The moments hesitation was all that was required, the Captinels covered the ground swiftly and easily cleared the liquid pool in a single leap. Gamic raised both arms high in the air and threw a blue powder down onto the rapidly spreading liquid. The effect was instantaneous and mightily impressive, the bridge exploded into a brilliant intense blue flame, a wall of white hot fire now stood as a barrier between the Ghiltians and their eager pursuers.

‘Come my lords this is not an eternal flame and there is still much work to be done.’

At Gamic’s urging they followed without hesitation. While the maddened enemy cursed insanely and stared wildly at the flames, the working party quickly completed the remainder of their task, a large seemingly immovable section of stone and metal structure was sent crashing noisily into the swiftly flowing current. The intense flames gradually withered and subsided, leaving the bewildered enemy to move up to the opposite edge, the gaping space was now far too wide to cross, although many still tried in vain.

There was much hearty back slapping and many thanks given to the sweat soaked working party, after which the wearied Warriors formed up into ranks and marched proudly off the bridge.

The reinforcements moving up stream encountered the enemy first, before eventually rendezvousing with Steedmaster. Their combined advance was however once again halted by superior enemy numbers, Steelwielder and Bowmaster led them well and oversaw an orderly and disciplined withdrawal back downstream. 

Downstream the rendezvous had also been made, Swiftaxe and Broadblade's force had met up with that of Windrider, together they had ground the enemy to a shuddering halt and had even made useful gains in some sectors of the field. The terrain here was thickly wooded, rocky and uneven underfoot, the perfect   terrain to render Talions much less of an effective force. Drilled well in this manner of warfare the Ghiltians adapted better than their enemies to the conditions, all things going well they could conduct a protracted campaign down here in amongst the wild and uncharted woodlands.

The hero’s of the bridge had encamped along the riverbank, Stoneheart hurried through the camp and found his old friend Grimslayer,

‘Gamic  requests that you and I meet him, his words are only for our ears’

‘Come then the old man does not spend his time idly.’

The Captinels approached the robed figure of Gamic, he was an impressive sight to behold, his long flowing robes were a regal purple in colour and incorporated a hood, his hair was long and golden which contrasted sharply with his beard which was short and a rich grey in colour, thin and tall his eyes were dark green and wizened. The Captinels nodded a greeting, Grimslayer spoke first,

‘Old friend what wise council do you have for us.’

‘You place much confidence in me Grimslayer, I hope I can match your expectation’s.’

‘I am certain you will Gamic.’ 

‘What I say now will not please you, so please hear me out, this battle is lost.’

Indignantly Stoneheart interrupted,

‘Are you proposing we yield, lay down our arms, by thunder this is not the  way...........’

Gamic raised his hand to halt Stonehearts indignant tirade.

‘Hear me, if you continue to contest the field we will lose the entire army, we will lose it’s leadership, in short we will lose everything.,’

Stoneheart was still unwilling to accept failure.

‘ If it is inevitable then there is no other way, rather a Warriors death than to live a subservient life’

Patiently Gamic chose his words,

‘There is a way, we must extract our forces from upstream and have them join us here, we can then move downstream as one and combine with the forces already there’

Grimslayer entered the conversation,

‘What then, we will still be between two forces and the city will fall.’

Gamic  looked them both squarely in the eye.

‘We must fight our way through the enemy lines downstream, beyond them lie the ancient lands of Locain.. We can disperse the army throughout this area, they are well trained and will survive there easily..’

Grimslayer reacted cautiously to Gamics council.

‘We must be able to offer our people some sort of an agenda’

‘I will not mis-inform you, this is not a short term plan, further I have a separate plan for yourselves, you will not remain with your troops..’

The meeting continued for some time, the stark reality of the situation slowly becoming more and more apparent with open discussion. Eventually Gamic’s council was reluctantly accepted. Riders were despatched upstream instructing the forces there to disengage and withdraw with haste. Surprisingly this was eventually accomplished with an unusual ease, there was a noted drop in intensity from the pursuing enemy. 

The Ghiltian forces reunited at the city end of the bridge within two days, Grimslayer although it left a bitter taste in his mouth, would lead them, battered but unbowed from the field. They would attempt to rendezvous downstream with their forces there and hopefully gain some form of victory out of the surrounding chaos. 

GHILT

The proud history, of the once mighty GHILT Confederation, had its humble origins in the legendry annals of a far distant time. It was born from an ailing and sadly fractured world, Dimmu Sorayo was at that time a sinister ,shadowy, and most would would say extremely dangerous place in which to reside. A trembling fearful world of dark imposing corners and frightened suspicious people. Only small in physical size, it had been bitterly split into many small constantly warring factions. Invariably these opposing factions were directed and manipulated by men of seemingly magical powers. Mortal men who controlled not only the land itself but also the easily moulded minds of mankind. It was a magical world where both light and dark magic continually struggled for supremacy, constantly striving and scheming for ultimate dominance. Superstitions, deeply ingrained into the social fabric, combined with age old rivalries and deep seated hatreds, ensured that the many opposing groups remained uncompromisingly insular and irreversibly segregated. Few bold souls ever ventured to travel any greater distance than could be covered in a single day or perhaps two from their original place of birth. These self imposed boundaries were always vigorously defended against even the slightest of incursions. Ravaged unmercifully by constant  warfare the Little Sister was never truly afforded the chance to blossom and achieve her full potential. 

Dimmu Sorayo, at this socially and morally bankrupt time, consisted of five main land masses. The five lands covered seventy five percent of the little worlds surface area, the remainder of which was made up of small islands, seas, lakes and rivers. The five land groups varied greatly in size and differed intrinsically in their nature. By far the most expansive of these lands was the land of Gardain. A disarmingly peaceful looking land of vast rolling plains and deep swiftly flowing rivers. Gardain despite it's impressive size was only sparsely populated. It’s people lived in small remote insular villages, they eked out a meagre living from the proceeds of fishing, tilling the soil for a variety of grain crops and the grazing of various animals. They paid homage to men who were dark magicians and unquestioningly complied with their every bidding and direction. 

Although much smaller in area when compared to Gardain, the lands of Hurban were by far the most populous of the  land groups. Hurban was the home of several large, never sleeping , untidily sprawling cities, each built haphazardly at unplanned intervals along the coastal plains of the Tredar sea. Institutional crime and inbred corruption were the dominant forces of note here, brute force and threats of violence were the main bargaining chips. Here too in Hurban just as in Gardain, the root of all their problems once again lay largely at the feet of the dark magicians. They were evil uncompromising beings who continually struggled to dominate not only each other but also all else that they encountered. 

A mountainous and especially inhospitable region that ran like a bent spine down the very centre of Dimmu Sorayo, was home to an Hardy and by comparison to many of those around them, far more civilised and hospitable race of people. The people of the ruggedly beautiful land known as Isotar, like the other lands around them were a fundamentally fragmented society. The cold desolate isolation of the wild untamed mountains had long ensured that its people were kept apart, not only from each other but also from the people of their neighbouring lands. The few magical beings of this naturally fortified region were a strange and mystical breed of men known as Shaymons. Numbering only four at this time they were tall and thin with gold hair and grey beards and they were all strikingly similar to one another in appearance, as though they were of the one family, to further emphasise this obvious connection they all boasted mesmerising deep green eyes. 

Several days march as the crow flies from the boiling bubbling turmoil of Hurban, lay a wild and mysterious land. Locain was heavily wooded and excessively rocky, its many foreboding forests were uninvitingly dark and treacherous, men who dared to enter here were seldom ever sighted again, those that were fortunate enough to return to the fold were greatly effected by their ordeals and could rarely bring themselves to speak openly of their experiences. The people of this region were a largely unknown quantity, they were never observed to venture out of the dark forests and alternatively allowed no strangers to invade their much guarded privacy. Whether dark or light magicians had a presence or held influence in these shadowy lands was unknown, but the very nature of  the place and the many myths and legends it had spawned, suggested that they most certainly did.

By far the fairest of the five land groups was the land of Temparlin, a brightly sunlit land with a large variety of tall colourful trees, lush green pastures and mirror like deep blue lakes, it was the least populous and the smallest in area of all the lands. The people were hard working hunters and gatherers, but readily transformed into fearsome warriors when ever they were called to arms. Only two men of magic held any sway in this almost benign land, each was firmly entrenched in his own heavily fortified stronghold. Hamune practised light magic and Dromed practised dark magic. Frustratingly equal in power, neither could  for many years gain a worthwhile or telling advantage over the other, but it was this futile endless struggle that would see the eventual rise of  Dimmu Sorayo’s first great King, and spawn the unification of these five unruly and friendless lands into the GHILT Confederation.

The welcome, cleansing winds of change that would sweep across these lands arrived in the form of a young man named Fabelin. He grew up as a hunter and warrior under the Banner of Hamune, tall, broad of shoulder and powerfully athletic he was quick of both body and mind. He became both feared and respected for his qualities of leadership, and deep love of his people. Hamune himself was deeply impressed by this young tyro and eventually saw fit to promote him to the leadership of the armed forces,  a position from where Fabelin wasted no time in radically altering the very nature and purpose of warfare. He developed and introduced the Stout Bow, in time to evolve into the legendary Ghiltian Bow. He was the first among his kind to master the art of horseback riding, training squadrons of warriors and drilling them into disciplined and skillful cavalry units. He also introduced into his forces, discipline, training, armour, and a military rank system from which emerged an elite leadership group, these warriors of supreme excellence soon became known throughout the land as Captinels. The relationship between Hamune and  Fabelin was always close, exactly like that of a doting father and a loyal son. Fabelin learnt much of value from his much respected mentor, and through experience soon came to realise that the dark magic that was so feared by all men, could only work effectively if men’s fear allowed it to. Hamune himself had long practised his own brand of light magic and concocted potions for his people to help them overcome their fears and strengthen their resolve, he possessed certain magical powers that created illusions, but those that did not believe or fear them were totally unaffected by them, only weakness in men’s minds unwittingly allowed the magic to work. As he learned, Fabelin reasoned that Dromeds powers worked in precisely the same manner as Hamunes, his magic and potions firstly addicted the bodies and then controlled men’s minds, without fear or the addictive influence of the potions, any magic no matter the type, was a far less potent adversary. With his newly acquired knowledge of magical powers and his by now well developed theories of the addictive nature of the magical potions, Fabelin further reasoned that all men should be free of all magical influences both light and dark, he eventually sought council with Hamune and explained himself fully.

'My lord, I bring with me changing times, you have long been a father to me and I owe you much for that, but I feel the days of magical influence over men must  come to an end, men must make their own decisions, and control their own thoughts and destinies'

Hamune smiled knowingly,

'I have long expected and planned  for this day Fabelin, you tell me nothing I do not already know, speak your mind it will not offend me.’

The two men talked and listened, Fabelin was pleasantly surprised to discover that Hamune held the same sentiments as he himself did, and had long waited for the day when his people would have  a strong enough leader to enable them to overcome all types of magic. Hamune duly ceded his leadership to the still young but worldly wise Fabelin. With a renewed vigour Fabelin now relentlessly waged war against the dark Dromed. His new armies inbuilt discipline and belief in both themselves and their enigmatic leader was duly rewarded with victory after resounding victory. Region after Region fell to their unstoppable advance and the people were duly freed from the magical shackles that had for so long enslaved them. Dromed became increasingly gripped by a frenzied panic and mind numbing fear, as his once expansive dominion shrank rapidly and his formerly unquestioned power quickly waned and began to die. Eventually with Fabelins army baying at his inner gates he belatedly sued for peace, in the forlorn hope of retaining some semblance of influence in the new order that would surely follow. When Fabelin finally saw fit to meet with the dark Magician he was surprised to see a tired wasted frame of a man, addicted to his own evil potions and looking incredibly old. There was no semblance of a leader of men here, just a bitter twisted fool. Dromed retained nothing, he was sent ignominiously into eternal exile, a broken and well beaten man, stripped of his power and left only with hatred in his heart, a deep hatred that would fester forever within his soul. 

With the great victory came many accolades and further honours for Fabelin, the greatest honour of all being at the behest of Hamune, and by the popular agreement of the people. Fabelin was ultimately anointed as the first King of Temparlin, on that momentous day a dynasty was born that would guide Dimmu Sorayo out of the all encompassing darkness of magic and into an enlightened age of peace, temperance and enlightened learning. Fabelin at once set about the task of totally rebuilding and remodelling the fabric of society within Temparlin. He proved to be just as adept at governing in peace as he was at waging war. As a direct result the land flourished and the people were for the first time truly happy. He actively encouraged expansion of the arts and philosophy, he designed planned and built new cities, each one modelled on the needs of the people. Roads were built to interconnect all parts of the realm, places of learning sprang up and law and order was firmly established and strictly maintained. With an eye to the surrounding land groups the army was gradually built into an even more powerful and disciplined force, easily capable of defending the borders against any threat that may arise from abroad. 

Word of his great achievements slowly filtered through to the other dominions, carried on the lips of a handful of traders and travellers, his ways were unfamiliar to them and as such were looked upon in most quarters with much distrust and great wariness. Temparlin was an enigma in Dimmu Sorayo.Fabelin had reached middle age when events took a rather sudden and telling turn. Word came to him early one day from a remote border region that an emissary accompanied by a band of Hardy looking warriors had encamped just beyond the designated borderline. A single figure had approached the border and asked permission to see the famed King Fabelin on matters of great importance, he was directed to return to his encampment and await an answer. Fabelin determined to go forward and meet this emissary at the border, he did not see it as prudent for a possible enemy to be permitted to enter the land of Temparlin.On arrival at the border, camp was set up in direct view of the strangers encampment. An emissary with an armed escort was sent across to invite their leader and a small group of selected guards to entreat with King Fabelin at mid morning the next day, the invitation was unreservedly accepted. As the appointed time drew near, much to everyone’s surprise, the same lone figure that had made the initial contact, made his way unguarded and unhurried across from the encampment. Fabelin greatly admired the trust and courage this lone tall figure was openly exhibiting. Much to the concern of those around him, he motioned them to remain in position while he returned the trust on display and strode forward alone to meet the visitor. Fabelin walked one hundred paces before the pair met for the first time face to face, separated only by an arms length,  the stranger spoke first,

‘Ah my friend, I have travelled far to meet you, I am pleased to finally do so’

Gamic’s words were heartfelt and Fabelin immediately understood this,

‘We do not encounter many strangers here, it is good to receive one who is so cordial, welcome, I am Fabelin King of Temparlin’

‘I am Gamic, We have much in common, cordiality comes easy friend’

‘You interest me, as to whether we are friends or not remains to be seen,  come I will listen to what you have to say in the comfort of my camp’

The pair strolled unhurriedly back toward the camp, whereupon Fabelin guided Gamic to a large colourfully striped tent,. He directed the guards to leave their posts at the entrance, the two entered alone. Inside the tent a long polished dark wood table was overcrowded with food and a variety of liquid refreshment. Fabelin invited Gamic to join him at the table and partake of anything he liked, Gamic accepted graciously and spoke while he casually picked at morsels of food, and sipped at what he instantly adjudged to be an excellent local beverage. 

‘I have heard much of you and the good  work you have done here in your land, I come to ask that you extend that work into Isotar and the other land groups around you.’

‘Why would I want to do that, I have no need to.’

‘It is this world that has the need, you have the necessary skills to meet that need.’

‘It’s a big world, you ask a big favour.’

‘It is not a favour, it is a moral duty, a duty we both share, this world is gripped firmly by evil, you have started a job by ridding yourself of it here in Temparlin, but it extends much further than your borders, you have shown your own people how to defeat the magic, but there are still others who need the same guidance.’

Fabelin was now becoming greatly interested.

‘Where do you come from?’

‘I  have journeyed here from the land of Isotar, I am a Shaymon, that is a long story in it's self which I may one day  when time permits, recount to you.’

Fabelin stroked his beard and closely considered the being before him.

You are mysterious to me, but your words hold some semblance of the truth.’

They talked for many hours spread over three settings of the sun, at first strangers, they were firm friends at the conclusion of the summit. Gamic explained to Fabelin that the problems that Temparlin had already succeeded in overcoming were mirrored in the rest of the lands, and that unless firmly defeated everywhere would eventually be pressing on the borders of Temparlin once again. 

The embryo of the GHILT Confederation was now beginning to form, Fabelin sent two of his most trusted and able Captinels to Isotar. With the invaluable help of Gamic the hardy warriors of the region were slowly gathered together and turned into a trained and formidable force. Fabelin himself journeyed to Isotar a short time later and began the task of winning over the people, his consummate abilities made this a relatively easy task, the work he had completed in Temparlin was quickly repeated in Isotar. The Shaymons were helpful and more than willing to cede their limited political power to Fabelin, the two lands were gradually united under one King and one cause. While Fabelin was busy undertaking the relatively easy conversion of the people of Isotar, Gamic journeyed briefly to the distant far lands of Locain. He wandered through these dark  mysterious regions initially encountering few people. The few people that he did encounter, he discovered were superstitious and extremely wary of strangers, but largely free of  any form of magic, the handful of weak dark magicians that dwelt there did not possess enough genuine power or attract enough avid followers to make them a major threat to Fabelins forces. The land of Locain became the next target for Fabelins attention, he moved steadily and without fanfare into the largely unknown and uncharted area with a small army of well prepared troops from both Temparlin and Isotar. He eventually won the scattered people of Locain over by the means of diplomacy and kindness, he taught them the same easy lessons he had taught to his own people and later to the people of Isotar. The few magicians still existing in these dark regions were soon driven out in what were usually only lightly contested skirmishes. Fabelin took the first letters from the names of the three lands and formed the ILT Confederation, three lands, one name, one people. 

Only Gardain and Hurban now remained to be won over. These lands of endless conflict would not be such an easy target. In Fabelins favour ,the fact that they were not united together or even within themselves, indicated that they could possibly be toppled one piece at a time, eliminating the need for an overly expansive campaign. Never the less a series of protracted and heavily contested campaigns were fought against a series of willing and capable enemies. Battle after bloody battle Fabelins army remained active in the field. With each hard earned victory it grew in numbers and the dark magic slowly but surely succumbed, an old familiar pattern soon emerged. The addictive potions were the central controlling element of the magic that was present in these lands, free the people from their evil hold and in turn the magic quickly folded and failed. The GHILT Confederation was born out of the merging of the five lands, the legends of King Fabelin were born out of the bitter struggles that achieved this once unimaginable union. Dimmu Sorayo was ultimately united as one confederation of lands, Little Sister, for a little while at least, finally blossomed into a fair and peaceful land. The great King eventually came to marry a woman from the land of Gardain, Truerst was a beautiful and intelligent Queen who served her people well and gave birth to Fabelin's five children, two boys and three girls, they were to be the first of a long and successful line of ancestors, a dynasty that would long rule over a peaceful and increasingly prosperous Dimmu Sorayo. The GHILT Confederation born out of turmoil and conflict, remained in a utopian state of peace and contentment long after King Fabelin and his beautiful Queen had passed from it’s lands and into the fabric of it’s legends. An unbroken line of their ancestors ruled the lands through many generations. The golden reign of the house of Fabelin continued on unbroken until the evil Cerocer once again cast the shadow of dark magic across the lands of Dimmu Sorayo and brutally ended their line.

THE GUARDIANS

The short journey down the familiar slopes of Mount Kelly, in the company old Murphy, proved to be a journey that the children would long remember. It was destined to leave an indelible mark on the remainder of their young lives. With Old Murphy soon proving to be exceptionally good company,  the friends learned much in a short time and were amazed beyond words at what the old man so freely told them. Murphy proved to be not only a very good talker but even more importantly, a good listener, he openly encouraged the children to ask any questions that their young  inquisitive minds could conjure up. After listening intently he then carefully answered each and every one of  their questions, without hesitation and to their full satisfaction. The journey was once again undertaken on a very warm sunny day, but on this occasion it was rather more humid, a direct result of the previous evenings rainfall. The small group gathered up their few belongings and set off for home, with Old Murphy accompanying them, they quickly left Hooks waterhole behind. At first they moved along silently through the native bush, but before too long Old Murphy finally broke the ice.

'My young friends, you have discovered a great secret. One that I have guarded closely for many years. I must ask that you  keep this secret amongst yourselves. The reasons will become apparent to you as you gain a better understanding of the situation'.

The three duly amazed friends looked around at one another, each one searching for a spokesman, Billy, answered the call,

'Mr Murphy we saw the statues down in the cave, are they yours?'

'No they are not mine, you see no one can actually own them. I