Shadowfell

This article was written by Toa Roden. Please do not add to it without the writer's permission.

Shadowfell
Story
Setting	Southern Fells
Date Set	6,998 AFC (Veytharian reckoning)
Timeline
Previous	N/A
Concurrent	N/A
Next	N/A

Shadowfell is a Xaterex Multiverse Storyline novel currently being written by Toa Roden.

Set in the southern Fells, several weeks subsequent to the Fall of Arcaea, it tells the story of the newly-formed Ix Empire's first strike at the ancestral homeland of the Veythari, and of the legendary defense of Shadowfell Pass.

Story

Prologue

The wind blew cold, ice-laden gusts sweeping with savage fury across the rugged landscape of the far southern Fells.

In the desolate bottomlands, a few inches of dry, feather-light snow drifted restlessly across the winding creekbeds, the gnarled evergreens, the scattered fields of wind-worn grasses dried in the summer's heat. The ground was frozen hard, thin soil interlaced with frost to the point where naught but a steel pick-blade could make an impression on its surface, and even then it would be, at the most, a shallow grave...

The vast expanse of sky, so beautiful in warmer seasons, was a shrouded mass of grey, lit but vaguely by the still-rising sun... The cold grim bulk of the dominating highland ridges rose against the wind, barely discernible through the airborne sheets of driven snow, dark and ageless and all-encompassing. Surprisingly thick forests of ancient evergreens dug their gnarled roots into the ground of the lower slopes, followed them upwards for thousands of feet, then gradually gave way to the treacherous rock-fields of the upper peaks. One might, on occasion, happen upon a sort of high-altitude moor nestled against the shoulder of a particularly steep mountain side, but these were inhabited only by small bands of the shaggy-haired Fellsian rock goat. Tough, intelligent, nimble-hooved, these creatures were one of the few herbivorous species to venture higher than the maze-like corridors of the bottomlands, where the wind-swept grasses and stunted shrubs, although lacking in the way of nutrients, could at least be counted upon to exist when needed...

According to legend, sapient beings had once dwelt in this wild and forbidding labyrinth, but they had eventually migrated northward into the more hospitable regions of the central Fells and beyond. Those who stayed behind were blotted out beneath the vast hammer of time and the elements, were followed by their dwellings, and then nothing at all remained but a handful of south-bound trading routes and the few entities that traveled them...

Even after the rise of Arcaea, the great and monumental civilization that marked both the beginning and the end of an era, the far southern Fells remained largely untouched. Perhaps there were a few more traders, a few more hunters, a handful of miners, but they kept to the paths marked by long-gone generations, and seldom lingered long...

And then... during a sudden brief episode of blood-stained treachery, chaos, and a rising evil, Arcaea fell with a devastating impact, collapsing into ash and rubble and shattered dreams. Shock waves rippled throughout the known universe, and the slumber of the southern Fells was at last disturbed...

But there was no time to ponder, no time to regroup, no time to try to build again. From the south, from the flaming ruins, rose the ruiner... and from the north, from the wind-swept Fells, came the defender...

They were the Veythari. Natives of the wilderness, arrogant and unyielding as the land they lived upon. Masters of the scimitar and the longbow, they struck from the shadows and their blades bit deep... They sought no quarrel, but yet they readied their weapons and made their stand... backs to their threatened homeland, faces turned towards death, eyes grim and cold and deadly.

They closed in combat. They survived to fight again. But the ruiner was strong, and the gore-stained months dragged on, each skirmish more desperate than the one before, until at last the inevitable climax was reached, the final battle, the last stand...

And out of that darkness, a legend was born.

Chapter I

The night was very still; the vast dark expanse of sky, unclouded. Stars glittered coldly, eternal pinpricks of ice against the frosted blackness.

Far away to the northwest, a wolf howled; in the south, another answered. The low, mournful cries lingered long in the chill air, and other hunters heard, and paused to listen, and understood...

High Commander Kilrone Vaethar of the United Fellsian Guard stood silently under the snow-laden boughs of a towering evergreen, longbow in hand, three white-feathered grouse hanging limp from his swordbelt.

He was a tall Veythari, ruggedly built, with the wiry driving strength of the nothern herders. He wore no cloak or hood, although it was but early spring and the Fells were far from warm. A length of grey bandage, somewhat blood-stained, was wrapped skillfully about his left forearm, and there were fresh gashes in his grey-and-white armor. His keen-edged scimitar was hidden from view in a leathern sheath, but it also was freshly notched and scarred, for the fiery battlefields of Arcaea were only a few weeks past... a dark eternity it seemed to him, and yet as yesterday.

A frost-laden gust of wind, rising up from the shadowed bottomlands, sighed restlessly amid the branches of the ancient trees. It bore the sharp clean scent of evergreen, the less-obvious odors of rabbit and grouse, a trace of woodsmoke and roasted venison... and then, suddenly, there was something else... something vague and undefined, faintly musky, a menacing undertone in the night. The High Commander's piercing green eyes narrowed, feral suspicion glinting in their quiet depths.

He took a few steps forward, moving with the easy hunter's gait of his kind, and paused, listening.

All was still.

Too still. Not a branch moved, not a snowflake fell. Even the faint night-whispers of various birds and rodents were hushed, as if some vast, iron presence had settled over them, smothering all sound.

Instantly, the High Commander faded into the shadows, waiting, listening, his grey-and-white armor blending nigh unto perfectly with the ice-spattered treebark. Several times he drew a slow, deep breath, testing the eddying wind, but scents were vague and uncertain. Of the faintly musky odor he had sensed earlier, there was no trace...

And then he heard it. Below him, from the thickly-forested ravine, came a sentry's shout, low and defiant amid the trees. Then the dull thud of a weapon striking home, a savage snarl of pain, another thud, then a faint scraping of metal over stone.

The cold wind gusted, and it bore the scent of blood.

For a single frozen instant, time stood still... and then the ancient battle-fire, birthright of the Veythari, sparked and kindled in Kilrone's eyes. His jaw muscles tightened, his pulse quickened, his mind raged with a hot and driving fury.

Below him, in the thickly-forested ravine, one of his warriors was fighting, fighting for his life, fighting to gain a moment in which to turn, to run, to warn his comrades. And the warrior... he was alone, and injured.

His warrior.

Drawing a razor-edged broadhead from his quiver, the High Commander sprang silently forward and began to run.

* * *

There were over forty of them, great shaggy brutes with heavy shoulders and polished fangs. Their keen eyes glinted red in the starlight, intent on the final struggles of the dying sentry, pinned beneath the muscular forelimbs of the blood-stained alpha male. They never saw the High Commander, not until he was twenty feet away and it was far too late to run.

The broadhead flashed cold silver in the night, shredding deep into the alpha male's throat with a grim efficiency. The beast went down, kicking his last in the drifted snow, and in a single fluid motion Kilrone dropped his longbow and drew his blade and then they were on him, surging forward with silent purpose.

The air was bitter cold. Kilrone stood, long legs braced against the pack, and a flame danced hot and deadly in his eyes... for an instant, the beasts hesitated, but the Veythari was one against many, and they were driven by hunger and the lust to kill. Moreover, their leader lay dead, and in the language of their kind, such a challenge must be met one of like nature. Blood for blood, death for death... so the world was balanced.

Kilrone's scimitar slashed, bit deep, a scything grey talon in the shadow of the frost. The fire-eyed front-runner went down, choking, and then the surging wave crashed and broke and all about was a shag-pelted maelstrom of raw fury.

They were big, bigger than he had at first realized. The shoulders of many reached at least as high as his waist; weight for weight, it would take only two or three to smash him to the frozen ground. And they were strong, terribly strong, and possessed of a fell cunning.

But he, Kilrone Vaethar, had the advantage, and he knew it, and although he was afraid (only a fool does not feel fear), he was not desperate. For with all their size and strength, he was, nonetheless, a shade faster than they, and with reflexes honed by countless decades of combat. And he had in hand a long-bladed scimitar, a weapon crafted by the finest swordsmiths in all the Fells, and his limbs and body were protected by armor that was light but strong, and he was, withal, the best swordsman ever to gain the rank of High Commander. Not for nothing did his enemies know him by the name of Vaethar Shieldreaper.

Blood spattered across his helmet, cooling rapidly in the freezing air, and he felt the familiar surge of dark exhilaration as he brought his weapon down and sideways in a double-handed grip, the muscles in his upper body knotting and rippling in their hardened strength. It was not a fatal stroke, for the beast lost his footing on a patch of snow-shrouded ice and fell, missing the full brunt of the blow by a hair's-breadth. But the curved blade was razor-keen and even the mere touch carved a half-inch furrow in the shoulder-flesh with wicked ease.

Hot breath on his back, rasping fangs... Kilrone spun, catching a long-legged female alongside the skull with the flat of his scimitar. She stumbled and fell, snarling, and he made a wild slash in the general direction of her rib-cage, and then a black-pelted male materialized three feet away on his left side, lunging up silently for his throat. His scimitar was in his right hand, about a half-second too far away to intercept, but he jerked his empty left hand up and smashed the heel of his leather-sheathed palm against the underside of the beast's heavy jaw, putting all the raw strength of his arm and shoulder behind the blow.

The shock was intense. Thrown completely off-balance by the sheer weight and momentum of the leaping animal, Kilrone was hurled backwards in the snow, twisting to keep his blade arm free, the black-pelted male tumbling over his head in ungraceful flight.

Seeing the Veythari go down, the swirling bulk of the pack gave a low growl of triumph and pressed forward, red eyes glowing like embers in the night, anxious for the kill. But the front-runners, hemmed in against the scything blade of their foe, were not quite so eager, and as Kilrone heaved and slashed his way back to an upright position they began to waver. Life was a precious thing, and the forested ridges and shadowed canyons beckoned. There would be another day, would there not?

And then, like avenging phantoms, tall dark figures materialized silently amid the surrounding trees, some cloaked and hooded, some cloaked only, and some neither, but all were with cold and deadly eyes of blazing fire, and the soft hum of their bowstrings was the war-cry of the Fells.

The pack shattered in an instant, each panic-stricken member thinking only of his escape, and slashing blades and grey-feathered broadheads cut them down. A few made the shelter of the timber, running hard, and they did not return.

And as quickly as it had begun, the clash was over.

* * *

The sentry lay very still, his chest moving only slightly with his labored breath, but as Kilrone Vaethar crouched beside him in the bloodied snow, he turned his head, locked eyes with the tall swordsman.

"High Commander."

His voice was steady, but weak, and death was coming fast. Only a few seconds yet, perhaps more... Kilrone clasped the sentry's hand firmly in his own, seeking to reassure. "Aye?"

"My mate. She will have little enough when I am gone, and I do not want her hopeless. See that she gets my longbow, the ownership of the land our home stands upon, and perhaps a place in the Guard, if she desires it."

"It shall be done."

The light in the sky-blue eyes was fading fast, but the sentry spoke again, and desperately.

"I... tried. You know it, do you not? I..."

"I know it. You did well."

"Thank you, sir."

They were his last words. A final ragged breath, a convulsive twitch, and the mangled body of the sentry lay empty and still.

Kilrone folded the warrior's hands upon his chest, resting on the blood-stained scimitar, and then rose stiffly to his feet. He felt old, old and tired, weary of death and bloodshed. But he was the High Commander, and the trust of his people lay heavy on his shoulders.

Silent footsteps in the snow, a presence. He turned, meeting the level yellow gaze of a stoop-shouldered Veythari, cloaked and hooded.

"He is dead?"

Kilrone nodded. "Aye. You knew him?"

"He was my friend, and the best bowman in our squad. He spoke to you of his mate?"

Again, Kilrone nodded. "Aye, and he left to her his longbow, and requested that I grant her a place in the Guard, if she desires it. Also, I am to see that she obtains the ownership of the land her home stands upon."

The yellow-eyed Veythari blinked suddenly, and turned away. "Always, he thought of his mate. She is young and beautiful, also very intelligent, and he loved her very much, I think... I will fetch a pick and spade, High Commander."

He moved away and vanished in the trees, leaving Kilrone and the other warriors to clean their blades and gather up the bodies of the dead animals. Someone lit a torch, and by its flickering red glow he was able to examine the beasts more closely.

Certainly wolves, but stronger of body and shaggier of fur than the silver-grey hunters of the Northern and Central Fells. They also had somewhat heavier skulls and shorter muzzles than was normal, and their red eyes seemed unusually well-adapted to low-light conditions. He could not remember having seen the like before, but then again, he knew little of the labyrinth-like valleys and timbered mountain ridges of the Southern Fells. It was a vast area, and the sheer complexity of its layout was staggering. One could lie hidden in its shadowed depths until the end of time, and who knew the secrets of by-gone centuries?

Retrieving a blood-stained arrow from a limp wolf's throat, Kilrone spoke the question aloud. "What breed are these hunters? They be not of the northlands, nor of the swamps."

"The traders call 'em Southern musk-wolves, sir," grunted a tall, lanky Veythari, wiping off his scimitar blade with a handful of snow. "They've a heavy scent, see. I don' know no more about 'em than that; I'm an outlier from the east."

"I see. A fitting name." said the High Commander thoughtfully, his mind spinning with yet-unanswered questions. Were all musk-wolves as aggressive as these? As dangerous? Were there many of them? How did they live and hunt? Did they normally respect sapient beings? How wide-spread was their range?

And the greater question; the darkest of all. Did arrogant packs of Southern musk-wolves reign unchallenged over the local food web, or was there yet another breed of predator, larger, more powerful, one that feared nothing and was feared by all?

The gore-spattered heap of shaggy corpses held no answer, and the rising wind blew sharp and cold.

Chapter II

They buried the sentry amid the roots of a gnarled evergreen, under three feet of frozen clay, mounding well the grave and heaping it with large stones to keep out the scavengers. It was indeed a lonely plot, and a wild, but one that any true-born Veythari would have chosen gladly for his own.

Several of the strongest warriors present rolled a great boulder over to mark the spot, as was the custom, and the High Commander himself knelt beside it to inscribe the name, date, and death-message on its lichen-studded surface. The words were straight and terse, but strangely eloquent, and none could have desired better:

Warrior Aeran Haegar

-
? - 6,998 AFC
-
Slain by musk-wolves.
Fought bravely.
I avenged his death.
-

May his spirit journey in peace.

"It is well." muttered the stoop-shouldered warrior, he who had gone to fetch a pick and spade. "The writings, I mean."

Kilrone got to his feet, gazing down at the grave with little outward emotion; his intense green eyes were pained and weary. "Aye. But they be only words."

They lingered a moment in respectful silence, the other Veythari standing with them, and then they turned as one and faded away down the winding canyon towards the tents. Yet they said nothing to each other, moved even quieter than was usual, for the grim shade of death lay heavy on their minds.

Had it ever left?

The numbing wind gathered fury, and it began to snow.

* * *

The camp was quite large, numbering approximately nine hundred seventy-five warriors, and situated at a point where several narrow ravines merged into a larger canyon. There was a warm-water spring there, somewhat alkaline, a thick stand of timber for fuel, and the primary north/south-bound trading route wound its way along the ridges only a quarter of a mile to the east. It was a known place, and, in the more hospitable seasons, frequented by many.

Here and there, small fires of coals burned outside the open doors of the oiled canvas tents. The vague shadowy forms of cloaked warriors were all about, some resting, some talking quietly, few of them inside despite the wind and snow. The night meant nothing; most Veythari actually preferred a semi-nocturnal lifestyle, if possible.

A female sentry's voice drifted suddenly on the air; Kilrone's vision could just pick out the faint dark outline of her head and shoulders against the interwoven branches of a scrub juniper thicket, the slight golden luminescence of her narrowed eyes. "Stand where ye be."

The High Commander smiled in his heart. A good one, this. If there was fear in her, there was none in her voice, and she spoke with hard authority, as one who expects to be obeyed with haste. If the fact that she was outnumbered by a ratio of nearly twenty-to-one had entered her mind, and he was sure it had, she showed no sign of it.

Kilrone halted and stood, keeping his hands in full view and well away from any weapons. His tone was casual and polite, genuinely friendly. "I am High Commander Kilrone Vaethar, returning to camp after a skirmish with musk-wolves on the outermost sentry line. These others--" he slowly turned his left hand to indicate the silent file of warriors behind him "--were initial responders to the threat. We overcame the beasts with very little difficulty, although one of the Haegar clan, a sentry, sustained fatal wounds and died but moments later. His name was Aeron."

He heard her quick intake of breath, saw her eyes widen in the darkness. "No! Not-- Aeron Haegar?"

And the female Veythari's voice broke and trembled as she spoke, and yet hardened also. A mixture of dark bitterness and raw sorrow, it was, of gritted teeth and twisting heart. Kilrone had heard the tone before; he knew what was coming.

"Aye, he was on sentry duty tonight... I forgot until now. Ye be in the right, the name was Aeron Haegar. I... I knew him. Blue eyes, an easy laugh, an excellent hand for the longbow... damnation! His mate... his mate is my half-sister; she loved him above all else, I believe, and-- oh, Mata Nui. What shall she do? What is left to her, save I, who shall most certainly be slain also, and perhaps yet within the year?"

And then there was a terrible, hopeless, utter silence, and Kilrone Vaethar felt a cold numbness sink down, down into his inward parts and linger there like the deep-rooted frost of midwinter. This was the worst part of it all, the helpless despair of knowing what you faced, and wishing with every atom of your heart that you did not, and violent Death grinning wisely at you from every thicket, every crag... watching, waiting, numbering the seconds on his blood-stained bony hands.

And all for what?

Aye, and you know the answer, Kilrone, he grimly chided himself. Do not pretend to play the fool.

The snow was falling thick now, riding the wind, swirling and gusting through the labyrinth-like bottomlands with a maniacal fury. The air was bitterly cold, and growing yet colder as the night wore on...

The female squared her shoulders, her voice somehow regaining its former hard authority. "I apologize, High Commander. Time is not to be wasted with words already understood. If ye would show to me your shoulder-crest--?"

Wordlessly, Kilrone produced a flint-and-steel and struck it once, twice, three times so that the hot shower of sparks illuminated his left shoulder-guard. Carefully engraved upon the form-fitted metal were the figures 1-1-1, written in the Common tongue; below them, the emblem of a falcon in flight, along with seven five-pointed stars.

"Aye, sir, I did not believe ye were an imposter. Pass as ye would, and these others also."

"Thank you kindly, ma'am. Strength be with you." replied Kilrone, and walked on down into the camp. He did not look back, not once, knowing that the sentry wished nothing more from anyone than to be left alone with her thoughts. He understood. The tears of a Veythari were a very private matter.

* * *

"--and so you see, High Commander, it is of the utmost importance that we reach the city Vaethar before the week is out. It may even be, although I like not to speak of it in such a manner, imperative."

It was Millus Deputy Hondo Skarr speaking, a handsome, conceited, overly arrogant warrior, but extremely gifted in matters of large-scale campaign tactics. At the moment, his acid-green eyes were fixed intently on a three-foot map of the Fells spread out before him, and he was operating in a very serious state of mind. (The latter detail, admittedly, was not unusual among those of his race.)

The High Commander rubbed his cheekbone thoughtfully, glancing around at the four other occupants of the command tent besides Hondo. "Within the week... That is but five days, and the distance is over two hundred miles by the compass. The terrain is rugged."

Hectus Commander Tamina Vrone, an attractive blue-eyed female with a lithe runner's build and a notoriously quick temper, eyed Kilrone with near-contempt. "Are you saying it cannot be done?"

"Nay. But it be nigh unto a thousand warriors we are speaking of, and their tents and supplies. Also, there are the three Arcaean mudcrawlers."

A Millus Commander seated at Tamina's left made a deep-throated growl of irritation. "Those cursed hulking machines have hindered us at every step since we left the southlands! At what point do you finally agree to abandon them?"

There were mutters of approval from all around, but Kilrone's gaze was unyielding ice. "They are necessary, not to us, but to our people. The raw power contained in one of those tracked vehicles is immense, as is their potential for the hauling of supplies, the construction of strongholds, and any other task of the sort. They run on nothing but oxygen and water, with a bit of oil for lubricant, and the controls are very simple."

"We have never required machinery to construct defenses in the past." argued the Millus Commander stubbornly. "Why now? We need them not; we are Veythari!"

"Are knot-heads, you mean." growled Kilrone. "I ask you, when have the Fells faced such a threat? When? Answer me, damn you!"

And no one could, for he was in the right. Never had the Fells been threatened in such a manner, never had they been poised on the brink of planet-wide warfare. Never.

"The machines are necessary." repeated Kilrone. "I like them no more than you do, but think you that I spent three centuries in Arcaea for nothing? I understand the potential of technology, at least."

Hondo Skarr smiled thinly. He had never objected to the mudcrawlers, for, like Kilrone Vaethar, he understood their worth. But still... "What is the machines' top speed?"

"Approximately fifteen miles per hour, on level ground. Mud or snow does not hinder them in the least, but loose rock may."

"Let us say they can make an average of ten miles per hour, then, and that we continue to adapt our accustomed pace to theirs. If we travel fifteen straight hours in a twenty-four hour day, that comes out to one hundred fifty miles covered in the aforesaid day. Thus, we could easily reach the city Vaethar within five days... if all goes well. The mountain passes may be snowed under."

"The mudcrawlers can clear them, given time."

Tamina Vrone twisted to her feet in a single fluid motion. "Time. Aye. I propose the meeting be adjoined; that we break camp at once."

Kilrone Vaethar got to his feet also, followed by the others. "Motion passed. Ready the warriors."

One by one, the Guard Commanders filed out into the night. Kilrone watched them go, rubbing his broad, vaguely-reptilian skull in contemplation.

Whatever is said, it will still be a hard five days, he told himself. The troops are already weary, and traveling three hundred fifty miles of winding mountain trail in only one hundred twenty hours, carrying seventy pounds of supplies apiece, is no mean feat.

And then he thought, I'm getting too old for this.

* * *

They broke camp a few minutes before dawn, the long columns of warriors swinging rapidly along the trail with their characteristic wolf-like stride. The three Arcaean mudcrawlers brought up the rear, scattered flakes of wind-borne snow settling and melting on their massive hydrogen engines, protosteel tracks clanking rhythmically on the frozen ground.

The northbound trail was good, with only a few inches of fluffy snow, and they made excellent time. The wind gusted occasionally, but the maverick storm was already largely past, and the temperature of the air rose a bit with the sun.

They stopped only twice during the day, both times to rest their bodies and gnaw bits of venison jerky, washing it down with water or tea. The mudcrawlers idled, waiting for their drivers to change shifts.

During the second halt, around mid-afternoon, the High Commander sent a scout patrol ahead to 'see what they could see'. They rejoined the column several hours later with the news that the trail was heavily drifted through several stretches of thick evergreen forest, that a fresh rock-slide had completely obliterated the nearest warm-water spring, and that there were packs of musk-wolves in the vicinity.

Kilrone Vaethar thanked the scouts for their efforts, sent them back to their respective units, and pressed on in silence. Anything that could be done, had been done. The troops carried adequate water supplies for yet another day or two, and he possessed an unshakable faith in the trail-breaking capabilities of the three mudcrawlers.

The musk-wolves were a different matter, but each warrior was a seasoned veteran, well-armed and armored, and Kilrone anticipated little difficulty. Simply put, his pack was larger, meaner, smarter, and much more dangerous than those of the musk-wolves; animals understood such things.

Night fell, sending grey shadows creeping across the rugged landscape. The trail wove its way among looming ridges and towering pillars of stone, steadily working its way upwards into the Wind Daemon's Range, and beyond that, the Pass of the First Clan.

The miles passed beneath them, and for nothing did they slacken pace. They were tireless, sound of wind and strong of limb, and their supple leather boots made nary a sound on the frozen earth.

About midnight, Tamina Vrone fell into step beside the High Commander. For a long time she was silent, and then she asked, "Kilrone?"

"Aye?"

"Think you that the Ix will conquer the Fells? Not in my lifetime, I mean, but sometime after. Is it possible that the Veythari have found at last their equal?"

Kilrone's eyes gleamed emerald-green in the darkness. "You are worried, Tamina?"

"Aye. And I would have said naught about it, but you... well, you are as an uncle to me, Kilrone. I knew that even if you could not comfort my heart, at the very least you would understand."

The High Commander blinked suddenly, as though some small bit of dust had gotten into his eyes, but his voice was quite steady. "I try to."

"Aye, but what of the Ix?"

"At the very least, they be our equals." said Kilrone simply. "And although I believe we can hold them back for a time, perhaps even many years, in the end we will fall. I can only hope... there are legends, a prophecy..."

"Then there may be a chance, you mean?"

"Hope always for the best, Tamina, but prepare for the worst. Whatever comes, we must meet it like true Veythari."

"Well said, old one." smiled the Hectus Commander teasingly. "Truly, thou art very wise."

And Kilrone smiled in return, and his heart was glad within him, for he knew that as long as two intelligent beings can smile into one another's eyes, hope yet burns.

The stars winked coldly in the sky, and frost sparkled on the ground; and the army marched on northwards, upwards, heading home.

Chapter III

The grizzled medic leaned on his staff, grey-green eyes narrowed against the ice-reflected glare of the noonday sun. "Three minor cases of frostbite, High Commander, and one of partial snow-blindness. Also, a sprained ankle."

Kilrone Vaethar bit back a curse. Frostbite and ankle injuries were not uncommon, and could be dealt with easily enough... but snow-blindness? It was a rare phenomenon indeed, and an unfortunate. Even a partial case such as this would mean one warrior largely helpless, in intense agony, and incapable of fast travel on foot for at least several days, probably more.

And the Pass of the First Clan... still five hours distant, and it was snowed well under. Most of the drifts were nigh unto shoulder-high, scouts reported, and he took them at their word. Waist-high, shoulder-high, or twice that, it mattered not. The Arcaean mudcrawlers would be well able to break trail through it, given time, as he had mentioned at the council.

Aye, time. Of which we have little enough at the moment. thought Kilrone sourly. Yet such is war, and life itself.

Aloud, he replied, "Assign the sprained ankle case to the mudcrawlers, until fully healed. You know what to do for frostbite."

The medic nodded. "And what of the snow-blinded warrior? He claims he can see well enough to keep the pace, but I think differently."

Despite his anxiety and exhaustion, Kilrone managed a thin smile. "Aye, so they all say, and they are always lying. Send him to the mudcrawlers as well. It will not be a comfortable manner of travel, but certainly better than being left behind."

"Certainly." agreed the medic, turning to leave. "Thank you, sir."

The High Commander watched him go, then swung his head around suddenly and stared up at the looming snow-covered ridges to the northwards. It was there, the pass, waiting... he had thought to have reached it at daybreak, but there had been delays, assorted difficulties, and it was now full noon and hours of trail yet remained.

Damnation. Thrice-times damnation. Is frost-hearted Fate herself against us?

Grimacing, he dragged his eyes away from the mute challenge of the stark white peaks. His warriors were weary to the bone from last night's march, and that was enough. Rest they had earned, and rest they would receive.

For that matter, he himself would not be adverse to a few swallows of jerked venison broth, and perhaps a nap as well. A brief one, of course. Very brief...

* * *

Seven hours past nightfall, cloaked by eddying sheets of wind-driven snow, the third and last Arcaean mudcrawler clawed its way over ice-spattered granite and entered the quarter-mile-long Pass of the First Clan.

It was here, the ancient legends agreed, that the First Clan of the Veythari, led by Vaethar himself and journeying northwards in desperate quest of a wild, wind-swept land known simply as 'the Fells', first found passage for their weary feet. And beyond the pass, they found what they sought. A land, true enough, but now their homeland, and so the legends all began. With the first discovery, and the First Clan, and the deep-carved mountain pass that bore their name.

Millennia later, the place remained what it had been then, and always had been: a natural gateway, a portal, the central passage to a wide and rugged land, a land defying imagination, a land ne'er tamed by mortal blood and bone.

On either side loomed near-vertical granite cliffs, textured only by the occasional rocky outcropping, and above and beyond that, thousands of feet of ice-encrusted mountains reared their bulk against the sky. Their saw-backed peaks were lost amidst the swirling mists of snow, but they were there, arrogant, indomitable, silent guardians. Never had a footprint been set upon them, never had one attempted it and returned to tell the tale.

The pass itself was surprisingly wide, about six hundred feet across at its narrowest point, but large heaps of fallen, shattered rock, some piled high enough to be clearly seen above the dense snowpack, made treacherous havoc of the trail. The first two mudcrawlers, aided by volunteer shifts of spade-wielding Veythari, were already breaking a path straight on through the center of the mess, and the third mudcrawler rumbled forward to join them, the low hum of its powerful hydrogen engine dropping to a bone-throbbing roar as it hit the drifts.

Kilrone Vaethar and a stocky, broad-shouldered Millus Deputy stood together on a six-foot-high slab of stone, watching quietly as the work progressed. Both were practically dead on their feet from accumulated exhaustion, hunger, and cold, as were ninety percent of the other warriors, but yet not one of all would have been willing to admit it. They were true Veythari, with the streak of stubborn arrogance that marked the breed.

"At the rate this is going, sir, we may be through long before sunrise." remarked the broad-shouldered Deputy. "And after that, naught but a day or two to go."

"Aye."

"The first twelve hours out from the pass will be the hardest, I think. Downhill trail, and thick timber."

"Aye."

"Then the city-state Skarr, and the first true fells. After that, the city-state Vaethar, and then the city itself. And after that... what say ye, High Commander?"

"A full High Council assembly, and defensive preparation plans. For myself, that is. For you, a week's leave."

The Millus Deputy blinked in surprise; the deep, partially-healed scars on his left cheekbone rippled slightly with the movement. "Oh. Oh, I see."

"You are disappointed?" asked the High Commander in disbelief. "Surely not."

"Nay, sir, but... an entire week? And with Arcaea as it is?"

"Arcaea is but ruins. The Fells are yet whole." replied Kilrone grimly, after a moment's thought. "Now go, get some sleep. Strength will be needed for tomorrow's journey; we break camp at dawn. Spread the word."

The broad-shouldered warrior bounded easily off the rock slab into the waist-deep drifts, turning his head slightly to let his reply drift back. "Sir, I shall not need to spread the word. If one warrior knows it, the whole Guard knows it... or at least a version of it. Good night to you."

Kilrone smiled slightly. "Aye. And a good night to you."

The cold wind gusted suddenly, powerfully, driving massive sheets of thick-fallen snow before it through the pass. Visibility dropped instantly to a matter of inches, then gradually returned to a matter of yards. The mudcrawler pilots sat hunched in their seats, heads bowed grimly, hands stiff on the leather-wrapped control levers, woolen cloaks encrusted with ice. Their machines' headlamps glowed with a fierce white light, brightly, near-uselessly, obscured by the falling snow. Yet the work went on, sure as time, steady as the two-hour shifts.

High Commander Kilrone Vaethar slept, not in a tent, but simply curled up in a deep drift on the leeward side of a large boulder and let the wind-driven snow bury him in a tiny snow-cave, while his warm breath kept a air passage open to the surface. Wolves did so, as did many other beasts, and it was a common practice among the Veythari, who had ever lived in close contact with the natural world and knew its ways to the finest points.

Outside the drift, the night wore on. The temperatures dropped little, and visibility increased slightly as the wind slackened. Apart from the mudcrawlers, not a thing stirred on the south Fellsian mountains, and the world slept.

* * *

Eleven hours out from the Pass of the First Clan, they reached the wide, swift-running river known as the 'Fool's Bane'. It was not exactly a witty name, but certainly an appropriate, for although the river's water level was never more than waist-high, the fist-sized stones that made up its bed were completely coated with a type of slippery, translucent algae. Combined with the powerful east-bound current, they were more than enough to steal the footing of any being foolish enough to attempt fording it, whether mounted or on foot, and once this happened, only the strongest had any chance of escape. It was natural barrier to travelers from the south, as only three bridges spanned it, all of them under the control of the stalwart Veythari clan of Skarr: the stone-and-mortar Shieldtimber bridge to the west, the small wooden Devil's Claw bridge far to the east, and the main bridge, the Gateway of Iskara, upon which the long columns of foot-weary warriors now rested their eyes.

And an impressive sight it made, indeed. Constructed entirely out of carefully-fitted slabs of finest bluestone, each weighing nearly a ton, it was exactly twenty-five feet wide, seventy feet long, and stood nearly ten feet off the surface of the river. At each corner of the bridge was a guard tower, standing thirty feet high and specially engineered to resist battering rams, explosives, and other instruments of siege. The four towers could each house a half-dozen Veythari in relative comfort, and collectively, they contained over five thousand broadheads, thirty spare longbows, fifty vials of 'liquid fire', fifty vials of paralysis gas, one hundred pounds of assorted anti-personnel bombs, twelve signal flares, and three week's worth of jerked venison. Water could be obtained directly from the river via small wells located within each tower.

Yet it was not the size nor the defensive capabilities of the Gateway of Iskara that had gained it widespread fame as an architectural 'marvel', but simply its stark, minimalist beauty. Much of this was due to the appearance of the bluestone itself, which was naturally iridescent and painstakingly engraved with ancient legends of the Veythari, in their own tongue and not the Common. Every cloud against the sun, the cold glitter of the stars, every subtle shifting of light and shadow, the stone caught and held it as in a polished sapphire. The design of the structure was superb, blending it with the surrounding earth and river and forest until all were one, as if the bridge had grown and developed without mortal hands to guide it. Lichens and watermoss had been allowed to grow freely upon it, adding to the effect.

A life-size bluestone statue of Iskara herself stood next to the front left tower, leaning on a slender quarterstaff, with her legendary longbow and quiver upon her back. She wore the Rahkshi-style battle helm favored by all Veythari, so her facial features were obscured, but Kilrone had often marveled at the lifelike accuracy with which the artist had carved. The relaxed, alert, slightly threatening pose of her slim athletic body sent a clear message: You are welcome, stranger, if in peace you come. If not... you challenge Death.

Of course, there was a legend for this place, and a reason for the statue, and the bridge's name. Several years after the First Clan settled in the Fells, Iskara was said to have confronted, alone, a large war party of southern barbarians as they sought to ford the Fool's Bane. Completely ignoring her polite request for them to depart, they instead mocked her as a coward because she was standing safely upon the opposite (north) riverbank, just out of range of their crude throwing spears. Irritated by these remarks, Iskara promptly swam across to the south bank, emerging from the river with scarcely a shortage of breath, and proceeded to slaughter the entire band with her hunting knife, leaving only one to carry word home to his people.

Kilrone Vaethar enjoyed the tale, exaggerated though it certainly was. The thought of how surprised and astounded the barbarians must have been never failed to amuse him, as did the emphasis the legend-tellers always put on the fact that she had destroyed them with a 'mere' hunting knife. He himself knew, from hard-earned experience, that in the hands of a master such a blade was just as, if not more, effective than a longsword or scimitar. And the entire First Clan had been masters of bladecraft, that much was certain.

Truly, the skill has not been lost with the centuries. reflected the High Commander, stepping forward to greet the broadly-smiling sentries of the bridge. And fortunate it is that it is so, for the need is upon us.

The thought was cold, uncomfortable. The need was here, the challenge was made, and they would accept it; but had the mantle of Death, long claimed by the Veythari, settled on a different, darker people? Had the scythe eclipsed the scimitar?

He forced a smile, a few cheerful words, shook the proffered hands with his accustomed strength and vigor. And the whole time, he thanked Mata Nui that emotions could be hid, and that he was one who could do so, and do it well, if so he chose.

* * *

The city-state Skarr was quite large, but only about twenty-five miles across at its widest point. What gave it its size was its sheer length; like a strong-built wall, long and narrow, it stretched east and west along the northern banks of the Fool's Bane, the Fells' first line of defense. The people of the clan of Skarr matched their land to the finest point; solid, stalwart warriors, they held the border and held it well. Were it not for their readied blades and constant vigilance, the clans farther north would have been invaded many times over the centuries, although, to be completely fair and just, they would have been invasions quickly beaten down.

The terrain of the area was fairly rough, broken up by the wide-flung roots of the mountains to the south, and thickly timbered by evergreens, junipers, and the occasional grove of deciduous ironwood trees. Wild game, particularly deer and rabbits, was plentiful, and formed the basis of the resident Veythari's diets; rich farmland was scarce, and grain, obtained through trade with other clans, was a luxury, not a stable. There was no 'true' city Skarr, only a scattered handful of loosely-knit villages with a central marketplace and forum. Kilrone found this to be rather unusual, as fine stone walls and guard towers ran through much of the clan's territory, obviously having been built at much cost and labor, but he had never mentioned the ironic fact in clan councils. Did not his own clan, that of Vaethar, have a superstitious aversion to jungle and swampland? Was not each clan entitled to its own eccentricities?

But little time there was, to ponder the ways of the clan of Skarr. He had already sent messengers on ahead, summoning a full High Council assembly for the day following the next, and it was the custom to arrive several hours early at such goings-on. This was because Veythari preferred not to make important decisions on empty stomachs, and tradition stipulated that the hosting Elders provide a modest luncheon for the assembly. Arriving late would be considered a deep insult, particularly in the case of such a high-ranking individual as the High Commander, and even more particularly, when he himself had summoned the council.

They rested a few hours after crossing the Gateway of Iskara, patiently enduring the endless questions and exclamations of the admiring locals, then moved on into the gathering dusk. A large portion of the warriors, including Millus Deputy Hondo Skarr, had families in the area, and Kilrone granted these one week's leave, with orders to subsequently proceed to the city Vaethar and await further developments.

The winding north-bound road, softened by a half-inch layer of fresh snow, was easy on their feet, and they made good time. The Arcaean mudcrawlers performed admirably, despite having been running for over forty-eight straight hours, and the High Commander was pleased to see that their heavy protosteel tracks made very little impression on the frozen earth. He had worried about this, knowing that the Fellsian natives would not take kindly to having their carefully-built roadways mangled by great hulking machines.

The night was cold, but not so cold as it would have been in the mountains, and there was little wind. Silver-grey cloud banks scudded quickly across the sky from the westwards, blotting out the chill-frosted stars, shifting, blotting, shifting again.

An hour before midnight, they crossed the border into the city-state Vaethar, economic hub of the entire Fells. Guards challenged them at a checkpoint several miles after, but drew aside in awed silence upon recognizing the grim-faced, seasoned veterans of the Arcaean host, and the High Commander Kilrone Vaethar himself.

By this time, the terrain had softened out into the rolling, wind-swept fells from which the land had drawn its name. The soil, though still rather thin, was perfectly acceptable for the growing of crops, and loose-piled, dome-like haystacks dotted the horizons, along with an occasional farmer's hut or grain storage silo. There were trees, mostly scattered thickets of scrub juniper, along the deep-gouged gullies and waterways, and tall, jagged rock outcroppings lent texture to the scene. It was Kilrone's homeland, his place of birth, his place of growth, and he felt his heart warm at the sight. Emotion flooded his thoughts, emotion that defied words, and could be only felt or understood.

It was hard, unforgiving land. Wild, rugged, and untamable, but an ally, if you showed respect, and a friend, if you knew its ways. And truly, it was a land worth fighting for. Was it not the very spirit of the Veythari themselves? Were not the Fells and their people one and the same, arrogant, indomitable, a world apart and a world unbreakable?

Unbreakable, perhaps, thought Kilrone sadly, yet not immortal. How many days, O bloody Death, how many days remain to pass, for me, for the clans, for the people of this world itself? I know what stirs, what rises in the south, for I have seen it, but how many realize? How many... oh, Mata Nui.

He walked on into the night, silent as the wolf, and the night was cold, and grim, and very dark.

Yet a hope there is, if legends have a truth, and prophecies be not a lie. But it is a young and a far-off hope, and until its time... what will my daughter's son, my little Reid, see in his day? What will he face, and his friends, his allies, those of his generation?

The wind bore the answer, and the darkness deepened at the sound.

Death.

Chapter IV

White dawn. Stillness.

The city Vaethar sparkled with the night's frost, and dense clouds of steam rose softly from the warm-water fountains near the central forum, condensing and freezing on the cobblestone streets. Icicles clung to the stone-and-timber rooftops, like jagged crystal fangs, dripping slightly with moisture as the brilliant sunlight pierced and warmed their surfaces.

From the direction of the marketplace, a baker's voice rang out distinctly in the frigid air, cheerfully. "Bread, young lass? Fresh as the spark in thine eyes, aye, warm as the smile you keep from me in bitter sport! Pastries also, and the best ones 'i the market!'

The laughing, playful retort, just as cheerful. "Aye, the only ones here so early, ye flattering flourmonger! Shut thy mouth and save the air for thy betters!"

From the other direction, far off, a young rooster's crow, harsh and defiant. Another answered, this one older and more mature, its domineering challenge deeper-throated and well-polished, almost as music. The age-old battle chant of its kind; the first and younger did not respond. In the silence that fell, a hen cackled.

Kilrone Vaethar gazed down at the awakening city, his city, green eyes bright with bittersweet happiness. A slight gust of wind stirred the folds of his woolen cloak, swirled and eddied across the solid stone observatory platform on which he stood, through the branches of the evergreens nearby. The dry grass of the hilltop rustled softly.

Approximately a quarter-mile southeast of the city's outermost border lay the neat, orderly rows of his warriors' tents. It was an ancient, unspoken law that required large traveling units of the United Fellsian Guard to camp well apart from villages and such, so as to avoid disturbing the townsfolk and their routines beyond the natural levels of tolerance, and they were to either disperse or move along as soon as was practical. In this case, the former. Over a thousand warriors had already departed to visit their homes and families in various places throughout the Fells, and more would soon follow.

In three hours, the full High Council assembly. Several Elders from the smaller, more remote clans had arrived the day before, and at least a dozen others had straggled in throughout the night, but the majority of those summoned would be arriving in the next half-hour or so.

The general system of clan government was simple, effective, and easily maintained. Each clan was led by a High Elder, supported and advised by a number of lesser Elders, all of whom were mature, experienced individuals of excellent repute, elected by the popular vote of the clan. Although the High Elder's word was considered the ultimate authority in most matters, the lesser Elders were able to veto any of his or her decisions at will, as long as the majority of them were in agreement concerning doing so. They were also able to force the High Elder's resignation, if supported by popular vote of the clan.

In meetings between clans, the High Elder of the clan Vaethar was considered to be greater in authority than all other High Elders, and equal with the High Commander of the United Fellsian Guard. There were other laws concerning the levels of authority on such occasions, but these were rarely consulted. Any individual present had a right to speak, and a right to be heard. Lack of mutual respect was unheard-of.

All considered it a deep honor, a privilege, to serve and protect their clans and their people. It was because of this alone that they performed their duties, for not a single Elder or High Elder was paid to do so, and none had ever been. Some had ruined their reputations, but not through corruption of their rule, nor of their judgements. They were respected for this, for their willingness to resign in disgrace before betraying the trust of those who had chosen them, for their willingness to admit that they were, after all, only mortal, but yet to protect justice or die trying. They were wise. They were humble. They were leaders.

And it was these that he would be among in a matter of minutes, to speak the hard and brutal truth, to rouse their cautious, deliberate minds to action.

Kilrone Vaethar's gut twisted uneasily. He was not nervous, really, but this council would be, undeniably, the most heavily important in the entire history of the Fells, and it would be his responsibility, and his alone, to ensure that the correct decisions were made, that the information presented was accurate. There would be many others of the Guard alongside him, of course, but only one or two of the Arcaean host, and the Elders, those who had not felt the darkness to the south, must be made to see the urgency, the desperate need of immediate defensive preparation. They must, they must.

Or, Mata Nui help us, they shall die every one of them. And it will be a slow and a painful death. And after them... the innocent. The noncombatants. That loudmouthed baker, that laughing young female. Not dead, perhaps, but a fate far worse. Slavery, oppression, injustice. The whip and the chain. Hard laughter, worse than any blows.

He clenched his fists, unconscious of the biting cold. They would respect him, they would listen, but would they really, truly understand? If they did not, would they yet believe him?

Mata Nui. Grant me the words, if you truly exist. Ancestors, Vaethar, stand by me. I... they must see, and I alone can show them before... before... while time yet remains.

The wind brushed softly against his leather-tough, weathered features, cold, icy cold. The dark, familiar weight of the scimitar hung heavy at his belt, beneath his cloak, waiting...

* * *

The luncheon was simple, but perfectly adequate. Roasted poultry, bread, fruit preserves. A small glass of wine apiece, from the eastern vineyards, a bite or two of goat cheese, a pickled herring. Kilrone ate sparingly, wishing to keep his mind alert. His mouth was dry; not from thirst.

The council table was crafted of seasoned oak, polished by the touch of generation after generation of leaders. The forum itself was likewise ancient, constructed of fine white opalstone, massive front doors scarred by countless years of use. Brilliant sunlight slanted in through the overhead skylights, illuminating the building's central hall, the intelligence gleaming in the cool, quiet eyes of those who sat there.

Gradually, the meal came to an end. Several young volunteers, flushed with importance, cleared away the dishes, brought fresh pitchers of water, and slipped quietly away, awed by the subtle tension in the air.

The High Elder of the clan of Vaethar rose stiffly to his feet, supporting himself with the aid of a simple quarterstaff. He was old, thin and wiry, seasoned and scarred by battles of legend and the winds of time. He did not smile, but Kilrone Vaethar caught his single unblinded eye and saw the barest suggestion of a wink. I understand you already, my son, it seemed to say. But let us humor these other fools as they wish, eh? Not all are so fortunate as to have looked death in the face.

"Leaders of the Fells, I bid ye welcome." the High Elder began. His voice was surprisingly strong and deep for his years, hard-cored as ironwood and yet soft as thistledown. At its sound, all conversation silenced at once. All eyes turned towards him, grave, intent.

"It is well that ye are all here, for we can guess easily what manner of situation awaits our judgement. Are not the Kingdoms in ruins? Is not Arcaea shattered beyond recovery? Has not a shadow risen, the Ix, powerful and deadly beyond words, prepared and willing to raze our cities and salt the earth? Will we not fall before them, except..."

He paused a moment, letting his gaze drift up and down the length of the table. The words sank in, and Kilrone felt a rush of gratitude for the old warrior. He himself was not a orator, and he knew it, and glad he was to hear his own thoughts mirrored in such a strong fashion.

The High Elder's single storm-grey eye glittered with grim amusement. Raising his voice slightly, he slashed his hand dramatically through the air toward Kilrone Vaethar. "...except that ye heed the words of the one alone who has the knowledge that can save our land and our people! The very one who has summoned the High Council, sought our wisdom and authority, though First Clan knows he has sufficient of his own! The High Commander of the United Fellsian Guard himself, Kilrone Vaethar!"

And he sat down. Kilrone blinked, taken aback by the abruptness of the introduction, but he recovered quickly. Clearing his throat, he got to his feet and began to speak, slowly, choosing his words carefully.

"Thank you, High Elder. I shall do my best to explain the situation. If any of you have a question, please speak out."

He turned and nodded in the direction of Millus Commander Ixtilius Iskara, seated several places to his left. "The map, Ixtilius, if you would?"

The Millus Commander slipped out of the room, returning a few moments later with a six-foot square, three-dimensional terrain model of the Fells and the lands to the south. He placed it carefully in front of Kilrone and retired to his seat.

"Thank you. Now, in essence, what is happening at this very moment--" Kilrone gestured towards the general area of Arcaea "--is a chaotic power struggle. The Ix are slowly gaining the upper hand, as is to be expected, despite resistance from the remnants of the Toa Order and their few allies. As you perhaps know, we were forced to withdraw from the field following a disastrous week-long battle with the bulk of the Ix forces, in which we, the Guard, suffered incredibly severe losses. The Toa Order was essentially crushed, I am afraid, and our Glatorian allies... are now nonexistent."

A lean, yellow-eyed Elder from the clan of Vrone raised his hand, indicating that he wished to speak. Kilrone nodded permission.

"If I may be so bold as to ask a foolish question, High Commander... but you say, the Toa Order, crushed?"

"Aye. Crushed. And the Ix will mop up the survivors within the year, if not sooner." replied Kilrone bluntly. "There is no hope for them as a group; they themselves admitted it, and encouraged us to retreat, to fortify the Fells and maintain resistance here. Anything else?"

"Er, no. Thank you." muttered the Elder, looking rather flustered. Kilrone spoke on.

"I repeat, there is no hope of continued resistance in the south, at least not at the present time. We must fortify our homeland, prepare supply caches, ensure the safety of noncombatants. Eventually, we will become one of the last free areas of Xaterex, and a driving force in the overthrow of the newly-formed Ix Empire. In the long term, of course. Few, if any, of us will live to see that day, but we must prepare now, that our children's children will have a future."

"No argument there." broke in an ancient female High Elder from one of the small, relatively unimportant clans of the far north. "But is it truly so urgent? Surely, the Ix will not be taking a Fells-directed offensive stance until summer? Only the Veythari have ever made a custom of fighting in the cold and snow. Only we are strong enough."

"They will wait for nothing, most honorable old one. The Ix are shrewd, and deadly powerful. They are our equals, and we must treat them as such. Think you that mere temperature will halt them? I repeat, they are our equals."

Shocked murmurings rippled through the hall. The Ix? Equals?

"They may even be..." Kilrone's voice was deliberate, deadly soft. "...our superiors."

Stunned, absolute, hostile silence. He felt his anger rising. Were they such fools, then? Would they risk the lives of their people for idiotic pride, empty-headed arrogance, not admitting the danger?

"Our superiors. I repeat it. For too long have we, have you, sat smug and content in your conceited folly. You thought the Veythari the people of Death, a people apart. You disdained the idea, the law of nature; 'Every creature has its bane.' You thought the Fells were invincible."

His voice dropped an octave, rough with suppressed emotion. He did not know that his eyes were rippling with a cold green fire, frightening in its brightness, in its intensity, that the raw aura of power radiating out from his body was strong enough to be felt even by those seated on the opposite end of the hall. He knew only his rage, his sorrow, his frustration and fear.

They must understand. They must, they must.

"And do you know? You were wrong. All the time, our bane, and the bane of Xaterex itself, waited, watched, bided its time. And only a few months ago, it found its chance. I was there. I saw it. I saw the fire exploding in the streets, the broken glass, the rubble, screams of agony! I, fighting with blade and unarmored fist to save others, and then, fighting to save myself! The charred bodies of Toa, Glatorian, Agori, Matoran, Skakdi, Veythari, every species imaginable, sprawled limp and dead across the ground. The Ix, I tell you, they are a firestorm unleashed, hot with blood-lust and cold with intelligence, deadly, deadly. We ran, fled, regrouped in the blackened fields, and we thought we had seen Karzahni, thought we had seen the worst... treachery, slaughter, destruction... we were wrong."

He fell silent, stared at the polished surface of the table. He could feel, dimly, the gazes of three dozen Veythari riveted upon his face, felt air hiss into his lungs, felt the heavy slam of his heartbeat.

"Have you ever struggling up a muddy hillside, in the darkness, in the pouring rain, blood and gore and ash and sweat dripping from your shredded armor? Your only weapon a broken longsword, your only allies scattered across endless miles of fog-shrouded pasture? And you drag yourself to the top, sprawled out full-length on your chest, caked with dirt, alone, and you peer into the valley below, hoping... and you see them. A full squad of Limiters, the elite warriors of the Ix. Tall, strong, with black cloaks, black armor, skull-like helmets, war-scythes in their hands. You see them, you think you know fear... and then their leader looks up, into the mist and the night, and he meets your gaze."

His voice was so soft, some had to strain to hear it. And strain they did, pinned in their seats by a force as ancient as words.

"And in that moment, you see Death. Their eyes are hollow, black as the midnight shadow in an empty well, and in the depths, a single blood-red flame. It... it is beyond words. The fear. The terror. And you turn and run, for what else can you do?"

He paused again, letting his words sink in, spoke on.

"You understand that they are but mortal, as yourself. But that instant, that split-second, is enough to make you wonder. They are our equals in combat, in strategy, our superiors in sheer numbers and power. They have many treacherous Elementalists on their side, the looted resources of the Elemental Kingdoms. And they strike fast, and hard enough to warrant no second blow. The Toa Order has fallen before them, and so will the other southern factions. It is but a matter of time."

"Are... are they, then, unstoppable?" ventured an Elder timidly. "Have they no weakness?"

"In archery, and ranged combat in general, we can beat them. Also camoflauge, guerilla warfare, and knowledge of the wilderness. These are the areas in which we have an edge, I believe. Here in our homeland, we have a chance. But they will be attacking soon, very soon, and we must prepare at once, as I said."

The High Elder of the clan Vaethar raised his hand. "I do not wish to sound doubtful, Kilrone, but how can you be certain that the Fells are their next target? Might they not wish to secure the south first, and march against us in the summer or fall?"

"A fair question. I have little evidence beyond gut instinct, and the suggestive taunts of a Ix commander. 'That's the way, Veythari!' he said to me. 'Escape, go hide in your miserable Fells. Your blood will freeze on the ground regardless!' Of course, they may have been only idle words."

"But the fact that he specifically mentioned your blood freezing may have held a hidden meaning, you wish to say? That he knew of plans to attack the Fells before summer?" asked the High Elder. "You may be right. I wonder... I wonder..."

"Don't." growled a stocky, red-eyed Elder angrily. "It's all a heap of cowardly excuses, if you ask me. Running off home, making up eerie tales to cover himself. Expects us to believe that the Ix will go so far as to attack the Fells, attack us, the Veytha-- what?"

Running footsteps sounded in the entrance hall. Light, quick, slightly uneven.

Kilrone's mouth went dry as dust. Time slowed to a crawl.

No. Please. Not yet.

A female Veythari, young, clad in worn, travel-stained garments of olive green. Longbow slung across her back, hunting knife at her belt, bloody bandage on her left leg. She paused in the doorway, gasping raggedly for breath, large amber eyes darting across the table and coming to rest on the High Commander's ashen face.

She spoke, her voice soft yet clear, charmingly feminine despite the effects of obvious exhaustion and dehydration. "Kilrone? Kilrone Vaethar?"

"That is I." ackowledged Kilrone, walking around the end of the table and towards her. He stopped about an arm's-length away, and added, "Speak on."

She swayed slightly, grasped the edge of the doorway for support. "I am from the far southern Fells, near Shadowfell Pass."

Kilrone nodded. "Aye?"

"Three days ago... the Ix. They come, High Commander. The trail... the trail through Shadowfell."

"How many? How fast do they travel?"

"Slow. The trail is snowed under, and they... do not know the area. I watched them for a time. They... they saw me, wounded me with an arrow. I fled, came here, though I knew not the path. I... came. To warn you."

"Do you remember how many there were?"

Her face was deathly pale. "Thousands, High Commander, and more behind them. You... you must go. At once."

"I thank you beyond words for coming. Are... are you quite sure that they number in the thousands, or greater?"

"High Commander, I swear it on my life. You must go. You must. Please, I..."

Kilrone caught her as she fell.

Chapter V

High Deputy Thresh Vaethar's face was white as chalk, but his voice was steady and his eyes were calm. He was a good warrior, a strong leader, an intelligent mind.

"It would appear," he stated flatly, "that the Fells are now in a state of impending large-scale siege. We have approximately three days to prepare, I venture to estimate. Seventy-two hours. Wasting them on idiotic council gibberings would be the last mistake made by our kind; martial law is in effect, as of now. I am hereby declaring High Commander Kilrone Vaethar, my direct superior, to be the highest form of political authority in the Fells until further notice, myself being second. All matters not relating to the immediate defense of our people shall be placed on hold. All available healers, metalsmiths, and foresters shall be immediately summoned to the city-states of Skarr, Vaethar, and Iskara. Defensive preparations shall be instigated as soon as possible within the next week, particularly within the city-state Skarr. All clans must be alerted to the possibility of invasion. All non-Guard individuals must be armed before the month is out, if they are not aleady. Do I make myself clear?"

A fitting replacement for these old bones of mine, he is. thought Kilrone numbly, still supporting the limp messenger in his arms. Speak on, lad. Make me proud.

"I repeat: do I make myself clear?"

Around the table, three dozen nods of silent assurance. The High Elder of the clan Vaethar leaned back in his chair, smiling grimly and with approval.

"Very good. Messengers must be dispatched to each clan as soon as is physically possible. I suggest also that the majority of you lesser Elders present begin your journeys homeward as well, for strong and knowledgeable leadership will be necessary there. High Elders, it would be well for you to remain a few hours longer, so as to aid in planning the immediate counter-offensive. Kilrone, if you... I mean, could you... is it truly necessary for you to hold that female for the rest of the day? I can see she is remarkably attractive and all that, but we do have important matters to discuss."

Nervous laughter. Kilrone blinked in confusion, then flushed deeply as realization dawned. Carefully, he lowered the unconscious young messenger unto the floor, removing his finely-knit woolen cloak and draping it over her like a blanket. She stirred, curling up into the fetal position, but did not yet revive.

"I apologize, Thresh. But you were doing admirably on your own, I must point out. If you wished to continue...?"

"Nay, sir, I do not wish to continue. Shut up and do your job yourself."

"Very well then. Let us now plot the destruction of our enemies." replied Kilrone briskly. He felt oddly cheerful of a sudden, almost eager for the coming warfare. This was his element, his world. Deep in his heart, subconsciously, he loved it.

The shadow, the ruiner, had made its challenge.

It would not go unanswered.

* * *

Naught but a mere hour later, the dark gears of war were set and rolling, swiftly gaining momentum as the day wore on. Strong, light-footed messengers ran the snow-covered roads and the forest trails, rousing the villages, summoning the scattered warriors of the Fells. Bands of grim-faced lesser and High Elders hurried homeward, their spirits clouded with dread, yet with their minds as cold and sharp as ice.

The gusting northwest wind was frigid, with a hint of snow. Dark grey clouds slid noiselessly across the sun. Three hundred feet above the city, a lone eagle circled watchfully.

In silence the High Commander watched the council members depart, the High Elder of the clan Vaethar, the High Deputy, and the young, amber-eyed messenger standing beside him on the front steps of the forum. These four said nothing to one another until all others had gone, the Guard commanders to assemble their troops, the volunteer servers to their homes, the forum watchman to his post at the rear of the building.

They were alone now, the four beings who fully understood what awaited them in the south, what the hard consequences must be of the plans they had made.

"You are beyond courageous, Kilrone." said the High Elder softly, simply. "I am proud of such as ye."

Again, a silence. Kilrone stared unseeing at the distant horizon to the south, at the far blue mountains. His heart was sick, but his mind was clear.

"It must be done, old one." he replied at last. "I know it, and am willing. But my stalwart three hundred... what of them?"

The High Elder's voice was gentle. "I believe that they also will understand. I believe, nay, I know, that every member of the Guard in existence, every last Veythari in the Fells, would follow you to... to..."

"To the death." finished the High Deputy bluntly. His eyes also were pained, dark with grief. "And willingly. If not for love of their people, than at least for proud desire to gain a place in legend."

"Aye." Kilrone drew a deep, ragged breath. "Thresh... this is the last time I shall see your face."

"Not necessarily. There is--"

"Nay. I feel it in my heart. This is the last time. You have proven yourself time and again as my Deputy, as a commander, as a warrior. You must prove yourself again. Defend them, Thresh. Defend the clans."

"I have taken my oath already, High Commander. I know the words, and their meaning."

"Aye. But, Thresh... can you replace me? War is come, war darker than any others we have seen, any we have ever imagined. Can you see it through? Can you do as I have done, what I would have desired to do in future, had Fate been kinder? Can and will you take my place?"

Their eyes met, held. And Thresh Vaethar nodded once.

* * *

"Nay, High Commander. I refuse to stay." argued the young female, amber eyes blazing with raw determination. "You will need me, for not a warrior alive knows the region round about Shadowfell as I do. I was born there, raised there, and have hunted its canyons, roamed its ridges, for weeks on end. It is my home. I have dwelt within it for my entire life."

"...all twenty years of it." countered Kilrone dryly. He did not know her exact age, of course, but it was easy to guess. "You may not come. You are too young, too inexperienced, and far too weak. I know what it took for you to bring me word, and I thank you for it, but I am not so blind that I cannot see what the journey has done to you. You must remain here and rest. Gather your strength, and perhaps in a few weeks, if you wish, Thresh can find you a place in the Guard."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously, glittered like a wolf's. "Nay, but I shall come. You cannot forbid me, for I am a free blade, an outlier, and not a warrior of the Guard."

They locked gazes, and Kilrone bit back a curse. The last thing he needed on a grueling scouting operation was a young, weary, untrained female. She seemed tough, intelligent, and quick on her feet, true, also remarkably experienced in woodcraft, but she was thin, too thin, and he could see the marks of recent malnutrition in her gaunt face.

Neither dropped their gaze, both refused to back down. The handful of warriors round about them stirred restlessly, impatiently, fidgeting with the shoulder-straps on their light supply packs. Dusk was falling, the wind was cold; they were eager to be away and running.

She was quite attractive, come to that... reminded him of his daughter, his only child. She had the same stubborn set to her jaw, moved with the same lithe, easy grace, carried her longbow in a remarkably similar fashion.

He felt himself waver momentarily, hastily hardened his mind anew, but her female's instinct for emotion had sensed the weakness. She smiled slightly, teasingly, using only one side of her mouth, and his heart twisted with aching recognition. How many times had his daughter used that smile against him, how many times... were his feelings truly so obvious?

He turned away, shifting his pack to a more comfortable position. Old shoulders, a bit more ache in them when the cold bit deep. His voice was rough. "No, lass. We must go alone. We are the First Drecus, the ten among tens. We go to scout the land, and our pace would be far too much for you."

She took a quick step after him, laid a restraining hand gently on his upper arm. "Listen. Just give me a chance. Please, High Commander?"

Kilrone hesitated, an instant too long. The tall warrior nearest him broke into a smile, his teeth flashing white in the falling darkness. "Aw, c'mon, High Commander. Let her trail along. What can it hurt? It's not as if she's after your job or anything."

A second warrior stared longingly down the trail. "I don't care either way, sir. But can we get moving?"

The amber-eyed female glanced gratefully at the first, kindly-hearted warrior, glanced pleadingly at the rest, and in that instant, Kilrone felt popular opinion shift and settle against his will. He should have remembered, that all it would take to do so was a pretty face in distress. Too late now. Damnation.

"Very well, then. Come along if you must." he growled reluctantly. "But you keep the pace, hear?"

She smiled, deftly securing the shoulder-straps on her own battered knapsack. "Certainly."

* * *

The High Commander shall lead a one-Drecus scout team to the threatened area, in order to ascertain the strength and speed of the invasion force. If said force numbers less than five thousand warriors, the scout team shall return to Shadowfell Pass and summon the available warriors of the city-state Skarr. The resulting force shall then plague and harry the invaders, weakening them to the greatest extent possible before they reach the established southern border of the Fells, the river Fool's Bane. The defending force shall then join with any available reinforcements and occupy the Shieldtimber bridge, preventing the invading force's passage northwards. They shall continue to occupy said bridge until additional reinforcements arrive, and shall then perform several flanking movements, eliminating any and all remaining invaders with longbows. Defensive preparations, both structure-, supply- and personnel-related, shall then be instigated in preparation for a second invasion attempt.

This was the primary planned operation as of the moment. The Guard was currently scattered across the entire Fells, prohibiting swift and decisive action; time was of the essence; delaying action of some sort, crucial. The vast majority of the council members had agreed that the attacking force was 'highly unlikely' to number more than three or four thousand warriors, but the High Commander privately disagreed, and had ensured that a secondary plan be set in order:

If said invading force numbers greater than five thousand warriors, the scout team shall send a messenger summoning the High Commander's personal guard, the First, Second, and Third Hectus. The scout team shall then plague and harry the invading force until these reinforcements arrive. The resulting defense unit of three hundred warriors shall then engage in an aggressive hit-and-run campaign, with the intention of weakening and delaying the invading force to the greatest extent possible, at any cost necessary.

That was all. Nothing further needed to be said, for not even the youngest and most naive Veythari could fail to understand the grim meaning of those last four words.

Slay them all, High Commander. Slay them all before they reach the Fells... or die trying.

A suicide warfare.

* * *

Cold grey dawn. Chill mist in the evergreens.

The First Drecus of the United Fellsian Guard paused and rested, but for only a few minutes lest their hard-run muscles stiffen. All about them were the thick western forests of the city-state Skarr; under foot lay the narrow winding trail, thickly carpeted with fallen pine needles, wet with the last night's heavy rain.

High Commander Kilrone Vaethar's eyes traveled thoughtfully over the moss-draped surface of a nearby boulder. There was not a single patch of ice upon it, though this was indeed the Fells, and spring was not yet come. "Is the air here always so warm as this?"

The amber-eyed outlier paced about the clearing, idly searching the ground for the fresh tracks of wild game. "Aye. The areas directly north and south of Shadowfell Pass are known for possessing their own weather patterns, almost entirely separate from the rest of the Fells. Something to do with the wind currents."

"Interesting. The mountains also would be a factor, I suppose?"

She shrugged. "Perhaps. I do not know. My father seemed intrigued by such things, but spoke little about them."

"Your father... he is dead now? What of your mother?"

She caught his eye for an instant, looked away. "Aye. Three years past. He was hunting rock goats on a cliff face and slipped on a patch of black ice. I never knew my mother. She died of a sudden lung sickness when I was but a few months old. I have no other family, that I know of."

"Your name? I cannot be calling you 'young lass' for always."

"Trace. No surname; my father was an outlier, as I am, and disdained the clans, as I choose not to. He was exiled, you see, and became deeply bitter because of it."

Kilrone's green eyes sharpened, glinted strangely in the shadows. "Exiled, you say? What of your mother's past?"

Trace shifted uneasily. By now, her full attention was on the High Commander. "I... I know very little about it. Father met her in Arcaea, after his exile. They spent several years there, but later returned to the region south of Shadowfell, where I was born."

"They were bonded?"

"Aye, in Arcaea. An Elementalist-conducted ceremony, I believe. Father had wanted a Veythari-conducted ceremony, but the Elders refused."

She fell silent an instant, then added, "Why do you ask?"

"Whether or not they took vows of bond is often an insight on their mental traits. In this case, it may show that your father, although exiled, yet remained true to the customs of the Veythari, which is certainly... interesting. Do you know for what cause he was exiled?"

"Nay. He never spoke of it. Not that he spoke much to begin with. He was always very quiet, very sober."

"I suppose your mother's untimely death had negative effects on his emotional side?"

"Aye, possibly. They loved each other very much, I believe."

Kilrone Vaethar gazed thoughtfully up the trail. The wind gusted, sending crystal showers of water droplets splashing to the earth. A small grey-green lizard slipped noiselessly from the shade of a rock formation, blinked in surprise at the assembled Veythari, scurried hastily away.

Trace's story intrigued the High Commander deeply. Why, exactly, he was not certain, but there seemed to be an underlying tone of mystery in it, of ends that did not meet. Why an Elementalist bonding ceremony, for instance? And why had Trace's father been exiled in the first place?

At the back of his mind, something stirred, lingered just out of his grasp. A note... something a High Elder had mentioned, many years ago... cold rain on the streets of a crime-rotten city... a little-known prophecy...

He fought to recall it, failed, let the matter rest. The memory would return with time, he knew. Best to wait, be patient.

Time.

Aye. And to the south, the armies of the Ix.

Fifty-five hours.

He rose to his feet, eyes hard and cold as polished emerald. "We had best be moving."

And not a warrior argued.

Chapter VI

It was high noon before they reached the pass, lungs strained and muscles wearied by the steep, boulder-strewn switchbacks of the forested mountain slope behind and below them. The trail itself was good, well-packed by the restless hooves of deer and goats.

It would seem, Kilrone Vaethar reflected, the Ix had been attempting a flanking maneuver of sorts, coming in fast through the little-watched southwestern pass of Shadowfell. They might very well have succeeded in the gambit, had it not been for the timely warning of the outlier.

He glanced thoughtfully at her out of the corner of his eye. She had held up to the grueling pace surprisingly well, but that last hard climb had been the finishing trial. She was spent, staggering, exhaustion showing plain in every trim line of her athletic figure. Even his own leather-tough warriors were feeling the burn, breathing hard, and there were no complaints when he gave the order to halt.

The sky was clear and blue, save for a few grey-white wisps of cloud far to the south. To the east and west, the black stone mountains of the Shadowfell Range brooded darkly beneath their thick shrouding layers of ice, untouched by the slight warmth of the eternal wind.

The timbered ridges and mountains here were more rugged by far than those further to the east, near the Pass of the First Clan. Trails of any sort were rare; if they did exist, they were often dangerous. Rockslides, crevices, musk-wolves, tainted water sources, the intricate, labyrinth-like networks of dark canyons... it was no place for the weak or the ignorant. Traders never journeyed by this route, unless they were Fellsian natives or utter fools.

The Ix were neither. Nor were they traders, for that matter...

Forty-nine hours.

The Pass of Shadowfell was well-known among the Veythari. Long ago, countless years before even the Ancients set foot on Xaterex, one of the largest and most formidable of the black stone Shadowfell peaks had somehow cracked straight down through its very heart, nearly to its very roots. What had caused the schism, not even the most learned Archaean scientists could ascertain, but the crack was there; the mountain, split nearly in two.

The Shadowfell Pass had thus been formed; a cave-like path only twenty feet wide at its widest point, and naught but twelve at its narrowest. On either hand, sheer vertical walls of wind-polished stone rose over five thousand feet in the air, and the floor underfoot was as smooth and level as the finest cobblestone street in all the Fells. The pass was just under a mile in length, almost perfectly straight, with only a few slight twists and turns. It was usually very dark within its depths, even to the point of requiring torches during full summer daylight, and there was a continuous south-bound draft. It was not a comfortable place for the claustrophobic or the superstitious; wild animals avoided it without exception.

The High Commander had been here three times before. Once, on a journey south to Arcaea; the second and third times, during training maneuvers. He remembered some of the layout of the surrounding terrain, but not enough... not nearly enough. Secretly, he was forced to admit that Trace's first-hand knowledge would be a crucial asset to the campaign. Only thing that worried him; she was not a trained member of the Guard, and it was entirely possible that she might not survive even a slight skirmish with the Ix. He would try to keep her out of harm's way, of course... but suppose she would not let him? As she pointed out, he had no real authority over her.

She demanded to come, countered a small cold voice in the back of his skull. If she's killed or captured, tough luck.

He shrugged off his pack, rummaged through it in search of a bit of jerked venison. He found some, buried beneath twenty-five pounds of high-grade explosives, and gnawed it hungrily.

Ten feet behind him, the Pass waited, a yawning vertical slash that beckoned grimly. The sun was warm, here, but in the mountain's heart, all would be dark and chill and eerily silent.

Thirty minutes passed, all too quickly. The High Commander glanced at his warriors; they were dozing fitfully, curled up amid the scattered rocks and shrubs. Trace even looked to be actually asleep. At least, her eyes were closed and she made no movement when a tiny frostfly landed gently on her ungloved hand.

Ten minutes more would be acceptable, he decided. But then... then they really must be moving along. In dealings with the Ix, every second counted.

Drawing his scimitar, he tested its blade against a dry stalk of grass, watching critically as the organic matter yielded easily. The average being's eye would not have sensed even the slight trace of resistance whatsoever, but Kilrone was unsatisfied. Taking up his diamond-coated whetstone, he set about honing the weapon's blade to an unheard-of sharpness, an edge that would have made a professional assassin's throwing-razor seem crude and primitive by comparison.

The Veythari had always been masters of bladecraft, and as archers, they were nothing short of legendary. Their species' name was synonymous with the longbow and the scimitar in every city, every kingdom, every shadowed corner of the planet. Even powerful element-wielders such as the Toa, the Makuta, and the Elementalists had paled and fled before their quiet wrath... such wars were of long-ago ages, but the Veythari's reputation stood untarnished, as well-earned now as then.

The whetstone hissed softly as the well-used blade slid it against with short, careful strokes. Hiss, pause, hiss again... sunlight caught the dark metal, flashed it golden in its master's hands. For an instant, it was a sword of legend, the Razerglow Scimitar; then the blade shifted, the light faded, and it was once again the stalwart weapon of Kilrone Vaethar.

He glanced up swiftly, suddenly, feeling someone's eyes upon him.

"You take great care with the blade, High Commander." remarked Trace softly. She was sitting up, leaning against the weathered trunk of a gnarled evergreen.

"Aye."

"I saw you test it at the first with the grass... was it not good enough then?"

"A warrior's weapons are his life, lass. When they break in battle, so does he. When they fail him, he dies. It is as simple as that."

Kilrone turned the scimitar over in his hands, tested it once again against a blade of grass.

"In a hard fight," he continued, "that last razor-keenness can make all the difference. Armor cannot be easily pierced by a dull blade, and when every milisecond is a life-or-death decision... even when your weapon has an edge as sharp as it can possibly hold, you invariably wish it was sharper still."

Trace said nothing. Kilrone suspected she did not quite understand, but he was all right with that. He, too, had once been young, and inexperienced, and had not understood the terrible physical difficulties of war. Many thought of it as a glorious undertaking, a melee of sparkling blades and witty war-cries and ridiculous jump-kicks and all that sort of thing. They had not yet felt the sweat and the dust and the sickly warm blood drying on one's skin, and the hot sun beating down, and the dragging weight of helmet, armor, and heavy blade. They had not felt their throats cracking with dehydration, the dull, throbbing ache of a score of flesh wounds, their arms and shoulders burning in the agony of weariness. They did not realize the sheer strength it took to send a killing stroke through armor, ribs, and heavy muscle, the incredible endurance that must be ingrained into every particle of one's being simply to remain upright and fighting, the brutal reality of death and gore. It was times like that when the little things counted. A half-swallow of warm, muddy water. The last mouthful of jerked venison. A sturdy pair of boots, well-moulded to the foot. The extra inch or two of blade length on a scimitar. The third feather on the last broadhead. An extra bowstring.

War was hard. It was not a good or a pleasant thing, but it was often necessary. And until intelligent beings no longer walked the worlds of the universe, it would remain so, for where thought is, so also is pride and greed and the lust for power.

There is no true peace in any thing. reflected Kilrone. There is only the calm between the storms.

He sheathed his blade, tucked the whetstone carefully away in his pack.

Forty-eight hours.

* * *

The scout team's footsteps echoed softly along the polished black walls, their watchful hunter's eyes glowing like hot embers in the chill, brooding darkness.

They spoke little, and only in whispers. The shadowed passage had an aura of menace about it, a deathly stillness like a tomb. Far above their heads, a fine thin slash of warm sunlight etched itself against the dark; its feeble glow could not even begin to penetrate the awesome depths below. It was a false and useless ray of hope, that was all, good for nothing but ventilation.

Not quite a mile, it was, yet it seemed much longer. Ahead and behind, the endless tunnel of cold forbidding stone, black as pitch; above and below and on either side, countless solid tons of raw enormity.

The worst death possible, reflected Kilrone, would to be buried alive in a chamber of stone. Uninjured, with not quite enough room to move about... the air growing dead and heavy as the hours passed, the absolute blackness, the absolute silence, no hope of rescue... a living tomb.

He shuddered, unconsciously hastening his pace. The minutes dragged by, the shadows eternal.

One half-mile passed beneath their boots, three-quarters... far ahead, a thin vertical line of white light came into view, beckoned mutely. Larger it grew, ever larger midst the gloom, and then the cold wind blew sharp and strong on Kilrone's face and the dazzling sunlight was all about him, clear and bright and starkly alive.

He narrowed his eyes against its glare, drew in a deep breath of the thin mountain air. Behind him, the other Veythari filed out of the pass and stood, gazing in silence at the wild, rugged vastness of the far southern Fells, spread out at last before them, the endless labyrinth of shadowed canyons and timbered highland ridges. Staggering in its sheer complexity, harsh and formidable, deadly with a slumbering strength immortal.

A fitting arena, truly, for such a stand. A land far and beyond worthy of such foes.

On the far-distant horizon, a lone falcon circled, swinging in wide, lazy spirals against the brilliant aether. Kilrone's green eyes followed it with quiet, sudden wonder.

A hunting falcon... ancient symbol of the First Clan, chosen crest of the High Commander and his Deputy. Is it... a sign? Perhaps an omen?

His leather-gloved fingers tightened instinctively on the hilt of his scimitar.

Nay. It cannot be... or can it?

As if in answer, the raptor banked sharply, hung an instant unmoving on the wind, then rolled swiftly over and hurtled downwards in the legendary killing-dive, wings tucked tightly at its sides, a dark flashing blur beneath the sun.

The ground reached up to meet it, massive rock outcroppings like jagged teeth, hazy with distance. Wind-swept pines, ancient lichens, patches of snow... the falcon's scream rang out, harsh and defiant.

Just beneath it, on the crest of a high ridge, a small black figure etched itself suddenly against the surrounding wilderness... then a second, and then a third, and then more, all tiny with distance, but moving. Slowly northwards, steadily on.

The falcon leveled off, circled, screamed its challenge once more.

High Commander Kilrone Vaethar's face paled slightly. His green eyes widened; but only momentarily. Trace's fingers clamped down on his forearm with a painful intensity; he heard her quick intake of breath, felt the agitation pulsing through her veins.

"There! You see them, High Commander? On the horizon, cresting the ridge... the Ix!"

The Ix.

He felt his warriors stir restlessly beside him, a tremor of unease, knew that they also had seen. The enemy, the bane.

And close they were, closer than he had expected. Twenty-five miles by the compass... to the average being's eye, they would have been invisible. But they were there.

And coming.

The Ix.

He spoke, his voice clear and sharp and emotionless. "Deputy Lygrone, return northwards. Summon the First, Second, and Third Hectus. I and these others will remain here. Luck willing, we may harry and slow the attackers."

Drecus Deputy Lygrone Haegar nodded, face grim. "Aye, High Commander. Mata Nui be wi' ye."

He turned, moving easily, and began to run. The blackness of Shadowfell Pass swallowed him up, and the soft echoes of his footsteps faded and were gone.

High Commander Kilrone Vaethar took a breath, let it out slowly. And his eyes set and hardened, glowing emerald, and his warriors stood dark about him, and they said naught. What was to be said?

Kilrone's voice was soft. "They have sought the death... and they shall find it."

And he turned, shouldering his pack, and the trail led south, and the Veythari followed.

Chapter VII

Midnight. Cold stars glittering down, rivulets of re-frozen ice glinting softly over the black stone boulders of the trail.

Kilrone Vaethar crouched in the dense shadow of a twisted rock pillar at the edge of a twenty-foot ravine, nocking a grey-feathered broadhead to his longbow. The Ix would have scout teams active, running the trail ahead, and it was through this natural drainage that they must pass.

They would never leave it alive.

On the opposite rim, completely concealed among various rock formations, lay the nine other Veythari. They, too, would have loaded bows and watchful eyes, their mottled leather and armor blending as magecraft with the shadow-wrapped earth. The art of camouflage was another of the Fellsians' time-honored specialties; no less important than their skill with blade and bow, but not so widely known.

The First Drecus' ambush strategy was guerilla to the core. Relying heavily on complete surprise, favorable terrain, and the initial placement of its warriors, it was swift and adaptable as flame and twice as effective. Used against large units of the enemy, it was a stunning blow; used against small units, it was invariably lethal.

The first skirmish. he reflected. The warning clash.

He would survive this first battle, he knew; he would not survive this campaign, and this also he knew. All the odds affirmed it, and there was a quiet coldness in his heart that he had never felt before, and would never feel again.

His only regret was that there had been no time to see his daughter, his only child, before he departed the Fells for the last time. But she dwelt to the far eastwards, in the city-state Kehaar, and the journey would have been far too long.

Still, she was all he had; her, and her mate, and their young son. Little Reid, with quick, cold eyes and his grandfather's surname: 'Vaethar'. Already was he showing the marks of a natural leader; the charismatic confidence, the razor-keen intelligence, the proud courage that leads by example.

The High Commander's mouth twisted in a pained half-smile. Ah, but life was a thing worth dying for, was it not?

* * *

An hour past midnight, soft footsteps echoed on the trail. Faint they were, but to the wolf-sharp ears of the Veythari, audible and clear.

The Ix.

Time slowed. Kilrone felt his heart-rate quicken slightly, put a bit more tension on his bowstring. The first shot he made must be perfectly accurate, perfectly placed, and it would be. He had no doubt in his own abilities, only a bit of anxiety concerning time and chance, things beyond his control, things that could break an entire carefully-planned tactical encounter in a single instant.

Thirty seconds eased by, silent, somber.

Ten warriors, maybe a few more, judging by the sound of their movements. They were traveling slowly, picking their way carefully through, over, under, or around the many obstructions in their path, and obviously having a difficult time of it. Twice, Kilrone flinched inwardly in sympathy as the shattering thud of falling rock, accompanied by muffled outbursts of swearing, met his ears.

Ten more seconds... twelve... fifteen... Kilrone's cheek twitched; his eyes slid restlessly about, searching, ever searching.

At the far southern end of the ravine, a black-clad warrior faded suddenly into view. Tall, well-built, wearing black leather armor and a light supply pack strapped to his back. At his left side hung a long-bladed fighting knife in a black leather sheath; his right hand held a six-foot tactical quarterstaff.

Kilrone's mouth tightened. He had not expected an Ix auraflayer, but with a bit of luck, it would matter very little. Surprise was the essence, the key... he waited, with the steel-nerved patience of the wild-born predator.

The eleven Ix warriors trailing behind their leader were also clad in black, with sheathed sickle-swords and light leather-bound shields. Several carried throwing spears, and one wore a belt-pouch containing several small jars. Incendiary explosives, most likely.

They moved with an easy, disciplined precision, despite their evident weariness, and the few searching glances they cast at their surroundings were far too keen for comfort. Veterans, these, not fresh recruits. Deadly.

Fifty feet, and the staff-wielding auraflayer would be straight in the center of a fatal crossfire. With him down, the rest would be easy, caught as they were without cover, in the open, hemmed in by the ravine's steep walls.

Forty feet to go, thirty, twenty, ten... the auraflayer halted suddenly, eyes burning warily into the darkness, and in that single instant, seven grey-feathered broadheads streaked through the night and hit him squarely in the chest, every one of them dealing a fatal wound. The Ix stumbled and fell to his knees, gasping from the impact, made a desperate effort to rise, and collapsed full-length on the frozen ground. His hand twitched once, then lay still, and he did not get up.

One down. Eleven to go.

Kilrone calmly held his fire, not wishing to give away his position so soon. The Ix warriors would focus on the opposite, western side of the ravine, where the nine other Veythari were, thus granting him the perfect opportunity to make several unexpected flanking shots... already were the Ix settling into a defensive semicircle, shields raised, conversing rapidly in the harsh, nasal language of their kind. Only a few seconds more and they would make a rush for it, hurling themselves in a desperate berserker charge towards their foes.

Kilrone waited. He had all the time a being could want, did he not?

The Ix charged, scrambling up the ravine wall with surprising agility, using their sickle-swords as improvised climbing tools. A Veytharian arrow flashed from the shadows in answer, then a second; both took their targets in the throat and the unfortunate beings toppled backwards into the ranks of their fellows. A delaying action.

Nine.

Two or three of the foremost Ix were nearly to the top, swinging themselves upwards with the same easy precision that had been evident in their trail-gait. Kilrone drew back his bow and let the arrow fly, not bothering to consciously aim, calmly reached for another arrow, nocked it to the bowstring, let it fly...

Seven.

The Ix scattered in consternation, dropping to cover behind their shields, behind the bodies of the dead, behind each other, behind anything, and the longbows of the nine Veythari cut them down with deliberate ease.

Five... no, four.

Kilrone held his fire, watching, eyes glowing with a mingled sadness and satisfaction.

Three.

Two... one.

The last Ix warrior, a stocky, heavy-set male, broke and ran. South and away, with a desperate speed; Kilrone's arrow chopped him to the ground with the driving force of a battle-axe. The Ix fell, rolled over, and lay still.

For a moment, silence. Then Kilrone rose to his feet, wincing slightly as his left knee twinged sharply, reminding him of the quarry-worker's riot in Arcaea, so long ago... a thrown stone had cracked the unarmored bone as he and his unit, called to action with inadequate preparation time, struggled to restore order and defend the innocents. The wound had healed, but now, with a few long centuries of age on it, it made its presence known. He was getting older, much as he hated to admit it.

He slid down into the ravine, followed by the First Drecus and the outlier. Packs and pockets must be searched, weapons gathered, the bodies laid to rest with all due respect. The Ix had fought in vain, but they had fought bravely, and done their best.

Trace knelt by the fallen Ix auraflayer, a mixture of nausea, awe, and macabre curiosity etched upon her face. Reaching out cautiously with one forefinger, she touched the tactical quarterstaff, held it, set it carefully back down. "High Commander... what rank did this one have? Why the staff?"

Kilrone glanced at her, his eyes sober. "He was an auraflayer, lass. There are many such, often in the direct service of high-ranking Ix officers. In terms of rank, he would have been roughly equal to a Hectus Commander, able to wield authority over a hundred lesser warriors."

"But what does the term 'auraflayer' mean? I know of aura, the innate energy found in all things, but not of... of this."

"You know that some beings are sensitive to aura fields, even capable of manipulating them for their own purposes?"

"Aye. Father was friends with one such. A Glatorian with Ix ancestry."

"Friends, you say? Interesting... but beside the point. An 'auraflayer' is the term given to an aura-sensitive warrior, usually of evil moral alignment, who uses his power for the sole purpose of dealing raw, uncontrolled auric damage to a foe. Often, they combine this technique with great martial skill, making them extremely dangerous both to those who may not be able to counter an auric attack, and to those who are able."

Her amber eyes widened slightly; rising up from her kneeling posture, she took a quick step backwards. "Oh. Oh, I... I didn't know."

Kilrone smiled, amused by her instinctive fear. "No. Most do not, and before they learn, they die."

"Are they, then, so powerful? If we had not killed him first, and instantly, would we have been forced to flee?"

"Nay. An auraflayer relies completely on the advantage of surprise, assuming his foe will not expect an auric attack, and therein lies his weakness. Even an untrained Glatorian, if forewarned of the auraflayer's power, can sometimes resist it with mere mental strength alone; auric sensitivity is not necessary. So, the auraflayers are not to be mindlessly feared, but they do command respect. As I said, they are extremely dangerous."

He stooped, unbuckling the Ix's supply pack. Ten days' supply of trail rations, a whetstone, two spare sickle-swords, a basic medical kit, a tinderbox, and several other odds and ends, such as bone dice and a needle-and-thread. Also the quarterstaff, and the long-bladed fighting knife in its black leather sheath.

Drawing the blade, Kilrone tested its balance, cast a critical glance over the dark grey steel. A good weapon, nay, excellent. But he had expected nothing less, not of the Ix.

And now its master lay still, struck down by Death, whose mantle he had sought to bear. No matter. The blade would have a new master, or rather, a new mistress.

Rising, the High Commander sheathed the fighting knife and handed it to Trace, hilt first.

"Take this, outlier." he said simply. "It is time you bore a warrior's weapon. Wield it with honor, sheath it with care. It is your life."

She took it silently, eyes wide. But there was no hesitation in her movements, no tremor in her hands as she strapped the weapon to her belt, and her jaw was set with a grim purpose far beyond her years.

She was a hunter.

She was a Veythari.

And Kilrone smiled in his heart, and dared to hope.

* * *

The First Drecus kindled no fire in the hours before dawn, nor did they take further actions against their foes. They slept as the restless dead, far back in the depths of a pine-shrouded canyon, just over a mile from where the Ix scout team had fallen, and their slumber was not disturbed. Kilrone himself took the first watch, although he privately doubted its necessity. The Ix would not be moving in the chill of night, and even if they did, it would take a skilled forester indeed to pick up the Veythari's track.

Within twenty-four hours, his elite guard of three hundred hand-picked warriors, including the First Drecus, would be assembled at the Shadowfell Pass. From there, they would strike southwards, fast and hard, every effort focused on slowing the oncoming legions of the Empire. Every inch of ground the invaders won would be bought with blood and bartered with blade, and those of the Fells drove a hard bargain in any campaign.

It would take two weeks, at the very least, to prepare adequate defenses in the city-state Skarr, defenses able to hold back thousands upon thousands of some of the most dangerous fighters on the planet. And it was he and his that would buy that time, buy it with their lives. It was not a one-sided bargain. Ix would fall, but Veythari also; the blood of both would soak the earth, and shattered weapons would line the trail.

And all for what?

Aye, and you know the answer, Kilrone, he chided himself. Do not pretend to play the fool.

He took a deep breath, staring up at the star-lit sky. How many others, he wondered, had stood like this in ages past, in the darkness and the night, waiting for the dawn? The dawn of death, their death, but a dawn that held the promise of the day.

It is hard, but it is just. All things must have their cost; else life is worthless. And it is I who will make the payment, sealing it with my own life last of all. My warriors trust me to ensure that their sacrifice will not be made in vain; can I meet that trust?

He sat, feeling suddenly weary. Not grief-stricken, not defiant... only tired. He had lived a long life, heeding duty as it called, ever doing above and beyond what was asked of him, and now... nothing. Just tired, that was all.

But he could not rest, not yet. There was a work yet to be done, a work that was his alone to do.

The masterwork. The legend.

And he spoke aloud, his voice low and harsh.

"I must write it. It will be the legend of legends, the crowning glory of my people."

"I must."

He raised his face to the listening night, and his eyes glowed with a cold green fire, and he drew his blade and its weight was sure and right within his hand.

"I will."

The wind stirred in answer.

Chapter VIII

Kilrone Vaethar slept, his watch ended for the night, and as he slept, he dreamed.

In his dream--or was it vision?--he stood alone.

It was spring, high in the mountains of the southern Fells. A warm east wind tugged at his cloak, and the sun lay hot on his shoulders. To his left, perched in the branches of a flowering shrub, a bright blue-grey songbird cried its challenge to the world.

He glanced about him, and was dimly surprised to see that, although all about him was fresh and green and alive, a dense layer of ice-encrusted snow lay about his feet, and there were new flakes of snow drifting down around him from somewhere above. He glanced upwards, mildly curious. There was not a cloud in the sky, yet he did not marvel. Somehow it seemed perfectly natural, that winter should dwell upon him while spring enclosed the Fells.

There was a haze, a sort of mist, that obscured the terrain to the south and to the north, indeed, all the directions of the compass. He stood upon an island, lost alone in a sea of vapor, and he wondered not.

He realized, suddenly, the nature of the place. The Pass of the First Clan, a place of legend. The gate of beginnings, the portal.

He stood for a time, enjoying the quietness, the soft birdsong, the rich scent of sun-warmed earth and boulder. But gradually, he began to grow uneasy. There was magic here, an ancient power, and he marveled at it with fear, and it was then, in that instant, that he heard the voices.

They came from the south, drawing closer and upwards along the trail to where he stood, talking and laughing among themselves, and he felt his heart stand still. Yet he did not wonder; he waited, with a strange sense of eager joy, as one waits for a long-wayfaring friend.

Closer they came, falling silent, and then they reached the place where he stood and they stilled their feet and stood with him, quiet warmth in their eyes, eyes ancient and yet young.

They were Veythari, perhaps a dozen of them, but only the few nearest him were clear and distinct to his gaze. The others hung back, cloaked and hooded, silent with a friendly silence, but strangely vague and wraith-like.

"Travelers, I bid you welcome." said Kilrone, and he marveled to hear his voice so strong and firm, with a note of power he had never heard it hold. "From whence do you come, and for what purpose?"

The few unhooded glanced at one another, and their leader smiled. Beneath the crimson steel of a warrior's battle helm, Kilrone saw the glint of amusement in his dark eyes.

"Ah, Kilrone. Kilrone Vaethar." His voice was steady, not overly deep, but strong. A true-born leader's voice, the heartbeat of the clan Vaethar. "Thou art indeed cautious, as Iskara said, yet not without the courage meet for such a heart. I am proud beyond words."

"I... I do not understand."

"It matters not, Kilrone. We have journeyed far to speak with thee, and our time here must be brief. It is the way of things."

"But... from where have you journeyed?"

Again, the amused glint in the Veythari's eyes. "Alas, Iskara, he is too shrewd by far for me. Besides, my words are near spent. Speak thou, my dearest, and after thee, Kehaar and Haegar and the one called Skarr."

The female Veythari at the leader's right hand tilted her head in wry amusement. She too wore a warrior's helm, of blue-grey steel, and her eyes were quick and piercing. "Very well, old fool. Speak to him I shall."

She lifted her gaze to the High Commander's, and Kilrone felt a uneasy tremor in his heart as he met it, looking back into deepness unimaginable. Here was intelligence, and that single word was word enough.

Her voice was quiet. Clear and calm, but with a steel unflinching, and the voice was Iskara, and hers was the clan that bore her name. "Kilrone, you know what lies ahead. You fear it, not because of death, but because death might be in vain."

He nodded, unable to speak for the hot and sudden tears that choked him. It was all so simple, and here at last was one who really, truly understood.

"Know this, warrior. The future is ever in flux, and I cannot tell you if darkness in the end will triumph, but the one you chose to take your place, the one called Thresh, was wisely chosen. Doubt him not; he will do as should be done. Take comfort; you have left your land and your people in worthy hands."

"I thank you." whispered Kilrone brokenly. "But why do you tell me this?"

"Because you needed to hear it." she explained simply. "There are many doubts and fears you keep hidden within yourself, thoughts for the future of your people, but the time is come to let them go. They are a burden to you, High Commander. You have but one task left unfinished; finish it, and let others work the rest. You cannot do all things; do not try. It is for this reason that the mind works best with others, and that wisdom must not walk alone."

She placed a hand gently on his shoulder. "Breathe deep, Kilrone. Seek peace."

Nothing more was said for a time, and at length Kilrone drew in a deep breath, and let it out again, and said, "I will try. That is all I can promise you."

"It is enough. My words are spoken. Walk wisely, Kilrone, and remember always that knowledge is the greatest weapon. Wield it with care."

She fell silent, drawing back to stand with the others, and a wiry, yellow-eyed male stepped forward in her place. Like his fellows, he was cloaked, but unhooded, and there was a strength about him that spoke of the earth, of the stone, of green fields growing and the crash of ram's horns on the northern steppes of clan Haegar.

"I have little to say, Kilrone." His voice was deep and rough, unpolished, deliberate, indomitable. "You fight for the ancient rights of all the world, that those worthy might live and love to do so. You know it, and when the night falls about you and your blade lies heavy in your hand, remember them. Those who are not warriors such as you, but will fight to the last breath for their homes and their people; those who ask nothing for themselves but a strong hand and a wise heart and the promise of another day."

His eyes burned with golden fire, and Kilrone knew that here was the true strength of the clans, of the First Clan, of all Xaterex.

"You fight for them. For the right of life to live, for the right of life to love its own. Be strong, High Commander; do not falter. Your cause is just, and you must see it through, else you are unworthy of it."

He said nothing more. It was enough. Kilrone bowed his head momentarily in respect. "I know it, but I will remember it again. Thank you."

The mist was thickening now, hiding even the walls of the pass, so that the Veythari stood in a world of their own. The leader glanced uneasily at the sky, eyes narrowed.

"Our time is short." he muttered. "Speak, Kehaar."

"Nay." returned a tall, dark warrior. He was hooded, his features hid in shadow, and his voice was indistinct. "My time is not yet come. I walk alone."

"As you wish. Speak thou, Skarr, then."

"Words are worthless." grumbled a scarred, weather-beaten male, stepping forward. "But nonetheless, speak I shall."

His eyes were dark amber, unyielding, and his voice held the stubborn purpose of his clan, the resilience, the dependable strength of granite stronghold, the unwearying patience of sentry and guard.

"Where blade breaks and armor shatters, where bone and sinew fail, where the mind is drowned in agony of simply holding on, it is there that only will and purpose remain." said he, simply. "And they can overcome all. The strength that comes with the dying breath is greater than the strength of all before it. There comes a time, warrior, when you can fight no longer, when your blood falls hot to the trampled ground and your swordarm hangs broken at your side, and the haze of death is real, and on every hand the rising tide of defeat."

"And it is then, when you can do no more, it is then that what you lived for drives you to your feet to fight again. Because, in what remains of your shredded existence, you know that this battle must be won. It is this that will mean the difference, warrior. Whatever you believe yourself to be, you are always something more. For every mile, another lies beyond it. With the final step, another step can be taken as you fall. Another stroke, another second, and the seconds count."

"I know it." said Kilrone quietly. The mist was closing in now, obscuring the outermost of the hooded figures.

"You know it, aye, but you do not yet fully understand. It matters not. Only remember then what I tell you now. The darkness can be held back as it must be, not because it can be done, but simply because your heart says, I will. It is here that the darkness is weak, because it does not understand the power of such things... I must depart. My words are spoken. My time faileth."

"I will remember. I thank you."

The mist lay all about him now, shrouding those who had spoken. One by one, they vanished in the swirling whiteness, only broken traces of their farewells borne on the rising wind.

Silence eternal.

He stood alone. And then he was not alone.

Vaethar stood beside him, his dark eyes filled with a quiet pride, and his voice was sober. "Kilrone."

"Aye?"

"Know again that I am proud of thee. Thou art truly a son of Vaethar, worthy of my name. I must now depart, but I would advise thee, if... if thou wouldst not mind."

"You know already that I do not."

"Aye. Iskara said I was an old fool, and so I am. The mist closes swiftly... I must depart!"

Drawing his cloak tighter about his strong shoulders, Vaethar stepped hurriedly forward into the shroud, shouting as he did so, the wind falling still to let his voice reach Kilrone's ears.

"Use the wild, warrior! Use the wild!"

And then he was gone, and the mist closed on Kilrone's body, and all about him was swirling white and endless silence.

* * *

Use the wild.

High Commander Kilrone Vaethar sat cross-legged on his bedroll, head resting in his armored hands. The rising sun filtered through the green pine boughs, illuminating the canyon with a quiet golden glow. The soft scraping of blades on whetstone sounded in the stillness, the low voices of the First Drecus as they readied their gear for the coming day.

It was no mere dream. I know it. But what did he mean?

He reached for his waterskin, green eyes thoughtful. The Veythari were not exactly a superstitious people, understanding as they did the scientific workings of the wilderness about them, but they held a deep-rooted reverence for the magic of life and the magic of death and the mystery of what came after. A direct message from the spirits of the ancestors themselves was not something to be taken lightly.

I suppose he meant the outlier. She would be a worthy representation of 'the wild', and she has much knowledge of this land. That is what Iskara said. Knowledge is the greatest weapon.

The water was cold on his throat, bitter with a tang of alkali. He took two mouthfuls, then re-fastened the waterskin to his pack and began folding up his bedroll, hands moving with a deft, practised surety.

I will ask her, when the leaders meet in council. No stone must be left unturned, no possible advantage left untapped.

By this time, the Ix would have sought for and discovered the bodies of the missing scout team. They would have found the grey-feathered Veytharian arrows, and have realized the message that they held, the deliberate challenge. They would perhaps seek to pick up the killers' trail, but with little enthusiasm, hiding their unease beneath the guise of intelligent caution. They would return to camp, moving with a bit more haste than when they had come, and they would eye the wind-swept crags about them with unacknowledged fear.

And by noon, all the Shadowfell Range would know that war was come.

And by sundown, the Pass would hear the footsteps of three hundred veteran warriors, the Guard's elite.

And tomorrow...

Tomorrow, the southern Fells would awake in wonder, and the legend would begin.

Kilrone Vaethar got to his feet, shouldering his pack. "Let us journey, warriors. Northwards, to the Pass. Drecus Commander, if you would intercept the Ix search party, those who will be seeking trace of last night's fallen?"

"Aye, certainly... All of them, High Commander?"

"Nay, spare one or two. Enough to carry word. Afterwards, rejoin us, but not with haste. There is no need."

"It shall be done. Fare ye well, until we meet again."

"Aye. Good hunting."

"Many thanks. I go."

The tall Veythari vanished alone amid the trees, longbow in hand, and Kilrone turned towards the north and the uncharted wilderness. They would not follow the main trail. They would walk the paths of the rock goat and the deer, and they would begin to learn the manner of the ground and of its traps, of the labyrinth and its ways.

Knowledge was power.

Use the wild.

Chapter IX

The watchfires burned low, embers smoking gently in the gathering twilight. The grey canvas scout-tents of the assembled Veythari, smaller, lighter, and more portable than those typically used in winter campaigns, dotted the Shadowfell plateau, blending with the scrub juniper and wind-worn stone.

Above them, the Pass; below and beyond them, the labyrinth and the Ix.

They numbered exactly three hundred and one. The 1st, 2nd, and 3rd Hectus, each consisting of five-score veteran warriors, and the young outlier, Trace.

Against them, unknowable odds.

* * *

Kilrone Vaethar, High Commander. Intense emerald-green eyes; weathered features; tall, deadly, of rugged build and an unyielding nerve. Quiet, thoughtful, deliberate. Favored weapon: scimitar.

Krios Iskara, 1st Hectus Commander. Stormy grey eyes with a perpetual squint; scarred, once-handsome visage; sure-footed and strong despite his years; lean and tough as rawhide. Cynical, intelligent, possessed of a dark humor. Favored weapon: longbow.

Tamina Vrone, 2nd Hectus Commander. Deep blue eyes with a razor's edge; undeniably beautiful in both face and figure, yet coldly intimidating; lithe and athletic, built to run. Quick mind, quicker temper, with a fierce pride and a reckless confidence. Favored weapon: longbow.

Dremus Kehaar, 3rd Hectus Commander. Steady yellow eyes with a hint of gold; strong, chiseled features; heavy-boned and muscular as a wild bull, fast and silent as a hunting-cat; a born warrior. Dependable, easy-going, with an unequaled charisma. Favored weapon: scimitar.

It was these four who would lead the Shadowfell campaign; these four, against the surging tide. It was upon these four sets of shoulders that the destiny of the earth beneath them rested, on the merest thread of luck and skill and cunning strategy.

These four, and the outlier. It was she who would tip the balance, her knowledge that would mean the difference between defeat and victory.

Aye, victory. Such as it is.

Kilrone Vaethar sat, eyes closed, feeling the vague warmth of the solitary guttering candle on his unhelmed face. Tamina Vrone was speaking, her voice sharp and clear, slightly clipped, hinting at an underlying current of nervous tension.

"The first move, I believe, should be a blitzkrieg series of hit-and-run strikes, aimed at the heart of the Ix forces. Our scouts report that they are drawing closer, having covered five miles since this morning, and it is crucial that we halt this movement. We must give them pause."

Krios Iskara sipped thoughtfully from a hip flask, absentmindedly studying the command tent's oiled canvas walls, walls that swayed gently with the night's chill breeze. "Aye. A strike from the rearward would be most effective, with simultaneous feints from the west and eastwards."

He paused a moment, then smiled grimly. "While the Ix are thus occupied, we shall set the engineers to work constructing antipersonnel traps to their northwards. In anticipation of a regrouping action, and continued forward march. If five or six dozen Dargon tiger-pits do not slow them, nothing will."

Tamina smiled slightly. "Aye. Ingenious."

Krios inclined his head graciously. "Thank you... yes, it is most ingenious, if I say thus myself. Probably useless as well, but time will tell."

"It is a wise course of action." remarked Kilrone suddenly, cutting short the conversation. His eyes remained close, as if in meditation. "Tamina, you and your Hectus shall make the raids, just before sunrise. Use longbows, naturally; only three arrows apiece, then withdraw. We have little enough supplies as it is, and every shot must count. Krios, your Hectus is capable of laying seventy-five pitfall traps in a fifteen-minute period, as you suggested?"

"Perfectly."

"Then you shall do so, beginning the work exactly at dawn. Lay seventy-five traps, no more. Withdraw as soon as possible, with every precaution to leave no obvious trace of your activities. Dremus, you would be willing to conduct the diversionary feints?"

"Sure thing, High Commander. At dawn, I assume?"

"Aye. Make every effort to minimize casualties, even at the cost of withdrawing sooner than planned... but why am I saying this? You know already what to do. Do it."

"Naturally. You do not trust me enough."

"Perhaps. It is irrelevant."

The four of them fell silent for a moment, lost in their private thoughts, and then Trace, seated far back in the shadows to Kilrone's left, coughed shyly and ventured, "May I... may I speak?"

Four piercing gazes swung and settled on her face. The High Commander nodded assent. "Certainly. We would value your input."

"Thirty miles to the southwest, dwells the chief tribe of the Minotaurus. If we--"

Dremus Kehaar blinked. "The what?"

She flushed slightly, obviously uncomfortable. "The Minotaurus. You do not know them?"

Another moment of silence. When Dremus spoke, it was for all of them.

"Nay. Are they a... a cult or something?"

"They are not a cult. They are a species. The Minotaurus, half-bull, half-humanoid. Wand'rers of the ancient canyons, keepers of secrets, a remnant people of the times before. Have you not heard the tales?"

Kilrone cast a quick, incredulous glance at Krios. For once, the aged Veythari commander was speechless, and he mouthed the words: No idea.

Kilrone turned back to Trace.

"Nay, lass. But you were saying...?"

"They are a very proud race, and hard to speak with, and annoyingly deliberate, but they value freedom above all else. I am certain they would consider an alliance, if... if we approached them in a wise manner. They know little of what goes on beyond their borders, but if they learned of the threat posed by the Ix... we would hear their war-drums in the darkness within the week."

She hesitated, then added, "Father was on good terms with them, and I met the tribe-lord once, several years ago. He liked me, I believe. He might listen, if... if I was to request his aid."

Kilrone leaned back in his chair, incredulous curiosity glinting in his quiet green eyes. The very thought of an unknown sentient race, never heard of by his people and dwelling in the Fells, no less... it was staggering. Even somewhat humbling.

He thought, suddenly, of what the High Council's reaction would be to such news, and a wry smile crossed his face. The shock might kill them, who could tell?

"These... 'Minotaurus', you call them... are they many?"

Trace frowned, pondering the question. "I do not know, but I would say they number only in the hundreds. They are secretive, and dwell in small, well-hidden villages, so it is hard to guess."

"Are they powerful?"

"Aye." she replied simply, and the way she said it, the single word was well and enough.

Kilrone's eyes narrowed. "And are they... civilized, more or less?"

"Nay, I would not call them civilized. But they are wise, and know the ways of things... you understand?"

The High Commander nodded slowly in assent, staring thoughtfully at the canvas floor, and for a minute or two, not a word was said as the four Guard commanders pondered Trace's startling revelation.

It was information that could change the situation, or future situations, to a great extent; for if the Minotaurus would not be persuaded to join forces with the Veythari, it seemed as if they might at least be willing to declare a state of war upon the Ix. Such assistance, limited though it might be, would be invaluable.

Aye, it is the little things that make the difference.

"This is no small thing you have revealed to us, lass." he remarked at last. "I thank you from the bottom of my heart."

"Aye, no small thing." echoed Dremus Kehaar, casting a smile in the outlier's direction; she glanced quickly away at the floor, a slight flush returning to her cheeks.

"Nay." growled Tamina Vrone sharply. "Small it may not be, but as of yet it is nothing at all. Let us not waste breath on idle words, High Commander. Lead, as is your duty!"

Krios Iskara said nothing, but at Tamina's words, his cool grey eyes flicked to the High Commander, and a slight smirk played about the corners of his mouth.

"I move with caution, knowing my time is short; my resources, limited; my people, threatened. And the day you question my leadership, Hectus Commander," replied Kilrone evenly, "--is the day you walk the edge of death."

His quiet voice cut like a whip. Tamina shrank back, abashed and ashamed, knowing she was in the wrong.

"I apologize, High Commander. I... I did not think."

"I forgive you, this time, although your question was not entirely ill-spoken. I and Trace and perhaps another will journey tomorrow, to speak with the Minotaurus."

"Who shall be the third?" asked Dremus.

"I do not know... but you have a way with words. Perhaps you could fill the place, if your warriors need you not on tomorrow's battlefield?"

"They are the Third Hectus, High Commander. They can get along without me easily enough."

"Very well. We shall depart perhaps an hour before dawn, so as to be well clear of the area before skirmishing begins. It would be unfortunate indeed to attract the attention of some wide-running Ix patrol, and lead them a straight track to our potential ally's threshold."

He rose to his feet, followed by the others. "Krios, if you would command the legion in my absence?"

Krios Iskara sipped at his hip flask, nodded agreement. "Certainly. Fare ye well in your journey, Kilrone, Dremus, Trace."

"The speed of Iskara and the wisdom of Vaethar go with ye, High Commander." added Tamina Vrone. "Dremus, take care of the youngling."

Dremus chuckled. "No hardship. None at all."

Trace blushed.

* * *

The night was silent, frigid, frost glittering underfoot in the pre-dawn shadows. Overhead, the vast discus of the Xaterex sky wheeled in eternal cycle, the countless stars as cold fire against the endless blackness. A slight breeze stirred the few scattered tufts of winter-worn grass, tugged gently at the limbs of the gnarled evergreens.

Kilrone drew up the hood of his woolen cloak, gazing thoughtfully out over the shrouded labyrinth. Far off, on the very edge of the black horizon, there flickered a single tiny flame, well-nigh invisible even to the Veythari's trained and careful eye. The watchfire of the Ix.

The path they must follow would lead the three of them within five miles of the enemy camp, but the High Commander worried little. Even with several Drecus, evading the Ix's sentries would have been easy enough. What concerned him most was the physical condition of the outlier.

Trace had held up surprisingly well thus far, showing a stubborn will and a remarkable stamina, but it would not last forever. She had, he estimated, covered approximately two hundred and fifty miles in the last few days, and hampered by the slight arrow-gash in her left leg, and with little enough reserve energy to spare. She was gaunt, weary, young, untrained... Sixty more miles, in twenty-four hours, over uncharted terrain... he shook his head doubtfully.

Yet they would need her, there was no question of it. She alone knew even the vague location of the Minotaurus' camp, and she alone knew even the slightest bit concerning the species.

A movement in the night, and Dremus Kehaar stood beside him, cloaked, hooded, yellow eyes glinting golden in the shadows. "Good morning, High Commander."

"The same to you. Have you seen sign of Trace? She is staying with Tamina's Drecus, I believe. The Eleventh."

"Nay. I have not seen her." replied the powerfully-built Veythari. He fell silent a moment, then added, cautiously, "Think you that she can stand the journey? She is strong of spirit, with 'true grit', as the old ones say, from what I have seen of her, but more than that is needed."

"I doubt her also. But what choice is there? If her strength fails, if she cannot keep the pace, then we must carry her and go on. So be it. We need her, Dremus."

"Aye... I do not wish to mince words alone, not with a half-ton beast-being looming over me, you can be sure of that."

"You will not be alone." countered Trace's sudden quiet voice, only feet away in the shadowed trees. Dremus caught his breath in startled surprise; but slightly, very slightly. He regain his composure almost instantly and turned, greeting the outlier cheerfully.

Kilrone frowned slightly. She was lighter of foot than he had realized. Too quiet for comfort... she could have knifed either one of them where they stood, easily. Not that he did not trust her, of course, but it was the truth.

Something to remember.

His voice was terse, cutting short his subordinate's smiling banter, the outlier's shy retorts. "Good morning, Trace. You feel you can make the journey? It is long, I warn you."

Her gaze was level. "I know it. I believe I can. Let us go."

"Aye. Let us go."

He stepped forward, and the others followed, and they slipped as one into the silence and the night. In their wake, only a slight movement of the air marked their passing.

Chapter X

Morning came and went, heralded by the rising sun and a cold west wind. The three Veythari moved on, threading their way amid the ice-worn boulders, the vast pine thickets, the dark and winding canyons where chill frost lingered. They ran, easy as the wolf, ever to the south and westwards; in the heart of the vast Xaterex wilderness they made their quest and sought it.

About them, all was hushed and still. Few birds were about, none of them the sort to sing, and the game trails were unmarked by recent travel. A few rabbits, a half-starved grouse that startled from its lair as they passed; these were the only signs of life in all the world around them.

"It is almost as if the very wilds sense the tide." remarked Dremus suddenly, his voice quiet and almost uneasy. "Is it not?"

Kilrone vaulted nimbly over a fallen tree-trunk, pivoting his weight on his leather-sheathed palm, landing lightly as a panther on the frozen earth. "Aye. Thought you otherwise? Creatures have their ways, their senses, and several thousand Ix warriors are not easily hidden."

"Several thousand?" countered Dremus, a grim half-smile forming behind his Rahkshi-styled battle helm. "You are overly optimistic, High Commander. I should think there are upwards of ten thousand, at the least... what say you, Trace? Is the old one a fool, or not?"

The outlier's amber eyes were amused, but wary. "The matter is between ye two, not I."

"Yet a female's wisdom is invaluable in any situation. Come now, what say you?"

"Half-witted fools are ye both, I say, with enough bravado on the brain to choke a swamp-bison. Save your breath for running, as your words are worthless!"

Dremus laughed softly. Kilrone's eyes glinted as he spoke: "You asked, O warrior valiant of clan Kehaar. You were not disappointed. Behold the wisdom of the wild's youth!"

"Ah, shut your mouth." grinned Dremus, punching his superior's shoulder playfully. "You're meaner than a flamedragon with a toothache, and my feelings are easily hurt, don't forget."

The High Commander forged ahead into a pine-shrouded gully, bounding nimbly down the incline, half-crouching to avoid the overhanging branches. "Aye, truly. As you like it..."

His voice broke off suddenly, was silent. Dremus hurried after him, Trace only a few steps behind, and as they peered down into the shadowed depths they saw the High Commander intently examining a mark upon the frost-laced earth. His intense green eyes glowed in the darkness; his every movement spoke of an aroused predator.

His voice drifted back to them, quiet and suddenly serious. "Outlier. What say you of this track? It can be none other than..."

Trace was at his side, kneeling on one knee, eyes intent. "The Minotaurus."

She moved her hand, measuring the depth and breadth of the massive imprint, the single inch-deep track of a two-toed, hoof-like foot.

"A large male, I would guess." she said at last. "Perhaps a thousand pounds in weight, judging by depth and size. Made yesterday evening, before the night's frost."

Dremus let his breath out in a long, low whistle. "By honor and courage and all things sacred! One thousand pounds! Do you have any idea--"

"More than an idea. I have seen them, as I said."

She rose to her feet, eyes narrowed.

"They are not to be taken lightly, I warn ye. The bones of those who have, lie cracked and splintered in unmarked graves."

"No kidding? Mata Nui! What are we doing here? Looking for the same end?"

Kilrone smiled grimly. "Nay, Dremus. We are looking for the Minotaurus."

"Wha-- oh sure. I knew that. No worries, none at all. Let's do this. Lead on, Trace; your charming beauty is our only hope of making a good first impression. Kilrone, he's scarred and fearsome as you can get; me, I'll have my blade out and my teeth clenched in terror like some southern barbarian. Not a pretty sight."

"Dremus," remarked Trace, the subtle wit of the Veythari sparkling in her amber eyes, "the Minotaurus can make a good first impression out of anything or anyone. It matters not that the ground is frozen; their strength is far adequate for the task."

The muscular Hectus Commander grimaced in mock despair. "Oh, woe! I shall never see my beloved homeland again, I shall neve--"

He broke off with sudden hissing intake of breath, in midsentence, yellow-gold eyes blazing with stark agony. For a dozen terrible, endless seconds, utter silence fell between them as the words drove home, unintended salt against an eternal gaping wound.

Trace turned away with a faint gasping sob, head bowed. Kilrone Vaethar's mouth was a tight and bitter gash in his weathered face; his green eyes flamed coldly, wearily.

In the stillness, distant thunder rumbled. Far to the west, beckoning.

* * *

Four hours before nightfall, thirty-three miles southwest of Shadowfell Pass.

High Commander Kilrone Vaethar swung easily down from the polished stone ledge, hung there but an instant, dropped lightly to the narrow rim below. The abyss-like canyon loomed dark and cold about him; a slight frigid updraft hinted at the gut-wrenching drop only three feet away.

Wiping sweat from his broad, vaguely-reptilian skull, he cast his gaze behind him into the endless depths. Somewhere down in the engulfing blackness, a thin band of silver glittered in the mid-afternoon sunlight. A river. He could discern nothing else, save vague pillars and archways of wind-worn stone, a deserted eagle's nest, the matted hide and bones of a long-dead goat or mountain sheep.

It was here, then, in this mythic desolation, that lurked the Minotaurus, beast-beings of faded legend, remnants of the times gone by, keepers of forbidden lore and wondrous power. So the outlier had said, such was her tale, and the tale rang true. Had he not seen the tracks, had he not read the signs?

He shook his head inwardly in wonder. How great was the vast mystery of all things! The secrets, the treasures, the shadowed corners of the universe where countless unknowns made their lairs... how magnificent, how raw and beautiful and alive!

A movement just above him on the rock shelf, a ripple of shadow and light. He glanced up, meeting the troubled gaze of Hectus Commander Dremus Kehaar.

"Kilrone, think you that we will reach the bottom e'er night falls? I have no wish to navigate this face in the dark, naturally; but what is worse, Trace reckons she overstrained a muscle or tendon or something in her wrist while sliding down that last drainage-chimney. Can't put an ounce of weight on it, and she's in pain. Won't say a word about it, but I can tell."

Kilrone bit back a curse. The trail seemed fairly good as far down as he could see, and the outlier would certainly be capable of descending it, injured wrist of no; but what of the return?

For once, his nimble mind failed him. There was little chance of carrying her back up the treacherous cliff face, with its steep rock slopes and ledges that required a deft hand and a strong upper body; there was even less chance she'd make it on her own.

"Let us hope this canyon has more than a single exit, then." he replied finally. "I see no overwhelming obstacle to her descent..."

Dremus nodded grimly, wearily. He well understood the unstated message in his superior's words, knew the greatness of the problem that faced them suddenly.

A thing to marvel at, the importance of health and wholeness in such a place as this. thought Kilrone, turning back to the narrow trail, eyes re-calculating the path they must follow. Wisdom is greater than the body, they say... but not always is it true. One is nothing without the other; neither can survive alone.

Aloud he said, "Keep courage, Trace! All is not yet lost; see, the clumsy forest-buck have traveled this way, and where such can go, so can we, and with ease. Careful of the wrist, now. We'll splint it when we hit bottom."

"Aye." she growled. "Naught but a minor difficulty, hm? Hardly. And it would have to be the blade arm, too... help me down, Dremus."

The Hectus Commander obliged, wrapping his arm around her upper body and lowering her carefully to solid footing on the three-foot ledge below. Kilrone steadied her, hundreds of feet of empty space yawning darkly beneath, only inches away from their leather boots.

'Twas fortunate indeed that none of the three were unduly terrified of insecure heights. Afraid, yes, but not terrified. A controlled and cool-headed fear that served to increase caution and dispel recklessness.

Dremus followed Trace, locking both hands in a sure, powerful grip and swinging his heavy-boned body over and downwards. Both feet hit with a solid thump; a fist-sized fragment of stone loosened with the impact and gave way, twisting sideways as it splintered, spinning lazily down and away into the blackness.

They never heard it hit the bottom. It fell noiselessly and was gone, with only a slight wisp of swirling dust to mark its passing.

Dremus grinned. "Fun."

* * *

Cool twilight. Mist rising off the swift-running stream, thin ice on the jagged boulders and the hard-packed sand. Somewhere far above, a nighthawk whistled softly, eerily, the mournful cry echoing against the ancient stone walls.

The Veythari's boots grated inaudibly on the canyon floor, the sounds of their movements mingling with the splash and ripple of rock-flung water. As yet, the place seemed deserted of all but the beasts, the weathered lichens, and the sun-bleached bones of ages past. Undisturbed they lay, dust-dry fragments of sinew and hide still clinging to their stark white surfaces, and Kilrone was troubled.

In any canyon such as this, there would be the shattered bodies of the weak and the unlucky... but the bodies would not lie undisturbed. The scavengers and the vermin would have long since picked the flesh clean, gnawed the bones, scattered the fragments to hither and yon. Such was the cycle, the natural way of things. After life, death, and in the death, new life.

But here, only the death; there were no four-pawed stewards to continue the cycle. There was, then, no way in or out of the canyon but straight upwards, towards the thin sliver of star-spangled Xaterex sky that shone high above. The river would have its source in a far-distant spring at the head of the canyon; its outlet, in an impassable subterranean channel. They walked the earth of a world apart, a world alone.

"This, then," asked Dremus softly, "is the place?"

The reply was instant. Deep and slow and powerful came the voice, primal as the vastness of the black Xaterex sky, raw and elemental as the crushing depths of the infinite unlit sea. It was not volume that lent it weight, but the majestic strength behind it, the bone-throbbing vibrations in the hushed night air, the sheer tangible power that pulsed in invisible wavelengths through the very skulls of the Veythari.

"Aye, wanderer. This is the place."

The shadows shifted amidst the silver-lit columns of stone, the looming archways, the winding depths of the labyrinth's heart. And it was then, as from the darkness stepped a figure as bestial as the Fells themselves, that Kilrone knew he had chosen rightly in the quest. There was no concealing the sheer titanic power in the nine-foot rugged frame, the broad shoulders, the hard muscle that bulged and rippled along the heavy bones. Coal-black beneath the stars glistened the beast-being's hide, scarred and weathered by countless years; shaggy fur, silvered with age, fell in thick, coarse layers over the olympian perfection of honed strength beneath. And yet, for all his majestic size and bulk, he moved with a deliberate ease, a balanced lightness that spoke of razor-keen coordination, of deadly skill, of cobra speed. The bull-like head, set slightly hunched forward on a thick neck to match, was perfectly in proportion with the torso and limbs; a jagged white scar gleamed across the chiseled features, the broad forehead and muzzle, tapered off just to the left of the sensitive nostrils. The polished horns curved smoothly out and upwards, black as ebony, balanced and strong and wickedly sharp. Small, deep-set eyes glowed blood-red in the darkness, watchful, wary, unpredictable.

Silently he moved towards them, two-fingered hands hanging ready at his sides. Ten feet away, he halted, and his voice was deadly soft. "What seek ye?"

Kilrone stepped slightly forward from Trace and Dremus, inclined his head in the respectful-yet-proud manner of an experienced diplomat. He spoke bluntly, as had the Minotaurus, but politely. "The aid of thy people. A shadow-tide moves northwards, and threatens the homeland."

The beast-being flicked his tail restlessly against the sand, eyed the Veythari for a full minute before he replied.

"From whence?"

"From the south, from Arcaea. The great cities have been betrayed; the destroyers come. Even now, they are nigh to the Pass of Shadowfell."

A even longer pause, this time. The beast-being's gaze moved from the High Commander to the Hectus Commander to the outlier, lingered a long moment on her face, moved back.

"The tide is unstoppable."

"Shadow is not." returned Kilrone sharply.

"Well met. Evil can be broken, thus..."

Fast as thought, the Minotauru's left hand flashed to the ground, grasped a fifty-pound boulder that lay there, wrenched it free and hurled it aside in a single smooth surge of muscle and bone. Kilrone felt the wind stir as it spun, felt the solid vibration of the impact, distant though it was, pulse through the air and ground, saw the rock shatter as dry clay against the canyon wall. Then the sound; a deep-toned rending crack, a scraping clatter, and silence. Fist-sized fragments thudded to the ground, lay still.

The beast-being turned back to them, eyes impassive. "I am such... but who are ye?"

"I am High Commander Kilrone Vaethar, of the United Fellsian Guard. This is Hectus Commander Dremus Kehaar, of said force. We are warriors, leaders of our people in times of challenge."

"And what of the young one, the sparrowhawk?"

Kilrone blinked, taken aback by the beast-being's words, the wry challenge in the tone. "She... she is an outlier, who risked her life to bring us warning..."

The blood-red eyes shifted, locked on the High Commander's emerald green. "Aye. Yet she is more. She is the sparrowhawk, the herald. The end of times, the birth of times; her wingbeats hold the key."

His words hung in the air, soft and deep and simple. The wind stirred, and far up the canyon, lightning flashed.

And Kilrone remembered...

"Kilrone, even in this wretched city, in these foul streets, the wild finds a way. Seest thou the rats, the parasites, the smudge of green in the alley? It is the cycle... and the cycle speaks of many things, and few listen, but those who do... they know. Times must past, but ne'er without warning."

His own voice, younger, with hard disdain. Youth in its folly. "You are drunk, I am afraid... cease these babblings. Care you not that my arm is broken and my quiver empty and the rabble on our trail?"

And Kilrone remembered... a different time, a different place...

"But... but why? This is injustice! There was no cause; you knew it; he killed in righteous anger! Punishment, yes, but exile...! No!"

The High Elder's eyes, cold and stern. But there was weariness there too, weariness that he did not notice in his fury. "Silence, Kilrone. There is more at stake than your young mind knows. I have seen; would you have me impend the cycle?"

"The cycle! I speak of justice, you fool, and of law and order! You have convicted an innocent!"

"Aye. But wisdom knows what lurks, and wisdom plans. There is, even now, a darkness that stirs. Pawns must be played, Kilrone... a sacrifice now, for the hope of the future. Now, drink. Drink, and calm thyself."

The crystal goblet, the ice-clear liquid within. And he had not protested, but had seized and drank with a defiant sorrow, a bitter rage.

And with that draught, he had forgotten... the memory had slept.

But he remembered now, and he knew. Not all; some memories still remained to be awoken, but they would come. He could feel them there, stirring, whispering.

He remembered. Not all; but enough.

The beast-being was watching him closely, patiently, and when he saw the knowledge blaze bright and solid in the Veythari's eyes, he turned and moved silently away. His stride was slow and careful, with the barest hint of age, and the three watched him go, not understanding, but they did not restrain him.

At the grey edge of darkness, he paused and turned his head and spoke, and they could see only the twin pinpricks of blood-red fire and the hulking ominous silhouette against the twisted stone.

"It is well, warrior. The time of my people draws to a close; it is good and right that it should be with drumbeat of war. Ever have we been lovers of wisdom and peace, but there comes a time when shadow must fall. Fear not; though the dawn is distant, it shall be but all the sweeter for it."

And then he was gone, and his final words drifted darkly on the rising wind:

"The people of the scythe have forgotten. E'er the morrow comes, they shall remember. Fare ye well."

For an instant they stared after him, uncomprehending. The wind sighed and gusted, hesitated... Kilrone could feel the pressure dropping in his eardrums, felt the outlier stir uneasily beside him. One by one, the cold stars above faded and were blotted out beneath the looming shroud of blackness; thunder snarled distantly, and the first few flecks of rain were a demon's promise.

White lightning flashed, stark and alive against the shadows.

E'er the morrow comes, they shall remember.

Chapter XI

They sought refuge beneath an overhanging rock shelf, huddled close back against the relative dryness of the canyon wall. The wind blew cold, spattering rain against the shadowed sand only feet away.

High Commander Kilrone Vaethar stared out across the mist and the blackness, shoulders hunched, grim lines set deep in his weathered face. Somewhere out there, miles distant, his warriors had made their stand; what had been the outcome? Did the fighting still rage, did the cold-eyed marksmen yet strike from the timber, fade in the darkness, strike and fade and strike again? Had the Ix been given pause, had the tide been slowed, if but for a moment?

What heroes had fallen, in the challenge counter? The defense of the homeland, the Fells, the freedom of the wind-swept fountainhead... what blades remained unbroken, what graves as yet unfilled?

I should be there, to stand beside and before them. My place is that of leader; should not a leader lead?

He stirred restlessly, thinking of Krios Iskara, of Tamina Vrone. Two places filled; two unoccupied. Half to fight, the other half to... what?

It was a hard thing, and lonely, to be the High Commander. A position of pride, yes, a rank coveted by every hot-blooded youth; but a solitary duty none but the strong could bear. It took a core of steel and a tongue of silver to command twenty thousand hardened warriors, took cold nerve and careful wisdom to earn and keep the respect of his people. The Guard was of war; the Council, of peace; the High Commander, a mixture of the two.

He disdained politics. The continual twisted schemes of those who sought power for power's sake, thinking nothing of duty and responsibility... for these, false captains, charismatic parasites, slippery cold-blooded beasts that were a curse to the very air they breathed, he held but raw contempt. He himself, eldest son of a master bladesmith, had cut his teeth on imported Archaean steel, had ignited pride and honor in the scorching flames of Forge Vaethar, had hardened his mind and body in the countless hours of triple-digit heat and backbreaking labor. The precise ratio of hilt length to width, the perfect taper of piercing spike, the grey-black sheen of cooling blade... there was a dark beauty there, a strength, that claimed him for its own. He was a son of fire, a son of war, grim-eyed bearer of the mantle of his kind.

Duty.

Honor.

Pride.

Thus was the threefold lodestone of the Fells, creed of the Veythari, the light in darkness, the darkness in light. Thus was the Guard. Thus was Kilrone Vaethar.

He sighed wearily, breath swirling from his lungs as white vapor. His shoulders ached from the damp chill of the canyon, from the shifting atmospheric pressures of the brooding storm, but mostly from the endless years that lay behind him, long years and good, but years that drew the strength from youth and left a tired mind.

Lightning flashed, blazing overhead against the rolling cloud cover, flickering blue-white upon the sheer canyon walls and the twisted rock. For an instant, in the momentary spark of brilliant light, Kilrone thought he saw a massive dark figure bounding easily up the trail to the eastwards, fifty feet above the ground, but then the night closed in again and thunder roared in his ears, shredding the air.

The outlier stirred at the sound, amber eyes glowing ember-like from the deep shadow. She sat hugging her knees for warmth, head slightly bowed like a bird of prey's, woolen cloak and hood damp from the mist. Her right wrist and forearm were neatly splinted with a straight-hewn sprig of riverwood, wrapped about with a few feet of mottled grey cloth bandage.

Her voice was strangely quiet, almost fearful. "Close, that."

Kilrone cast a sidelong glance in her direction. Her gaunt-yet-attractive reptilian face seemed rather pale; her eyes, unnaturally large.

He looked away. "Aye. It struck at the surface, I suppose, in the ancient ironwood grove. But no matter. There are well and enough of such trees to spare a few for the elements."

She said nothing; seemingly at ease in his presence, but Kilrone felt unasked questions hanging in the silence between them. Dremus Kehaar, slumped back against the stone to Trace's right, coughed slightly in his sleep.

Kilrone said nothing, simply waited. He had learned from his years as a single father; a young one would speak when the time was right. Best to hold peace, let the words come naturally.

At length, she spoke.

"High Commander?"

"Aye?"

She hesitated. He felt her eyes on him, sensed the unease of her mind and heart.

"High Commander... what meant the beast-being by his words of the 'sparrowhawk'? You became thoughtful; what meant it?"

White lightning flickered down the length of the canyon, hissing against the age-old walls of weathered stone. Thunder crashed and rumbled, dark with warning.

Aye, lass. What meant it?

Kilrone Vaethar turned the question over in his mind, choosing his reply with care. He knew a portion of the answer, but not all, not yet... these were dangerous waters, deep with power, restless with the passing of millennia. She must know, but how much now?

"It is... it is but a matter of ancient prophecy, young lass, and such forbidden lore. I fear to burden you with my full knowledge, which is heavy enough, though incomplete."

Her mouth tightened in anger at his words, and he smiled inwardly. She had fire in her core, this one.

Her voice was sharp in answer. "High Commander. I am not a weakling; have I not blazed my path in this wilderness for years, alone? Was it not I whose warning saved the Fells? Was it not I who led you to the Minotaurus? Am I a fool, to overlook my own value; a fool, blinded to the uniqueness that is Trace? I, and my future, lies at this matter's heart; you dare to hide it from me? Speak!"

Lightning crackled. Rain splashed in driving spray against the sand.

Was it merely his imagination, some trick of the distant thunder, or did the very earth and stone beneath him shudder slightly at her final hard command? He met her gaze, looked long into the amber depths, and wondered...

And then he knew.

The knowledge came, in silence fell, and the key grated in the lock and the door fell away on long-rusted hinges, and he knew.

His heart leapt and pounded in his chest, but his voice was very steady, very calm, and his thoughts were clear.

She must not know. Not yet. Ah, Mata Nui... she is a blessing and a curse, entwined in one; immortal strength in mortal frame. The times must pass indeed, as was foretold, but what a herald marks the way!

"Trace... you are, as he said, the sparrowhawk. The sparrowhawk is slight of build, smallest of the hunting-birds, but its speed and its fury is unmatched in all the world. It dwells alone, in the darkest depths of the untouched wilderness, and so is seen but rarely..."

She said nothing, simply looked at him, and her face was pale.

"Rarely, I say. I myself have seen the sparrowhawk but once, and that was less than three weeks before the fall of Arcaea and the rising of the Ix. It was not coincidence. I saw the sparrowhawk, swinging on restless wings above the heart of the city, and I heard its cry... I was troubled."

He fell silent an instant, remembering that mournful wailing scream, clear and sharp as winter's ice, and how the creature's piercing amber gaze had met and held his own.

Her wingbeats hold the key.

"As the falcon is a sign of war, so the sparrowhawk is a sign of shifting ages, changing times. The Fall of Arcaea... it marked the end of an era. The months that have passed since then, they too have been of the end. The darkness rises; none have stood before it. It is the end."

She had drawn the long-bladed fighting knife, moved perhaps by a unintended challenge in his words, and the two Veythari watched the lightning flash upon its dark grey steel.

"But you, Trace... you, too, are a sparrowhawk. A herald. A sign of times. And I am not sure, but I wonder... I saw the end, the fall. Have I seen in you a hope of the beginning also? A dark and a desperate age, but nonetheless, one with a trace of light to mark the future?"

Trace.

Was it mere coincidence? Or had the exile foreseen the fading of the years, the birth of a sparrowhawk? For what cause had the name been chosen?

Did it really matter?

"You mean..." began the young female slowly, eying him thoughtfully. She seemed to be taking the knowledge with little tremor; perhaps she had had suspicions. Living alone in the untouched heart of the planet's wilds, ranging the wind-swept ridges 'neath the countless eternal stars, dwelling as one with the cycles of life and death and time and chance... such would know things others did not, would sense things others could not.

She broke off in midsentence, was silent a moment, then began anew. "You mean, High Commander, that I, Trace, am but a sign of kindled resistance? If darkness rising marks the end of an age, would not countering flame mark the beginning of the next? If the first shadowhak was a bringer of warning, what brings the second? It must be hope... it must."

"It would seem so. But if I and my valiant three hundred fall e'er the borders be strengthened, what then? There will be no flame, lass. No hope; the hints of prophecy are worthless, dry as dust and shot through with worm-rot. Prophecies are not, I believe, absolute. Rather, I would say they are a vision of what may be, and although they seem to twist fate ever in their favor, they can do nothing against free will."

Free will.

"So, there are many prophecies and many visions, and they are all an ache in the head." he continued. "The shadowhawk is a sign, and the darkness is real, and hidden forces exert control upon what may or may not come to pass, but above and beyond all that, is reality. The tangible is the form that casts the shadow. Whatever the days and years and centuries to come will hold, it will be because of free will and the doings of visible life, not because of the recurring nightmares of some demented hermit."

She nodded, understanding, and for many minutes they simply sat, in silence, meditating on the mystery that was existence, and all the while the storm raged about them. Out there, miles distant, in the darkness, shadows moved and raged and did battle with others of like nature; Kilrone thought of the Minotaurus, and he smiled grimly.

E'er the morrow comes, they shall remember.

Remember what?

But it mattered not. He, High Commander Kilrone Vaethar, had stirred the power that lurked in long-forgotten strongholds, and the Ix would know fear at its waking.

Use the wild.

He had done so, for if the beast-beings were not the wild, what were they? He had done so, and yet the words still whispered in his mind, only partially sated. Perhaps they held a double purpose...

Trace spoke, gaze still focused in the rolling mist.

"High Commander, what know ye of my past? Who was my father?"

"It is a hard story, but you are right to ask of it... I tell you what I know, which is little. I was not directly involved in the matter, being only a newly-promoted Hectus Commander at the time. Many, many years ago, it was."

He thought a moment, then cleared his throat and began.

"Your father's name, I do not remember. By blood and birth, he was of the clan of Vrone, but he never claimed his rightful surname, and chose instead to affiliate himself with the loose-knit bands of outliers that frequented the nearby jungle wastes. Naturally, his family was ill-pleased by such a decision, and when they approached him about it, he told them flatly to go to Karzahni; he'd do as liked, and they could roast in flames for all he cared. They never granted forgiveness for the insult, not that he sought it."

"Sought what? The insult, or forgiveness?"

"I meant forgiveness. Mock me not; even the most silver tongue may tarnish at times. But as I was saying, they never forgave him. To them, he was as good as dead; if they thought to hurt him by such an attitude, they failed miserably. He seemed glad to have relatives and traditions and such-like annoyances removed from his life, and spent his early years as an outcast and a rebel. He had friends among the outliers, and made a living as a hunter of giant swamp-lizards, selling the dried flesh to his acquantances and hawking the cured hides to passing traders. He did well at this, for the skin of such a beast is often a half-inch thick, studded with steel-tough scales. Very valuable for use in light armor."

Kilrone smiled grimly. "Unfortunately, giant swamp-lizards are well-nigh extinct, and their slaughter is punishable by heavy fines and long imprisonment. Eventually, word of your father's doings traveled to his irate family; they informed the local clans, and a Drecus was promptly dispatched to arrest him. He made no resistance, and pled ignorance at his trial; the Elders let him off with five years in the dungeons of city Vaethar. It was a grievous sentence, light though it was in comparison to what he could have received, for Veythari languish in confinement, and to go from the jungles of the central Fells to a thirty-foot cell... He was released two years early for good behavior, but the experience had changed him. He came out darker, moodier, possessed of a strange restlessness. He would vanish for months at a time into the wildest corners of the Fells, reappearing as grim as Death, scarred and battered from head to foot, and with a eerie spark in his eyes that chilled the bones to look upon. He had no friends by this time; all had left him, and his family... his family feared him, I believe."

"Small wonder." breathed Trace.

"Aye, small wonder. But it was exactly twenty years after his imprisonment, that the thing happened... His family's fear of him had grown stronger continually, although he had made no move against them, and said no word of ill. Finally, they reached the point of secretly hiring foreign assassins to take his life by treachery."

"And?"

"And they failed. The assassins vanished without trace, and your father remained. And now his family's fear had reached the point of no return, for they guessed their hirelings' fates... and although the intended victim still held his peace, they were sure he knew, and possessed evidence of, all that they had plotted. They were a proud, well-respected family, and should the matter come to light in the eye of the Fells... justice would be done, and their reputation would be forever ruined. In their guilt-crazed minds, there was but a single escape; your father must be killed before he revealed their crime."

Kilrone paused, remembering. He had been a Drecus Commander then, awaiting promotion in the city-state Vaethar... how long ago it seemed!

"On a dark night, in late summer, they made their move. Your father had just returned to the city Vaethar after three weeks in the south, and one of his cousins tracked him down and accused him of an imagined slight. Your father flatly denied the accusation, calling his cousin a liar, and his cousin promptly challenged him to a death-duel. Your father seemed to know what was afoot, but accepted the challenge, choosing long-bladed fighting knives as the weapon. They met in a shadowed alleyway, two hours later... your father was alone; his cousin, accompanied by three of the family's strongest, most dangerous members. None were of the Guard; one was an uncle of your father, one a nephew, and one an adopted brother."

Trace's amber eyes were wide with horror. She could guess what was to come.

"Your... father... and his cousin... fought. Within seconds, your father's cousin lay dead, your father having struck but a single blow to the heart. Where he learned to handle the blade in such a manner is anyone's guess, but the three others should have reconsidered. They did not."

"And?"

"They set upon him, as had been the plot from the first, armed with scimitars and an imported hand-crossbow. And your father killed them. There were two witnesses, who had heard the first clash of steel and arrived in time to see the end. I was one of them."

The story was drawing to a close now; Kilrone's knowledge went little further.

"Your father was brought to trial, perfectly calm and collected, but there was that eerie glitter in his eyes that chilled me then, and chills me now, to think of it. Not insanity; just a dark intensity, a desperation... he spoke no word of his family's intents against him; that was discovered much later. He said merely that he had not been in contact with his family since childhood, that he felt no kinship towards those he had killed, and that he had killed only in self-defense. It was the truth; the entire room could hear the regret in his voice; but the judging High Elder sentenced him to permanent exile from the Fells. A hard punishment indeed, but as your father left the city for the last time, there was a lightness in his step that had not been there before. It was as if the exile had granted him freedom from his past, freedom from all the inner demons that had tormented him for years. There was hope in his eyes for the first time... he journeyed south to Arcaea. I never saw him again. That is all; I know no more."

And it was a lie. He knew one thing more, the greatest of all, and he hoped, prayed, that the exile's daughter would not ask of it.

She is not ready. She is not... twenty years is far too young to know. She is not yet mature, not yet able to cope with the power.

Trace sat in thought, face pale. At length she stirred, turned her head with a quick, bird-like movement, and met his gaze; her amber eyes gleamed with a strange, white light in the shadow of her hood, and Kilrone felt his lungs tighten in nameless fear. Lightning flashed without, silhouetting her slim form against the ancient stone, and the auraflayer's blade glinted in her hand like a single talon.

Thunder slammed in the blackness.

She spoke.

"Thus was my father... and who, warrior, was my mother?"

And he looked deep into the blazing light of her piercing gaze, and his mind settled and his jaw moved and with a mingled joy and despair he spoke the answer.

"Your mother, outlier, was an Elemental."

Chapter XII

Coming soon...

Author's Note

As of June 2014, the writing of the story Shadowfell was permanently discontinued, due to factors described in my Spring 2014 blog update. The events of the story, both those written of, and those planned to be written of, remain very much canonical.

As follows, is a brief outline, paraphrased from the aforementioned blog post, of what the story's finale was to consist of. Again, all of this may be considered canonical to the storyline, despite not having been 'written'.

• As my readers will have no doubt already guessed, the Veythari will very soon end up making a Spartan-esque final stand in the Pass of Shadowfell, fighting desperately against unthinkable odds until overwhelmed and slaughtered. The nighttime raids of the Minotaurus bought them time, but precious little; Trace Vaethar, the half-Elemental outlier, will be the only survivor, and represents a beacon of hope against the encroaching shadow.
• In the last gory minutes of the stand, before he and his last few remaining warriors break and fall, Kilrone sends her [Trace] to flee, to bear word to the other defenders in the city-state of Skarr. She does so. The last chapter, or epilogue, is written from her point of view; Trace describes the fierce fighting that took place within the borderlands of the Fells after the Stand at Shadowfell, and how, after months of conflict, and only because of the few days of defensive preparation that were bought at such a heavy cost, the Ix were temporarily repelled.
• In the closing portions of the epilogue, Trace vows vengeance, vows to use her newly-discovered powers (exactly what element, I hadn't yet decided, but probably a mixture of Earth, Stone, and the Green) and, true to the nature of the Veythari, the legend closes on a note of grim warrior's purpose.

Characters

(Please note that this list does not include unnamed, unidentified and/or extremely minor characters.) Aeron Haegar Hondo Skarr Ixtilius Iskara Kilrone Vaethar Lygrone Haegar Tamina Vrone Thresh Vaethar Trace