Copyright © 2007 Brandon Gillespie, except those Characters and names previously Copyright by Wizards of the Coast.
[last
revised 5-Jul-2007]
Morning,
on the 17th day of Goodmonth
584
CY
Southern
Almor
Shaking its head impatiently, a large black stallion huffed, casting a white cloud of steam into the pre-dawn air.
A broad shouldered man walked down a cobblestone path to his steed. Getting closer he noticed the feet of a young boy perched precariosly on a log
to the other side of the horse, presumably sifting through the saddlebags. A look
of exasperation crossed the man's face and he growled, "Hey!"
The boy looked up with an innocent smile, his hand busily rummaging around in the saddle
bag, "Are you a bard? I heard humming in here!"
The
man removed the boy's arm, grabbed the saddlebag strap and pulled it tight, "I
am not a Bard..."
"That's
Okay, I don't think you'd be good at singing anyway."
The boy
hopped off the log and grabbed a stick, "Are you in the Army? My
dad is in the Army. He's a general. ... Or a hero ... I think."
The
man sighed while checking the straps on his horse one more time, this
line of questioning had been going on since he arrived. He was
beginning to wonder if stopping at the farm for the night was not
such a good idea, despite the old lady's offer for shelter from the
storm, "Hey, kid. I think I hear your grandmother calling."
The
boy rolled his eyes, "She's still making breakfast. You really
should stay. She makes a great egg thing. She says it's the Kara Fruit
that helps. And something about not over cooking it."
With
a faint creak the door to the country cottage opened, cutting the boy's
discussion short.
A stately looking elderly woman with a cane slowly walked forward carrying a
steaming mug.
"I am glad you could stay the night Father Anerolli. Please
take this, it should help you warm for the journey today. Certainly
does well for me and my old bones."
The
man smiled and accepted the mug, taking a moment to sip from the hot
liquid. "I appreciate all that you have done, your roof was a
welcome respite from the storm." He relished the warm brew,
letting it heat his insides while considering things for a moment,
trying to figure out how to return to the discussion of the night
before. "You should give more thought about moving into a city,
these are dangerous times..."
She
cut him off with a tsk tsk,
"Now dear, as I explained to you last night, we are just waiting
for my son to return, then we'll have a man in the house again. His
military commission should be up any time now."
His
heart fell. He suspected her son would never be returning. A few years previously
general Osson had organized a bold raid on the evil Great Kingdom to the east.
The Great Kingdom had been threatening Almor for some time, and this was perceived to be a
protective first-strike. At first the raid was quite effective, but as the slow bulk of the Great Kingdom fully assembled the raid eventually was stopped, and nobody has ever returned.
Instead, Anerolli tried to put on a hopeful face, "Well, I'll make some inquiries then, Okay?"
She
smiled broadly, "That would be wonderful. Now I think you best be
going, you said something about important pressing business!"
He
handed her the empty mug, then hoisted himself onto the horse.
Clasping a platinum symbol strung from a chain on his chest, he faced
the old lady and her grandson, "May the light of Pholtus
shine upon you, guiding you and your progeny now and in the
future."
She bowed her head and nodded. He urged his horse
forward, leaving the moss-covered cottage and its oak trees behind while he turned
south onto a well kept lane with neatly pruned hedges.
The old
lady tapped the boy on his shoulder, just as it appeared he was
trying to sneak away, "Marius, don't you forget your chores today!
The poor goats don't milk themselves!"
Chathold
A
soft multi-colored glow cast from stained glass windows stretched
across the vaulted study, framing a desk in the center. Prelate Kevont sat at the desk,
busily writing on
parchment, his quill scritching through the dusty silence. Across
from him sat a stern female half his age, casually smoothing her tabard.
She did it habitually while sitting nervously, working on ways to
best display the bold fist holding lightning, the symbol of Heironeous.
Kevont leaned back,
rubbing his weathered chin while considering what he just wrote on
the parchment. Its corners were held down by an inkwell and a broad
disk of platinum in the shape of the Pholtan Holy Symbol.
After a moment he made a noise of approval and dropped the quill into
the inkwell, it gave a slight clink.
Her
voice rang across the chamber, "But will it be ready in time?"
Kevont
smiled, creating many wrinkles in his aging hawk-like face, "We can
only pray."
A
tentative knock sounded at the large wax-rubbed oaken door.
The
female stood, her chain mail armor rustling in a soft chim, "Do
not answer that."
Kevont
rose and walked around his desk while giving an inquiring look to the
female, "Aleh, you presume too much."
Her
brow narrowed, "You know what I've seen... what Prelate Anarkin
saw. I believe this is why he left. Nobody would believe him.
Nothing should get in the way of this threat."
The knock sounded again.
He
sighed, his face sagging, the years suddenly apparent in more
than just his short cropped gray hair. "I do know what you say,
but on the same hand, I have returned to this position in the
Prelacy's greatest time of need, while Prelate Anarkin has not. As I
have explained, we have been watching Ivid, closely. I only wish
Commandant Osson had been able to distract him longer."
He
paused for a moment, clearing his throat, "the pact is finally
complete. Our portion of the agreement will be finished within days.
We can defend against the threat of Ivid."
Aleh
scowled as he opened the door, "You should pay more heed to the
Brother of Light's portents."
A
page bowed at the door, pausing a moment to catch his breath after
running up the stairs, "Your Holiness, I am sorry to bother you at
this time, but Arch Bishop Velwyr of Pholtus sent me to tell you that
Arch Bishop Rocstan of Heironeous has called a Critical Meeting of
the Council."
Aleh
cut short an exclamation, "Why, he-"
Kevont
let no emotion show, but Aleh noticed a tic start in the pouch under his left eye, "Tell Father Velwyr that I will arrive
shortly. Do not dally."
The
page nodded, and ran back down the hallway.
"Aleh,
it appears other urgent matters are at hand."
She
tersely shook her head, "This should not distract you, it is the
machinations of the Dark Brother, I tell you."
"The
Dark Brother is not behind every corner and under every rock. Right
now, I must deal with Arch Bishop Rocstan. He's been a thorn in my
side since I returned."
Another
page entered carrying the Prelate's gold and aquamarine
vestments.
"He has wanted to be Prelate since before I retired
the first time. I'm certain this is just another means of him to
discredit me and my ways."
They
both exited to the hallway, Kevont striding briskly, despite his age.
Aleh shook her head, "Please, you must not let this quarrel
distract you from the threat of the Dark Brother. The portents-"
He
stopped, resting his hand on her shoulder, "Do not presume to
lecture me, I am well aware of the threat you imply. But our people
cannot work any faster than they are. The border sentries
report that Ivid's army is still massing, we have at least a
fortnight before they could arrive. Even if they arrive sooner, we
can hold off their siege. These walls are strong, the faith of the nation stands behind them.
We should have enough time."
Aleh's
shoulders sagged, "I am sorry, your Holiness, please forgive me."
He
nodded, "May you walk in the light of Pholtus, and may the
Brother of Light continue to smile upon you."
She
stood behind while Prelate Kevont descended the stairs. Still
looking down to the floor, her frame drooping in defeat, she
whispered to herself, "I only hope you are correct."
- - - - -
Like an embodiment of all that is right and holy, the Basillica of
Chathold boldly perched in golden glory on the edge of a cliff. Its
gaze overlooked the Harp River as it emptied into Relmor Bay. Long
ago Lauth Flan craftsmen had painstakenly carved the polished white marble
that shimmered in the afternoon sun, with polished highlights of gold and silver
showing across its bold walls.
Tier after tier rose
upwards, with the central edifice capped by a mammoth golden dome.
Flags snapped in the wind on poles atop the highest spires on each
tier.
One broad bell tower rose from the central courtyard facing
the city. But this tower had been closed for some time, under
renovations. It was to this tower which Prelate Kevont briskly
strode across the open courtyard, his mitre tucked under an arm to
keep it safe from the stiff wind. Several pages and guards strove to
maintain a nonchalant air of reserved wariness while keeping
pace with the Prelate.
Approaching
the tower, he turned to a guard while withdrawing a key-ring, "I do
not have the keys for all the passages, please make sure they are
ready, we do not want to return to the Basillica in the open."
The
guard nodded, bowed briefly and strode away.
Finding
the correct key, he inserted it into the lock for a set of doors at
the base, and entered the tower, his entourage in tow. The passage
curved away both to the right and left. He selected the right,
descended some stairs, and approached another set of doors, these
guarded by two armored and muscle-bound humanoids each with the flat
head of a mastiff.
One tipped his head at the approach of the Prelate and
stepped aside, growling a response, "You are expected. Please
enter, your Holiness."
The
Prelate nodded, and waved to his entourage, "Please wait here."
Kevont
opened the door, which momentarily emitted a bright glow from inside.
After it closed the two young pages in the group
looked at the door guards and shot nervous glances to each other, slowly
edging against the far wall.
- - - - -
The
Council Chamber rang with a cacophony of angry voices and shouted
arguments.
Crack, Crack, Crack.
The
noise lowered to a din, and Arch Bishop Rocstan lowered the gavel,
then looked around the large oval table, "The evidence is clear.
The threat of Ivid is undeniable. Just a few candlemarks ago a scout
arrived in the city. He rode non-stop from the border sentries, his
horse died soon after he dismounted."
He
paused for a moment, relishing the dramatic flair, "Ivid's Dark Army has
marched. The notable Duke Szeffrin is at their lead."
The
murmur rose, but Rocstan raised his voice to be heard, "All the
while what have we done! What has our Prelate done for Almor!"
The
shouting began anew, as the elders from the churches of the council
began arguing with each other again. More than half of the twenty
four seats were filled, but some were notably vacant, including the
Prelate's. Rocstan raised the gavel again, but this time was
interrupted when a click from the door rang through the chamber.
After a pause the doors swung open and a nervous herald stepped forward, announcing,
"His Holiness Prelate Kevont and his Virtuousness, General
Darimius."
Prelate
Kevont slowly strode into the silent room, but all eyes were on the
General following behind, who was forced by his height to briefly
duck through the doorway. His chiseled emerald features had a subtle
glow to them, and his white feathery wings were neatly tucked to his
back. His solid coal-black eyes looked at each council member in turn as they
hurriedly stood, then he nodded once and followed the Prelate to the
head of the table, taking up a position just behind him.
Kevont
reviewed those in attendance while he took the mitre from his head
and handed it to a nearby page. He took his seat, then nodded to the
rest of the council who sat in turn. Arch Bishop Rocstan leaned
forward to speak, but the Prelate held him back with a raised finger.
"I
am led to understand that a Critical Meeting has been called," he
paused to glance up and down the table while making a quick count,
"and apparently we have quorum."
An
elderly female in pale blue robes with a simple white heart on the
front glanced at the angelic being behind the Prelate, then spoke
slowly and with the caution common in her order, "We
simply wish to know how Almor will be able to resist the threat of
Ivid and the minions of the Dark Brother. I don't know if I would
agree this warrants all of the criteria for a Critical Meeting, but
it is still a pressing issue."
"We
wish more than that, I think," said Rocstan, "The Duke leads
Ivid's armies to crush Almor, now is not the time for bickering about
due process and laws. Almor needs a strong leader to hold back the
threat of the Dark Brother behind Ivid's throne. Hextor will not be
allowed victory in Almor!"
Prelate
Kevont smiled thinly, "I could not agree more, Father Rocstan."
The
Arch Bishop of Heironeous beamed warily, perhaps expecting Kevont to
step aside but not understanding the sudden change in his tactics
from the last few months. But his features
shifted to surprise at the Prelate's next words.
"That
is why we have completed an agreement with General Darimius," he
motioned to the General, "Who will be leading an angelic army
against the fiendish legions of Ivid's Great Kingdom."
As
a group the council looked to each other, wondering who already knew
of this, and wondering how such an army would arrive from their
extra-planer origins. Kevont continued, "General Darimius has
assembled quite a force for this cause, and we have had our greatest
clerics and even wizards working to build a heavenly gateway
to bring forth this Army. Even now, Arch Bishop Garius
Anerolli is returning from Narsel Mendred where he has been working
with a benefactor of Almor on a final component of the gateway. I
expect his return soon."
Kevont paused for a moment, letting everybody think about what he had said,
then proceeded, "Unfortunately,
Arch Bishop Rocstan, your information is a little out of date. Soon
after that brave scout arrived, I took a moment and asked Pholtus
to allow me to see this fiendish army. They have many protections
against such probes, but a force of this nature leaves a mighty
impression on the landscape. I had hoped the border castle Laregard,
led by the capable Karn Serrand, would be able to further delay
Ivid's Army. But this is not to be. Serrand and his men appear
pinned in the keep, and the black scar of this army stretches far,
spurned on by some unholy urge. Judging by its progress and speed,
I believe I can guess as to the arrival of Ivid's forces."
He
paused a moment, considering the best way to proceed, opting to
simply state the situation as it stood, "I expect it to arrive by
this evening and lay siege to Chathold."
Silence
stretched across the chamber, as each council member considered what
the Prelate had said. After a moment the elderly priestess of Rao
spoke again, "The people must be alerted, and we must evacuate
those who are infirm or young..."
Kevont
shook his head softly, "I fear with the speed of this army, they
would simply be captured in the wild. Our hopes now rest in time, of
which a siege consumes much. Our defenses are strong. I am
confident we will be able to complete the gateway, and with the might
of our Heavenly Allies, we can rally forth from the siege and smite
this dark army."
The
council members, representing the faiths of Pelor, Pholtus,
Heironeous, Zilchus, Rao, Beory, Delleb, Celestian and Zodal looked
to each other and conferred among themselves. Kevont leaned back in
his chair, waiting. After a moment Rocstan stood, smiling grimly,
"I, for one, cannot wait to stand at the head of this mighty army
of Light. I rescind any question for a Critical Meeting that may
have been raised."
- - - - -
The
gleaming light of Sol shone down upon Chathold, bastion of good and
light. Its streets gleamed and fountains sparkled as the day
progressed. Throngs of traffic moved in its regular organic way
along the broad Via Glorairi,
originally paved by the Crandens of the Great Kingdom, and still one
of the busiest streets in the city. Carts of all makes and size
pressed their way through those on foot. A merchant on one side of
the street shouted, trying to draw attention to his carpets recently
brought in from the Sultanate of Zeif. A mother herded three happy
yelling children, struggling to keep them away from large cartwheels.
In the distance, a
faint rumble could be heard over the din of the crowd. A few people looked up, wondering about
a storm from the east. The traffic continued up the hill towards the
intersection with the Basilica to the north, or the opal gates to the
south. Several students sat on the edge of a broad fountain at the
intersection, oblivious to the bustle around them. When the next
rumble arrived, one of them looked up, glanced around curiously then
returned attention to his friends.
A shout carried over
the crowd, and a harried messenger pressed through on a road-weary
horse. Foam from its mouth flung wildly into passers by as it wove
in and out, working towards the Basilica. At his passing, a few
shook their heads, wondering at the urgency. But a wake followed the
rider, as the travelers on the road looked to their neighbors and
began questioning. In short time the air became charged. Some
mentioned another messenger earlier this morning, bringing words of
the Great Kingdom's dark army. Then another rumble cut through the
noise. The street became very quiet, as all ears listened, and in
the distance a drum beat sounded, followed by an earthly rumble,
then the drum beat again.
- - - - -
Garius Anerolli had
been watching the roadside for the last candlemark, hoping for an Inn
or farmhouse to plead for shelter from the night. He expected to
make Chathold by the next day, but his urgent pace and direct route
had put him off the main highways, out of the way of regular
travelers and he had already left behind the only Inn he knew of.
Resigning himself to a peaceful clearing, he took note of the sun's
descending position and calculated he had a little more time
remaining before stopping for the night.
- - - - -
A dark mass of troops swarmed
over the countryside of Almor, tumbling towards Chathold. A
looming pall followed the army, as stormclouds pulled from the east
circled towards the city. Task-masters abounded with whips to keep
the troops moving at the fast pace of the drummers. The army crested
the last hill and split, one part wrapping to the south of the city
while another came upon its main gates, now closed. The City lay
alongside the Harp river to the north. Barges teeming with orcs were
poling down the river alongside armored sloops and cutters.
A few merchant ships
were setting sail and making a break out of the city harbor to the
northwest, hoping to reach Relmor Bay before the arriving army. The
merchant galley in the lead suddenly jerked to a halt, then a large black
tentacle wrapped around the ship's prow and pulled it down like a
child's toy. The aft rose into the air, then the keel split, and the
back half sunk into the water.
Stunned Almorian
soldiers watched from the ramparts, standing in the brisk salty
breeze before the storm.
On the crest of the hill Duke
Szeffrin watched from the back of an eldritch stallion, a faint taint
of sulpher hung in the air. The stallion huffed, shuffled, and
flames dripped from its eyes. The Duke patted its flank with a
withered corpse-gray hand and whispered in a husky voice, "in
time... in time..."
He spent a moment
watching the ship's demise with a pinched smile to his white lips and
nodded to himself as if expecting this. A soldier in full plate
armor warily approached the Duke and his mount, carrying a gilded
staff and banner proclaiming him a human field commander in the
overking's army. The Duke's jet-black eyes bore into the commander,
who paused, looked to the side, then declared, "By the will of
Hextor, we have made it before sunset, as you requested."
The Duke tightened his
thick fur coat, much too heavy for the time of year. Then he hissed,
"Very good."
The commander glanced
at the deploying armies, "Shall we prepare the siege engines?"
"No, we do not have
time for that." he snapped, "Tell the Magnus Arcanus to proceed
with his orders... Let no soul remain alive."
- - - - -
The armies of Almor
prepared for siege. They were prepared to withstand a long siege.
Therefore they were not panicked when the Duke's forces surrounded
the city. Herald's passed through the streets proclaiming the divine
might of Almor and how the unified council of light would protect the
people. But as the sun set a few soldiers noticed the army split
open, and a large squad of men and women in robes strode forward. A
man at their head yelled orders, then the first rank began casting.
The clerics and mages of Almor ran to the walls as the first
fireballs arced overhead. But their defenses were too little, too
late. The storm broke, and lightning began striking the city. The
second wave of mages began casting, and rocks from the heavens rained
down shattering rooftops. Green clouds of acid descended. Then
third rank stepped forward, and another waited behind it.
- - - - -
Garius had found a
spot to camp for the night when the first rumble shook the trees. A
few leaves drifted to the ground as he looked around puzzled.
Another thunder arrived and he snapped the flinbox he was holding closed.
He turned to the south, and in the distance the sky
flickered. Moments later another rumble arrived. More flickers in
the southern sky and he pursed his lips. He quickly returned the
flintbox to his bags, grabbed the few other items he had unpacked and
then re-saddled his horse. In response to its huffing objections, he
simply said, "We are going to continue through the night."
- - - - -
Rain, fire, acid and
lightning pummeled Chathold through the night, arriving between the
regular booming of drums from the army. The walls no longer held
defenders, and nobody had seen a cleric or wizard respond for the
last several candlemarks. What wasn't burning was quickly being
smashed and destroyed. The barrage had been ongoing since dusk, and
there were many candlemarks left in the night. The air shuddered
with each impact, remained charged with a nearly tangible taste of
arcane and unholy power. Those still alive sought better shelter and
prayed for help. Sometime in the night, the rainstorm subsided, but
the magical barrage continued.
As pre-dawn began to
tint the sky, survivors witnessed a light flare from the top of the
belltower, somehow still standing near the Basilica. The light was
pure, and a wave of hope coursed through the city. Just looking upon
the light generated hope and surety within the hearts of the
remaining defenders. Dawn was not far away, they could make it.
This was the forces of light rallying to throw back the crushing tide
of darkness.
From the dark legion
of thaumaterges the Magus Arcanus stepped forward, passing many of
his soldiers who lay where they collapsed in exhaustion. He had held
back throughout the nightly onslaught, only involving his abilities
as needed, waiting for a moment such as this, and he knew of a
perfect spell for the task, crafted by the great Mordenkainen. Light
from the city's burning embers highlighted his face, flickering
across his countenance in crimson as he chanted quietly, his motions
succinct. Energy surged around him as he gathered his will to forge
the spell. Finalized with a whispered "disjoin"
that crept from his lips, he flicked his finger towards the tower.
For
those who were watching, a small orb no bigger than a fist shot
towards the tower. The orb scintillated in many colors, a speck of
chaos magic. Reaching the light blazing from the tower, its
immediate effects were minor. The light flickered. But the orb
burned through the magics wrapping the tower, whittling away at the
layered spells. Deeper it probed, finding gateway magics tied to an
even deeper ancient magic below the city itself. An ancient Flan
magic somehow primally powered by the good citizens of the area.
Cords haphazardly connected the gateway to this underlying confluence of
ancient Flan power. The orb sunk into these conduits, causing a
feedback process into the base fabric of the gateway.
Those
within Chathold watched the tower with hope, only to see the
light cease. The darkness in its wake seemed deeper than before.
The ground rumbled, and many wailed in despair. Then a quiet snap
tweaked the very fabric of the city as an unnatural release of energy
burst
from the tower, travelling not as sound but instead tearing at
the souls of the few remaining inhabitants huddled for shelter in the
dark crumbling corners. Many dropped to the ground in pain, unable
to endure the unleashed energy.
All remaining defense
of Chathold ceased, even after the effects of the failing tower
gateway faded.
- - - - -
Across the Harp River
Garius Anerolli watched with stony features as the brilliant column
of light was snuffed. He felt a tugging deeply rooted in his soul,
but did not feel the pain shared by those within Chathold. As dawn
approached and he could see more of the burning devastated city. Slowly, he
slid from his panting horse. He knew what was in the
belltower, and he knew it was not complete without the item in his
saddlebag. It was not ready to be activated.
He stood on the banks
of the Harp, watching as the light of Sol threw back the mantle of
the night. It gleamed on the remains of Chathold as if in ironic
mockery. Fumbling inside his bags he retrieved a looking glass, and
through it watched the dark army outside the city. The troops waited, many were
barely under control, as Orcs lusted for combat. But
there was nothing left to destroy in the city, it lay in ruins. A
slight shimmer hovered over its remains from the amount of energy and
power unleashed that night.
Scanning further up the hillside he
located a command banner, and next to it stood Duke Szeffrin in
conversation with his officers.
- - - - -
The Duke was pleased.
Chathold was vanquished. He didn't care if it was habitable. This
was in retribution for the impudent actions of Almor. Some years
prior they had conducted a series of raids against the Great Kingdom.
While ultimately, all of Almor's forces were defeated, they did
manage to strike deeply through the heart of the Great Kingdom,
sowing strife and rebellion in their wake. The Overking Ivid was
outraged, and simply asked that Almor be ground to its knees. In
reward, the Duke would be allowed to rule it as a returned province
of the Great Kingdom.
Szeffrin's white lips
pinched in a small smile, while listening to the complete report of
Magus Arcanus. "So, Magus, you believe that all resistance has
ended."
The Magus nodded in a slight movement, he was exhausted
from the evening's efforts.
"Then where is the
head of Prelate Kevont."
"Several squads have
been sent inside, but we are having problems. Few have managed to
return. Something unusual stirs at the fabric of the city... Perhaps
with some time, we may be able to study things, and determine what is
occurring."
The duke had been
surveying the city, and certainly agreed that its remains were
unusual. Even standing near the walls, as they were now, one could
feel the wrongness that seeped out of the cities ruins.
A bloodied shape
tumbled through the gates. It was a soldier, perhaps all that
remained of the squadrons who had been sent. He dragged a
sack behind him. As his steps faltered others caught him, and
assisted him to the Duke.
The Field Commander stepped forward,
taking the bag and peering at its insides, "As requested, the Head
of Kevont, my Duke."
He pointed to the once
great opal gates of Chathold, now twisted and bent sideways, "Spike
it there. Some day these fools may heed the warning for those who
defy the Great Kingdom."
Just as he was turning
to leave, the weary soldier pitched forward and grabbed the Duke's
sleeve. Szeffrin grimaced, and hissed at the solder, "You have
done well, you will be rewarded. Hextor will recall your deeds."
The soldier shook his
head, and opened his hand, exposing a long thin crystal, "This was
near the belltower..."
Szeffrin retrieved the
crystal, which was warm to the touch and shimmered with an internal
glow. He studied it, carefully sensing its pulsing magic. After a
moment of consideration, "This is certainly something of value."
Looking to each side he realized that nobody had noticed the
interchange. Smiling, he reached his hand out to the soldier, "You
have done well." The soldier looked down, humbled by his lieges
attention, and thus didn't notice the small dagger until it pierced
his side, sliding between the plates of his armor.
The Duke held
the soldier up as he shuddered from poison in his system, "You have
performed very well. I promise, you will be remembered by Hextor."
Then he let the soldiers lifeless body fall to the ground, while
concealing the dagger within his own thick fur coat. Without another
thought, he walked back to his tent.
- - - - -
Garius retreated to
the shadows of the shore side trees across the Harp river from
Chathold, avoiding the scanning patrols while covertely watching the
army. He had been in debate with himself all morning. Almor would not
survive, that was certain. Most of its armies had been called to
Chathold. Some remained north in Narsel Mendred, but the backbone of
the Prelacy had been crushed. His thoughts boiled, shifting between
despair and rage. There were still many people who lay in the path
of this army, unknowing the doom looming on the horizon.
Perhaps Almor could
rise from its own ashes.
What he did know was he could warn
some. A few people could make it to safety before the army marched
again. Perhaps they could seek refuge in Nyrond to the Northwest.
While watching the remains of Chathold his heart and will found a
focus. He swore an oath to Pholtus that he would not rest until
these dark armies had been cast out of the kind lands of Almor.
As Sol climbed towards
its noonday apex he turned away from Chathold and spurred his horse.
His focus was renewed, his righteous fury raged for revenge. But
first, he must warn those who he could.