​CHAPTER 1 – The Ships are not coming


High above the storm ravaged cliffs of the north coast of  Érran, the watchmen sat huddled in the sparse warmth of the keep overlooking the small village or Eruthan. It was a small outpost village home to few but the hardiest fishermen and soldiers and their families. It was also home to the first harbour for ships returning across the notoriously dangerous Northern Oceans toward Érran. Countless ships sought refuge or repairs here after being battered by storms.
Late was the hour. The wind and rain that had not abated for three long days and nights now, continued to roll in on great grey squalls from the mighty northern ocean.
 

The Northwest coast of  Érran was vast, dangerous and known for its great storms. It was an uninterrupted mixture of jagged rock and ice cliffs, along the Northern edge of the huge, uninhabited Terran ice desert.
Aramun, the captain of the keep stoked the fire. In the flickering glow of the fire his face looked weathered and weary from his long years tending this lonely tower and the many battles fought protecting this wild and beautiful coastline and the kingdom's lands that lay beyond it.
 

A tall proud looking man with long black hair and coarse stubble, Aramun went back to sharpening his sword. It glistened in the dancing firelight as he moved it back and forth along the length of the leather strop. This repetitive motion always calmed and focused his mind. He became lost somewhere in the firelight for just a moment, listening to the sound of the wind and rain outside.

 

The two night watchmen, Irigal and Petran, stood up to return to their  posts in the adjoining lookout chamber which was frigidly cold owing to its lack of shuttered windows. Irigal and Petran were the youngest men in Aramun's guard and as such got stuck with more than their fair share of night watches. Aramun liked them both.

​

They had done well so far, since their appointment to his Royal North Arshand guard a little over a year before. Both young men had proved their abilities in the demanding and strenuous regimes expected of a Horsemen of Arshand.  Aramun had always insisted on himself remembering what it was like to to a fresh young recruit. He had been there once. He smiled to himself and decided to excuse them from the rest of their watch.
As they reached the door, Aramun spoke.

“Irigal, Petran, go and rest now. It is late and we must ride at first light for the city of Shandor. Long have we waited for the ships to return from the outer reaches. Six months too long.
This storm has raged for too many days to be entirely of the natural world. We must assume the fleet to be lost. We must bring word to the King.”  that the fleet is lost

​

“What of the road captain” said Irigal.
“The villagers speak of strange creatures venturing forth from the mountains of Érran. It is said they come out of the Ice Caves in the east of the Mountain ranges, driven by more than hunger and attacking travellers, first in the Darlian pass through the mountains but also now openly along the north Arshand road.”

The captains face darkened for an instant, and he turned away from their gaze. “Our scouts have reported no such creatures. We must not pay heed to the local legends and myths of the villagers. The Kingdom of  Érran has long been known for their wish for isolation. They tell tales to try and put fear into the minds of foreigners. Get some rest now. Our road is long.”

 

The two young soldiers nodded, sensing their Captains expression which simply told them to hurry up and accept the unusual offer of being excused from watch duties, before he changed his mind.
“Thank you Captain Aramun. See you in the morning,” said Irigal and Petran almost in unison as they made a swift movement for the stairs down to the lower floors, housing the soldiers quarters, common areas and their likely first stop, the kitchen.

​

Aramun stood by the fire a moment, rubbing his hands together over the flames. Then pulling his heavy coat tight around him, he went through the heavy wooden door leading to the cold watchtower. Jutting out precariously from the side of the main tower, the watchtower seemed to hang directly above the furious ocean below. Aramun shivered as he took up a position in one of the windows looking out over the oceans. He scanned the coast to his left toward the harbour and village far below, able to see only faint lights of houses and a couple of fishing boats.

The rain swirled in the strong storm winds creating a stinging spray which made thing most uncomfortable.

​

Aramun had not stood watch for quite some time, but enjoyed sometimes reminding himself where he had began and what the reality was for a lot the other men under his command.

Word had spread quickly about his generous mood that evening, and also that they would be leaving for Shandor in the morning. All of them knew that they generally only travelled to the capital of Arshand upon Royal invitation of King Neran himself or in times of war. The rumours that Irigal had asked Aramun about had been circulating for weeks now.

The men spoke amongst themselves that night, unconvinced by Aramun's reassurances. Many of them were born and bred in the Kingdom of  Érran and knew there was more to the stories than mere local legend.

In the darkest watch of the night, the storm raged on unchecked, clawing at the very stonework of the great tower with an unnaturally venomous tempest. One by one the soldiers fell into an uncomfortable and restless slumber, while their Captain remained steadfast at his post, alone in the watchtower, with only his thoughts and the storm for company.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 2 – A JOURNEY BEGINS

Long before first light Aramun left the watchtower to tend to his horse. He turned and gazed over the  Northern ocean one more time, hoping in vain to see the ships returning, there was still nothing on the horizon other than the thick grey bank of storm clouds, then nothing but the dark foreboding waves rolling on until they smashed into the jagged cliffs far below.

When he got to the stables the horses were nervous and uneasy after the storms of the last few days. The weather had eased slightly this morning which provided him some small comfort.

His men had awoken and ate a welcome breakfast before Aramun returned from the stables. Aramun sat down to eat with Gerant and Deran, his two senior officers while the other soldiers gradually left the mess hall to prepare for departure. Aramun had known both men since they all enlisted in the Royal guard at the age of fifteen and were close friends.

​

Gerant, originally from Érran, was a huge muscular bull of a man. He said little and to all but those who knew him well, appeared to be a hard and unfeeling man, which led to him often being misunderstood by the other soldiers. Tactically, he was not as adept as Aramun but was definitely someone that the captain was always glad to have on his side in the midst of battle. He was fiercely loyal and would lay down his life for any one of his comrades.
Deran was from Arshand, and displayed definite signs of Elf blood somewhere in his lineage. He was lithe and lightning quick with keen senses. Amazingly skilled with a bow and equally adept with a sword, he was popular with the men, often sitting with them for hours around the fire regaling the naïve younger men with tales of previous adventures, sometimes with more than a little embellishment.

Soon after, the company set off from the tower, down the great stone steps which would lead them through the village of Eruthan. The remote village was not far from the edge of the Terran Ice desert. The sky was overcast, but the air was dry as the rain held off. A fresh, brisk wind blew in off the ocean making the descent a bit uncomfortable.

Aramun allowed his men who had friends or family in the village a brief chance to say farewell.
The men then gathered at the South gate leading to the north highway. 
The brisk sea breeze had died down a bit in the relative shelter of the village. The breath of both man and horse steamed in the cold morning air.

Captain Aramun looked south, toward the mighty snowcapped peaks of the mountains of  Érran, a range of mountains stretching from east to west across the entire breadth of  Érran. The sheer beauty and scale of these magnificent mountains never failed to impress and terrify him each time he looked upon them. A sudden icy gust of wind jolted him back to the moment.

“We must ride now,” he called to his band of men. And so in the cold steel grey of the early light of morning, they rode onto the great north road. The rain began again as a fine constant drizzle.
Three days they would have to ride to reach their first place to rest at the garrison of the North Bay Fort.

Aramun and his men rode in silence through the stark and barren beauty of North  Érran.

​

It was a wild land of sparse grassland strewn with great isolated outcrops of granite rock which looked as if they had been cast down across the landscape by the gods themselves. Off to the west of the road the landscape changed dramatically. The great north road ran along the edge of the Terran Ice desert, a harsh and unforgiving place that occupied the entire north west corner of Érran. Its interior was a flat, barren and icy wasteland. The only settlements in this part of Érran were a handful of  tiny whaling and fishing outposts along the slightly more sheltered coast in the south of desert.

Despite the rain they made good progress, but late that afternoon, Aramun noticed the cold, damp air had suddenly turned suddenly bitterly cold. The wind had picked up, coming right across them from the west. Experience had taught him that such a sudden drop in temperature this close to the ice desert meant snow storms were not far behind.

​

Just before nightfall, Captain Aramun signalled to his men to make camp in a sheltered outcrop of rocks not far from the road. He found a sheltered spot for the horses and dismounted. The men busied themselves gathering whatever wood and kindling they could find near the camp. Deran and Gerant assigned men to watch duties and set up a perimeter around the camp.
Aramun approached the men setting up the fire. “Build as strong fire as you can tonight. There are snow storms approaching from  across the ice desert.”
The men prepared as best they could to prepare for the deathly cold of the night ahead.
The discomfort of the men was palpable as they sought solace in their meagre rations.
Captain Aramun sensed that neither men nor horses would find much rest this night.

Night came swiftly, as did the snow. It was a struggle to keep the fire going with the scarce supplies of wood available. Deran sat with the men who were all sat huddled as close to the fire as possible. Aramun, observed as Deran tried to keep spirits up with his usual array of fantastic tales. Most of them had heard all of them a hundred times over, but were always ready to hear them again.
Deran definitely had a gift for storytelling, able to divert everyone's attention away from the cold, miserable weather. The truth was Deran loved telling the tales as much as they loved hearing them.
Aramun had always been most grateful for Deran, as although he was a strong and well respected leader, he did prefer his own company most of the time and was a man of few words.
Aramun sat with Gerant next to a smaller second fire just beside the main group. Gerant busied himself brewing coffee. It was one of very few luxuries they ever carried with them. Gerant was fiercely loyal and protective over Aramun and seldom left his side. He poured some into the captains cup and offered it to him. Aramun smiled and nodded at his officer.
“Many thanks Gerant,” he said taking the cup from him.

​

Later that night, Hiros, the guard  on first watch awoke the captain.

“Forgive me for waking you Captain Aramun. The scouts, Farain and Erian, have returned. They report someone approaching the camp on horse” said the Hiros.

“Which direction on the road do they approach from” said the captain sleepily.

The watchman hesitated. “The rider does not approach from the road Captain Aramun.

​

We cannot make out whether they are friend or foe as there is no moon tonight. The rider comes from the directions of the snow plains at the foot of the mountains”

Aramun was suddenly wide awake.
“What! But there are no towns or settlements within hundreds of miles of the  snow plains or the mountains” exclaimed the captain, springing quickly up to his feet.

“I know captain. The riders light stopped moving about a half hour ago. We believe he has set up camp. He does not appear to have seen us” replied Farain.



Aramun gathered his few belonging and stowed them away on his horse. After securing his sword to the side of the saddle, he turned back to Hiros.
“Hiros, wait till I am gone then wake Deran and Gerant. I will ride ahead and investigate. I will try and return before dawn. If I do not, tell them my orders are that you ride ahead to the Darlian pass through the mountains with all the haste you can muster. I will meet you there,” said Aramun.

“But captain. Why would you not return and why would we not meet at the garrison at North Bay fort.” asked Hiros curiously.

The captain mounted his horse, his belongings stowed. He moved with a sense of purpose as if he had known this moment was coming.

“I cannot explain it. I have had a feeling or sense that someone has been following or approaching since we left the North gate this morning. Its almost as if someone or something has been in my head calling to me. I suspect their may be sorcery involved here” replied Aramun.

“Hiros, inform the men and hold your course for the pass. I will be there at nightfall, four days from today.” With that Aramun spurred his horse, and he was gone, riding swiftly into the night

The watchmen stood watching the figure of the Captain disappear into the night with a heavy heart.
He went to the officers tent, and leant forward next to the entrance, before entering.

“Deran, Gerant, forgive me for waking you. Captain Aramun has departed” said Hiros, sounding apologetic, but secretly having no issue waking the officers. Deran and Gerant were not in a deep sleep and were wide awake in seconds at the news that Aramun was gone.

Gerant looked pointedly at Hiros. “What do you mean? Where has he gone?” he asked urgently.

Hiros told Deran and Gerant what had happened and relayed the captains orders. They listened with concerned looks. Gerant's expression suggested he was seething under the surface.
When Hiros had finished, both officers left the tent after getting dressed. The wind had picked up and  the night was bitterly cold now. Gerant and Deran woke the other men who all gathered and huddled around the fire looking confused. They explained what was happening to the other men and ordered them to begin preparing to leave as it was now only a couple of hours until dawn.

Far ahead off the North road, Aramun led his horse silently through the pitch black of the night.
He longed to see the stars and the moon, but the clouds of the impending snow storm allowed none through. The bitter and biting cold added to his sense of dread and discomfort almost as much as the wintry rain which began to fall now in a fine sheet swirling in the wind.
He knew not what he approached, only that it was he alone who was meant to meet this mysterious rider that came from where no men are known to live.

 

 

 

​CHAPTER 3 – THE DARENDISH WIZARD



Aramun saw the light of a camp fire ahead in the darkness. The air was icy cold and weighed heavily on his mind as the rain settled into to a steady mixture of sleet and snow, like a heavy fog. He suddenly heard the far off cries of wolves, and his horse shifted uneasily looking in the direction of the cries.

“It is a strange omen to hear the wild cries of the wolves this far north of the mountains” he thought to himself.
About a mile from the lonely camp firelight he tethered his horse in a sheltered outcrop of rocks and decided to proceed on foot. He approached stealthily, closer to the camp. There were no paths or roads here, making Aramun wary about who or what he would meet here in the barren wild lands of Érran. As he drew near the camp he could see just one horse and one tent.
Then peering through the thickening sleet and rain, he saw a lone figure sat shrouded in a great hooded cloak. The strange figure, was hunched over, shielding himself from the weather as best  he could next to his fire, also struggling and hissing against the foul weather. The man was smoking a strange looking pipe, the likes of which Aramun had never seen before. It looked to be made from a marble like stone, beautifully carved and hollowed out. Curving upward from a tobacco receptacle that had a lid on top, of the same material with small holes all around to allow air in. Aramun saw a fiery glow from under the lid as the man took a deep draw on the pipe. The elegantly curved stem of the pipe ran about two and a half feet up to the mouthpiece. Aramun watched as he leant back and exhaled a series of large smoke rings. He wasn't sure if his eyes were playing tricks or if it was the weather, but the smoke rings seemed unaffected by the strong wind, appearing to almost taunt the weather itself as they floated above the strange man's head and seemingly criss crossed in and out of one another. After a moment they disappeared into the night air, swept away by the dreadful weather.

Aramun knew only that the man was not from Érran or from anywhere else in this part of the world.
As he crouched silently, watching the silence was suddenly broken.

“Late is the hour for a Captain of Arshand to be abroad in such a wild and deserted place. You are a very long way from Shandor,” said the mysterious figure without turning. Aramun froze for a moment, startled by the man's curiously hypnotic, deep voice and apparently extremely keen senses.

Not used to being discovered by people he was spying on, it took Aramun a moment to get his words out.
“Who are you, and how do you know my business on this night, so far from any road” demanded Aramun, rising to his full height, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword.

“Stay your hand from your mighty blade.... Captain Aramun of the great North guard of Arshand.
Join me in the small comfort of my fire and sit a while so we may speak,” said the man again, still without turning toward Aramun.

Aramun stood stunned again for a moment. This man who he had never met, knew him by name without even turning to look at him. Fearfully he removed his hand from his sword hilt, sensing that it would serve no purpose here, and approached the fire cautiously.
He sat down opposite the hooded man and could see now that he looked old, with a long grey beard coming out of his hood. His face was still in the shadow of his cloaks hood. The man gestured to some food next to the fire whilst continuing to smoke his pipe. He spoke again only to say.
“Eat first, and then we shall talk.”

 

Aramun was grateful of the offer of cooked meat and fresh bread as his soldiers rations were dwindling and he suddenly realised how hungry and weary his body felt.
As he ate and the hooded man continued smoking his pipe, Aramun noticed for the first time the strange creature crouched on the ground beneath the man's feet, partially shrouded in the folds of his cloak. In the flickering firelight Aramun again thought his eyes must be deceiving him. The creature the man had, hiding like a tame village dog was in fact a young dragon. This was no ordinary man who kept such a beast, as if a pet. He knew that it had to be very young, being little bigger than a small dog. It was a magnificent looking beast, with shiny deep green and violet scales catching the firelight. It peered quickly at Aramun with an intense and searching gaze through its burning bright green eyes. Flicking his spiny tail he lost interest in Aramun and went back to gnawing on a piece of meat on the ground in front of it.

Legend spoke of great men or power who could speak the ancient tongue of Dra, the language of the dragons. Aramun could wait no longer and broke the silence.

“You know my name, yet do not offer me yours, just your hospitality. Please reveal yourself so that I may thank you,” said Aramun.
The man put down his pipe and slowly drew his hood back. It revealed the weathered but kind looking face of an old man, wise and definitively a man of great power. Although he outwardly appeared to be quite old, there was a peculiar glint of youthfulness in his grey blue eyes. His full greying beard reached almost to the ground.

“Greetings. My name is Mirithan. I am a mage from the Darendish isles, though it has been many seasons since I last set foot on the fair shores of my home or felt the cool and refreshing breeze blowing from the Darendish sea through the  orange and apple orchards of my home.

Aramun had heard this wizards name before, but only in obscure songs and tales in inns and taverns in many lands on his travels. It was said that Mirithan was part of a line of the greatest wizards descended directly from the oldest lineage of the world, belonging to the wizards that set forth from the eternal isles of cloud at the very beginning of the world.

“It is indeed a surprise and an honour to meet you Mirithan. Why does a wizard of such power and nobility seek the council of a mere captain of Arshand?”
The wind seemed to have died down a little, but the snow became heavier and the air colder. Aramun shivered, pulling his cloak tighter around him and placing his hands above the flames to warm them a little.
“Come let us us retire to my shelter. There we can rest.” said Mirithan. They moved under cover of the wizards tent which offered welcome shelter from the cold. It was surprisingly warm and comfortable in Mirithan's tent. He had laid a large fur skin on the ground allowing for somewhere dry to sit. Lit by a small oil lantern at the back of the tent, it cast a dim but adequate light.

“I have prepared you a bed Captain Aramun. I think perhaps you should get some rest first and we shall rejoin your men in the morning and discuss our business then” spoke the Wizard.

“I am on an urgent journey I'm afraid. My men and I must bring important news to King Neran's Court at Shandor. We should discuss matters as soon as possible” replied Aramun, once again a little unnerved by the wizard's preparations for his arrival.

“I can assure you captain, that my purpose and yours are more intertwined than you know. My business requires me to seek council with the King and his court also. There is time still to talk.
Lay down now and get some rest. I fear the journey will be harder than we both can imagine.”

The wizard stared at Aramun intently while he spoke. The captain suddenly felt extremely weary and looked longingly at the comfortable looking bedding the wizard had arranged in the corner of the tent for him.

It was only then he noticed for the first time the strange object next to the wizard's seat. It looked like some sort of musical instrument, but like no other he had seen before. It was exquisitely crafted and looked ancient. Its dark crimson red wood with swirls and flecks of black was carved with strange runes on the large hollow, oval shaped hollow body. It had ten silver strings of various thickness's running up a long neck which was equally beautifully inlaid with  an ivory coloured dragon spanning the length of the neck. The strings were all wound into equally spaced gold coloured pins at the head of the instrument, which were in turn attached to ten gold tuning knobs, five on each side of the headstock. It was an object of highly skilled craftsmanship and beauty.

Aramun went and laid on the bed, noticing for the first time that there was only his bedding in the tent. The wizard picked up the instrument and began playing it.
The music was utterly hypnotic and like nothing he had heard before. Each note seemed to sound like words of an ancient language which stirred his soul. He drifted slowly into sleep, the music echoing in his mind forming pictures and words in his mind, and memories which although he did not recognise seemed strangely familiar. Feeling utterly at peace and untroubled, sleep began taking hold of him.

An enigmatic and wondrous magic was at work here. As his eyes began closing he saw the young dragon at the wizards side staring intently with a fiery gaze directly at him, seemingly with all the wisdom of the ages in its young eyes. He almost felt the dragon trying to read his thoughts, but able to fight it no longer, he fell into deep sleep. Strange dreams of battlefields and shadowy soldiers dressed in black, led by cloaked figures with no faces occupied his sleep. They sang in bleak empty sounding voices in what seemed to be an ancient language that he didn't recognise.

He was not on these battlefields himself, but rather he seemed to float above, looking down, not able to feel his physical body. It was as if he was the pure energy of his consciousness moving through time. Sometimes he was surrounded by utter darkness as if he was all that existed in the entire universe. His mind wandered in and out of  these outlandish visions for the rest of the night.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 4 – WINDS OF CHANGE

Aramun awoke feeling refreshed and rested. He remembered little of his dreams of the night before, having only a vague sense somewhere just outside his sub conscious that he had seen a brief glimpse of things to come, and a troubling feeling further back in his mind that someone or something was watching, trying to see what he was doing and who he was with.

The tent was empty and everything was deadly quiet. He felt as if days had passed while he slept and sensed a change in the air. The storm had abated. As he rose and exited the tent, the landscape was blindingly white with freshly fallen snow. The air was crisp and breathtakingly cold. The sun shone brilliantly, already high in the the now piercingly blue sky. Aramun caught the aroma of food in the air, and suddenly felt very hungry.

​

“Ah, Captain Aramun, Good morning. I trust you slept well?” said the wizard as he tended to his horse while carefully packing away his belongings in the bags on the magnificent steeds flanks.

“Yes. Very well thank you,” said Aramun, his eyes still adjusting to the brilliant morning sunshine.

“There is some breakfast left for you. Eat now and then we shall set off back to the highway and rejoin your men.” said Mirithan, gesturing to a wooden bowl set upon a rock next to the smouldering remains of the fire.

Aramun sat and hastily ate a breakfast of fresh bread, ham and sweet Darendish Tea. Hungry or not he was eager to get back on the road.

They broke camp and set off back toward the road shortly before mid morning. As they rode Aramun thought of the many questions he still had to ask of Mirithan. He hardly knew where to begin. It was a fair and bright morning, despite the cold. The usually sullen looking landscape of North West Érran looked somehow enchanting under a covering of freshly fallen snow. Aramun glanced behind himself back toward the line of the great mountains, running along the horizon as far as the eye could see, the endless ,majestic snowcapped peaks seemed to be as old as time itself.

​

He tried focusing his thoughts now and attempted to engage the wizard in conversation.

“The music you played on that instrument last night, seemed to have a certain enchantment to it?” said Aramun probingly, glancing at the wizard.
The wizard gave a wry smile. “You are an intuitive man Captain Aramun. The instrument is called a Garuilet. It's origins are as old as the world itself and is as much a musical instrument as it is also an instrument of my very craft.” replied Mirithan.

“What do you mean an instrument of your craft?” asked Aramun.

“Well. It is quite complicated to explain in the short time we have, but basically music is all around us at all times, and is in one form or another a part of everything in the world. The universe itself is a complex never ending and evolving piece of music from which all things, including magic is formed, and kept in balance. You have only to listen to hear the music of the world and of all things,” replied the wizard, studying the captains face to gauge his understanding.



“I had never thought of it like that but I suppose it makes sense. You say this is true of all the universe, yet the world in which we live has so much disharmony, its hard to believe” replied Aramun, mostly in an attempt to draw Mirithan into revealing more.

The wizard smiled again,  and glanced back toward the  mountain behind them. Just then there was a far off, fell cry of wolves on the breeze. It sent a chill through the captains heart. Both horses stopped and shifted nervously.
After a slight pause, Mirithan continued, looking a little distracted now.
“Ah yes. Sadly. It is the very complexity of the universe and the differences of the things within it that sometimes cause conflict and disharmony,” he paused scanning the horizon behind them towards the mountains.  He seemed to be listening for something and gazed intensely in the direction of the mountains from where the wolf cries had seemed to come from. Suddenly he turned his attention back to Aramun.



“Come, we must make haste now. We have a long way to go to take council with your King at Shandor. I will explain all, but things are changing in the world, and dark times are ahead,” said Mirithan, spurring his horse suddenly into a canter.
The horses would find the going hard through the snow. Aramun sensed that they had to reach the road soon and urged his horse to follow.  The horses valiantly pushed on through the snow but progress was slow. It was not till after nightfall, they could finally see the road in the distance, a dark ribbon of black across the white landscape in the starlight. They would have to make camp soon to let the horses rest.



(The village of Gilayn is situated high in the mountains of the north most of the three islands of Lorenal. The island lies in the northern reaches of the Great Archipelago of islands than runs from the Western most peninsula of Arshand northwards, twisting round the continent of Tantuin. This small island kingdom comprised of steep mountains covered in thick ancient forests with deep, lush valleys isolated by the high peaks and fast flowing rivers, lakes and waterfalls.

The Isles of Lorenal have not had much importance in history or lore. A small kingdom, largely populated by farmers in the valleys and isolated hamlets and villages tucked away in the thick woods surrounding most of the islands peaks)
 
The village of Gilayn, high in the mountains of the North Island of Lorenal, was silent and dark apart from one small house in a clearing amongst the imposing trees of the forest. In the dead of that night a faint lantern light shone in the window into the inky black of the night. Fog hung heavy in the crisp night air.
Suddenly a women's scream pierced the silence of the mountain village. Then the scream rang out again and again at regular intervals, then after a while nothing. Life had been lost and given this night in the village of Gilayn. A woodsmen opened the door of the house spilling the soft warm lantern light into the black of the clearing and walked toward the neighbouring house with an ashen face. The mans gaze shot towards the edge of the wood as he sensed someone watching. Just at that instant a shadow within a shadow backed away, melting into the blackness of the woods. The man's eyes scanned the tree line, and thought he may have caught a glimpse of a pair of eyes, staring back at him for an instant before vanishing. After a minute he shook his head and continued on to the neighbouring house.

The attack came swiftly and seemingly from nowhere. A horde of tall men in pitch black armour and mail swept through the village like phantoms, attacking all the houses in turn as if searching for something or someone. Some of the villagers tried to flee into the woods with their families, but were swiftly rounded up by the soldiers.

When they reached the house in the clearing a horn sounded and they all stopped whatever they were doing and made for the house.
Suddenly a brilliant white light appeared at the edge of the clearing, breaking the darkness, and a tall figure emerged in a black hooded cloak which completely obscured his face.

 

He walked with a huge black staff, polished and intricately carved into the form of a dragon wrapped multiple times around the staff , its head forming the top of the staff. The white light hovering above the wizard followed him as he strode towards the soldiers who hastily parted to let him through, as he entered the house. The woodsmen who had had left the house a few minutes earlier struggled to break free from the grasp of the two soldier who had restrained him as he came running out of the other house. He felt a heavy blow behind his head, then a burning pain for an instant, then everything went dark.

Aramun and the Wizard sat at the side of the road by the side of a small lake while the horses rested and had a drink.
Mirithan was smoking his pipe, deep in thought. Suddenly he winced sharply, looking up.
His face, went white and he grimaced as if in pain.

After a long pause, Aramun looked intently at the wizard with a quizzing look.

“Something has changed in the world this night.” said Mirithan almost whispering. “Two halves of a union have been separated. I sense this has caused a major shift in the world. Things are very much out of balance now.”
“Come Aramun!” he shouted jumping up, as he whistled, summoning his horse. “We must get to our destination with even more urgency now.”

Confused, Aramun followed, fetching his horse also. Mirithan was already back on his horse and hardly waited for the captain before he was riding unrelentingly in the direction of the road now.
They pushed hard to cover the final stretch between them and the road, the horses breathing had become laboured as they struggled through the thick snow.



The pale first light of approaching dawn was already making the stars begin to fade. It was shortly before sunrise that the two riders finally reached the road again. Mirithan did not stop here to allow the horses some respite as Aramun expected but now sped of at galloping pace South West along the road.

Aramun followed, stopping only to check a mile post on the road, checking the number on it, he knew they were less than two days ride now from the Garrison at North Bay Fort. The gateway to the Darlian pass through the mountains into Arshand.

Somehow the horses kept going. Aramun suspected Mirithans influence in that. The North Arshand highway ran close to the edge of the Terran Ice Desert and the going was at least easier for the horses than it had been when they had been travelling cross country. The windswept, barren landscape stretched out on both sides of the road in this isolated part of Erran, home to few people. Dwarves used to be common here, until the time men built the road to allow trade and the building of the port at Eruthan and the castle to protect the Northern coast of Erran, which due to its remoteness had always been a favourite landing place for invading armies and pirates. The dwarves were now rarely seen, having moved away into the mountains, delving deep and carving out great mines and halls into the deep heart of the mountains, building magnificent underground cities and honing their almost supernatural skills in masonry and stone work.