The Tale of the Shadowlords

Primus Cantos
In the quiet of the dark, when the last rays have bled from the horizon, an old man takes the prized seat in the old inn. The comfiest chair has been placed in front of the roaring hearth, but even that hellish blaze can barely take the bite out of the unearthly cold being experienced here in Albion. Unnatural some say, cursed weather others.

The chair was placed there by the inn keeper. A tall, gaunt man with a constant frown on his face. For those who do not know him, one would call him cold and aloof, but Jerric is a kind soul. He is a constant worrier, and cares deeply for his fellow villagers. He brought the old man here to take some of their troubles away, ease the cold that little bit more. That other cold.

The old man coughs and a hush falls over the common room. Everyone from the village has gathered here this evening, most with full, frothing mugs of ale in hand or a cup of mulled, spiced wine. The children have cups of milk, and lay huddled around the old man's feet. Partly because they don't want to miss a syllable, partly to keep the shadows away.

"Let me tell you a story of a time long past. Let me tell you a story of a race long since dead."

There was as a sing-song quality to the old man's voice which seemed both out of place, yet comforting at the same time. Jerric frowned at the introduction to the story, but trusted his old friend too much to stop him too soon.

"The Harogarn mountain range cuts a ragged scar through the east of Legend, an enemy the Caliphate of Zhenir has never been able to defeat. The rolling hills of the western edge of this harsh land are inhabited by yak herdsmen of the Ta'ashim faith. They eke out a meagre existence from the hills and their herd, but are mainly a contented lot.

"As we move deeper into the range, one notices that the surface is pock marked. The mountains are dotted with cavern entrances, some inhabited by strange creatures, other inhabited by dwarves. These caverns form the entrance of their mighty settlements, all built around veins of ore as thick as your wrist. They often have to contend with Ta'ashim raids, which fuels the hatred the dwarves feel for mankind."

"But aren't they mankind?"

A small voice cuts the flow of the old man's tale, but he smiles as he reaches down to tousle the young boy's hair.

"No son, they are different to us. Shorter, with thick beards."

Jerric uses this halt in the story to bring the old man another mug of ale. He places the new mug on the stool next the storyteller, and grabs the old one, all in one, fluid movement. The old man smiles thankfully, and takes a deep draught of the ale before continuing again.

"As we move further east, we reach Gonhala. A high plain inhabited by centaurs and other mystical beasts. The plain is brown, plain and desolate. Only a few primitive humans live there, like cave men of olden times. It is almost like walking into another time altogether. An age long lost, an age long past."

The fire crackles and pops, casting strange flickering patterns on the leathery skin of the old man. He was paused, eyes caught by the ebbing fire, as his face is painted in shadow and light.

Shadow and light.

"Gonhala plain forms the centre of the Harogarn mountains. It is long and wide, and it takes many days to cross from the north to the south of it. Some say that the ground is littered with diamonds, gems and rubies, but few have returned to say whether 'tis true or not. Some say the precious gems are the long lost treasure of the Shadowlords."

"Who are the Shadowlords?"

This time it is Jerric asking the question, and blushes in embarrassment as he realises he has been caught in a careful web woven by his friend. The other villagers laugh, joined by Jerric and the old man, all enjoying the craft and skill demonstrated this ancient storyteller.

"If we stop for a moment on our eastern journey, to turn around and look behind at what was, we will notice the shadows of the three giants we have been walking under. Danak. Lurken. Vasgor. The three Titans of the Gate of Time. Constant as time itself. They sit there, like old men, brooding and thinking.

"Waiting.

"If we gazed upwards at these giants, we would notice a wide rock shelf, overlooking Gonhala. Twice as high as the village is long, it looks from far below as if it could touch the sky. It is five times as wide as the village is long, and on it . . ."

Here everyone shifts forward, unnoticed by all except the old man and his friend. Jerric smiles, knowing he isn't the only one who has been caught up in the old man's story.

". . . lie the ruins of the Citadel of the Shadowlords."

* * *

It was not a hard rain, more of a drizzle. Not hard enough that you get so wet that you don't care about the rain any more, but not light enough that you payed it no mind. It was an uncomfortable drizzle, noticeable, yet not hard enough that you're soaked to the bone. It didn't improve the two trackers' moods.

The rain had turned the normally earthy and loamy soil underneath their feet into a muddy morass. It stuck to their leather boots with every tread of their feet. It rained into small brown rivers down the lay of the land: uneven, chaotic and tricky. The thick vegetation only made matters worse. The tall trees which reached to the sky were easy to avoid, but they were always surrounded by small bushes and shrubs, clustering around the base of the tree for protection. Each year they would grower further and further away from the trees until they linked up to form an impenetrable understorey. Some parts were already like that, and it just made matters worse.

"Maybe we should go back?"

The first tracker, a tall, lanky male, stopped as he uttered his question. His chest rose and fell raggedly, as he wiped his long blonde hair out of his face, and re-adjusted the leather thong that was suppose to prevent this from occurring in the first place. His crystal-blue eyes darted around his surroundings, even while he rested, as if he believed that every tree and shrub could hide unknown dangers. He wore a figure hugging set of leather pants and tunic which allowed him greatest freedom of movement as well as a moderate amount of protection. The leather had been dyed in browns and greens to allow the wearer of such clothes to easily blend into the environment.

"I'm not going to let him get away, Brenac!"

Where the man's voice had been warbling and unsure, his companion's was steel-tinged hardness. The anger in her voice could still not hide the potential softness and sweetness of the voice, however it was hidden. Like her companion, the woman wore a figure hugging set of leather, but her auburn hair was cropped to the neck and tied back with a bandanna. Hard as the rain tried, it could not dampen the curly vitality of that hair, nor the spirit to whom the hair belonged.

"But Clyra, we've lost his tracks."

Brenac's voice had an almost winging tinge in it, as if he was sick of tire of this search. He would never say it out aloud, because he respected Clyra too much.

He also respected her temper.

"Just another half an hour, and then I'll agree we should turn back."

Brenac smiled at his small victory, but Clyra didn't notice. She had already turned her back and was once again gliding through the forest. Brenac easily kept pace, but would always remain a step behind. A step to the side.

They didn't need half an hour.

For after another five minutes of running, the path they had been following opened up into a huge clearing. The clearing sloped gently downwards to form a bowl-like valley. In the centre, a rectangular, glassy surface stood, protected by a stone arch. Around the arch, lay the remains of a camp: the dying embers of a fire, the remains of a meal, the hastily covered latrine.

"He was here!"

Brenac's head snapped around to stare at Clyra full in the face. But one can only look into those emerald eyes for so long.

"How do you know?" he asked, gazing away.

"Look," said Clyra, pointing to a broach which had been dropped in the mud.

Brenac bent to pick it up, while Clyra examined the arch. The brooch was in the shape of some kind of beetle, with a sapphire as it's shell. Only one house in the Empire used such a design. No other house would dare.

Brenac's attention was soon drawn away from the brooch when he noticed a purple glow. As he scanned the surrounding area, he found the glow was emanating from the arch, the glassy surface now a pulsating, rippling surface of energy.

"Clyra! No!"

Even as the words escaped his mouth, Clyra had stepped through the portal and disappeared. As soon as she had passed through, the edges of the surface seemed to freeze back to its original, glassy surface.

Before he could mutter a curse, he followed . . .

* * *

The old man had stopped, and his mug was casually held in one hand: empty. Jerric moved forward to refill the glass, but the old man waved him away.

"I think that's enough for one night."

He smiled his toothy grin as his captivated audience groaned in disappointment. It always pleased him when he captured an audience like this, but villagers were always more readily accepting of good stories than nobility.

The old man rose, again waving away Jerric's offer of assistance, and shambled up the stairs to his room upstairs. As always, Jerric had reserved his best room, the one with the glass window which overlooked the fields. Jerric always though the old man deserved better but he had little else to give.

The villagers, once the storyteller was well out of earshot began chatting in earnest about the story. In was another full hour before the last stragglers had returned to their rooms in the inn, or own houses. Jerric did a final check on all the locks around the inn before retiring for the night himself.

In the shadows, the old man smiled.

And outside the rain began to beat a slow, mournful beat . . .

Behind the Glass
Winter had deepened her icy grip on the land. Her cruel breath lashed the huddle of buildings that made up the village, buffeting them with ire born out of despair. All save one of the buildings was empty. All save one cared. The inn.

Within, the villagers had gathered once more to hear the old man speak of times long gone. Times long past.

"An age where magic was common place."

The old man paused to take a measure of the crowd, and was pleased to see no extra work would be required to ensnare this audience.

"But what happened to Clyra and Brenac?"

The old man smiled. No work at all.

"Ahh . . ."

* * *

A cold, dark shadow moved in the half-light surrounding the prone body. Shards of light, creeping through the cracks in the ruined wall, illuminated the body. The shapeless form had to be careful, as though it could survive in the half-light; the full streams of light would be its undoing.

The mirror on the wall was still glowing, casting off an ethereal glow, but was losing its power. Already the mirror was turning back to its natural state near the frame, glassy reflections of self. The surface rippled again and another figure was hurtled into the room. The shadow fled into a corner of the room, trusting the inky blackness to protect it.

The figure tumbled to the floor, rolled once and stopped. This one, however, shook itself after a while and pushed itself up. It looked around the room frantically, until it noticed the prone form in the centre.

"Clyra!"

Ahh, Clyra. These things like names to wrap themselves up in, but what to do?

Unable to come to a decision, the shadow slinked off.

* * *

It seemed to have taken an eternity, though Brenac passed through the portal instantaneously. It's what happened in that instant that took an eternity.

He tumbled into the room, rolling into a huddle on the floor. He shook himself, trying to clear his head of all the strange things he had witnessed on his journey. Realising where he had been and what he had done, he looked around the room, eyes darting frantically.

"Clyra!"

He rushed to the inert form of his companion shaking her desperately but she would not awake. He looked around in an effort to orient himself, until he located the portal. It was returning to its original mirror state. Even as he rushed towards it he knew it was futile. Even if he had reached the portal in time, how would he have kept it open?

He slammed into the mirror, smacking his fists against the unyielding glass. He let out a wail of frustration.

"Why Clyra? Why did you have to follow?"

He hung his head, unable to finish. He didn't expect an answer, but he got one all the same.

"Because she was every stubborn."

Brenac whirled around, trying to find the source of this melodious, sure voice. All he could see were pools of darkness formed by shafts of light.

"Show yourself," demanded Brenac, still searching.

Silence.

"As you wish."

From out of one of the pools stepped a man, long, untamed hair flowing behind him. Black as death. His grey eyes narrowed, they looked like the sea after a storm. They seemed somehow appropriate.

Brenac took a step back, mouth agape.

". . ."

"Come, come lad. We've know each other too long."

The man took a step forward; the shadows dropping from him like a cloak. It was easy to understand how one could have missed him at first glance. He wore an outfit made of some strange, black metal that moved and flowed even when the man was still. He wore nothing more than a shirt, pants and boots, yet he looked dangerous, Each step was clam and sure, each movement was calculated and concise.

"Well?"

Brenac still could not bring himself to speak. This made the man throw his head back and laugh, sending echoing peals of laughter bouncing off the walls.

"Let's take Clyra somewhere safe to recover first, shall we?"

The man stepped forward, but Brenac put himself between Clyra and the man. This brought a wry smile of amusement to the man's lips but he turned instead, walking through one of the arches leading out of the room. The smile had not touched his eyes.

"Safe from what?" asked Brenac, regaining his voice and looking around nervously.

The man was already half way through the arch, forcing Brenac to run to catch up. The corridor beyond the room seemed to be in better repair. For one thing it had none of the breaches the room had, and for another it had torches lining the walls. The strange man had one of the torches in his hands, and was walking casually to door at the other end of the corridor.

Brenac caught him up as he pushed the door open. He stood aside and indicated that Brenac should enter. He did so, and turned to see the man peer down the corridor as if checking for something.

"Safe from what?" Brenac asked again, as the man entered, closing the door behind him.

"This and that," replied the man cryptically.

"That's not very helpful Atik."

"Place Clyra on the bed," responded Atik, smiling, pointing at one corner of the room.

Looking at the corner indicated Brenac notices there is in fact a cot in this room. Realising he doesn't even know what this room is, he asks Atik.

"This is my study, one of the few safe places in the citadel."

Atik's words ring true, as the medium size room is sparsely furnished with a small cot and a desk. The walls can not be seen as they are covered by shelves, and on them all manner of strange books. Their spines are all the colours of the rainbow, some with fancy scrollwork and others plain and simple.

"Brenac!" said Atik sharply.

Brenac realises he has been standing in the middle of the room with Clyra in his arms. He carefully put her in the cot and turned to ask Atik a question . . . except Atik had left the room. Brenac was about to open the door they had came through when he heard-

"I wouldn't go wandering around in this place Brenac."

Atik had entered through a door opposite to the one they had originally entered the room through. Atik quickly closed the door behind him, and Brenac felt that Atik didn't want him to know what was beyond the door. In his hands he carried a tray with two pots of steaming broth, and a plate of cheese and bread.

"Please excuse the rough fare, but I don't often entertain guests. Once you have eaten and refreshed yourselves, I will send you back through the mirror."

"But -" started Brenac, wanting to point out Clyra was still unconscious.

"We aren't going back without you, husband."

Clyra rose a little from the cot, before the room started spinning. Brenac rushed to he side, but she brushed off his help. She pushed herself into a sitting position, her feet dangling over the cot.

"Of course. Once you have eaten and refreshed yourselves, we'll all go back through the mirror." Atik smiled as he said this, but there was no humour in his eyes. "Please," he continued, inclining his head towards the food, as he set it on the desk, "eat first."

Brenac didn't hesitate, and Clyra soon joined him at the desk. Neither bothered to sit as they dipped chunks of bread in the hot broth. Atik smiled, and turned to leave.

"Where are you going?" asked Clyra.

"To get some chains for you to take me back in," replied Atik smiling. When he didn't get a smile in return, he added, "I have a few things to attend to."

Atik exited through the southern entrance, the one that led back to the mirror. Brenac frowned at this, but resumed eating after a little while. Once the bread and cheese had been consumed, Brenac and Clyra sat themselves of the cot. The only other place to sit on would be the lone chair in front of the desk.

"How long have I been out?" quizzed Clyra.

"Not long. Five, maybe ten minutes."

"And has Atik told you anything."

"Very little, and all of it strange. He says that this room is one of the few safe ones in the citadel, yet he won't tell me what we are in danger from."

"That's Atik for you. Always full of riddles."

Clyra shook her head, and stood up to examine the books.

"He also said that we shouldn't wander around the place."

"He would."

Clyra picked up a volume and examined the cover. It didn't have a title, not one she could read.

"What are these?" asked Clyra, waving the book in her hand.

"How should I know?" responded Brenac, testily.

Clyra frowned, and put the book back. She then walked to the southern entrance and opened the door.

"Atik said we shouldn't go exploring," reminded Brenac.

"You such a coward Brenac."

"I didn't get us into this mess. Remember?"

Clyra ignored the snide remark and gazed down the corridor. It went on beyond her eyesight.

No use just hanging around here, she thought.

She started down the corridor, not caring whether Brenac followed or not. The curse she heard behind her indicated that Brenac had decided to follow. It was long until the got to a T-junction. Clyra stopped, and look through the archway.

"That's where we arrived," said Brenac. He pointed to the mirror, "That's what we came through."

"And is how we are going to get back."

Brenac just grunted.

They continued on, and after a while they passed a door that Clyra ignored. In fact, they passed four doors, until the came to the end of the torchlight. The corridor continued on into the darkness, but the last torch stood just beyond a door in front of which Clyra stood.

"Why this door?" asked Brenac.

"Atik has obviously been exploring. He started by making a base of operations, and worked his way down this end of the corridor. So this is more that likely the newest area of exploration."

Clyra opened the door, expecting to surprise Atik. However, the door opened up into a large hall. The hall was empty, except for the remains of what would have been a dining table or bench, a few chairs and a number of banners. At the far end of the hall was a large, ornate staircase leading down. The only lighted path led to the staircase. The recesses of the hall lay in darkness.

Clyra strode forward with Brenac in tow. She confidently alighted down the stairs, but stopped at the bottom. Brenac had to reign himself short to stop himself bumping into Clyra.

"What is it?"

Clyra simply pointed. The flight of stairs lead into a circular room, with Atik huddled over a strange device in the centre of the room. What took Clyra's breath away was that built into the walls were mirrors, just like the one they had arrived through. Except these ones were activated.

Shadowlords: Through the Portals continues the story of the Shadowlords. Clyra and Brenac discover the purpose of the portals, and Atik's plans...