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 . . .
Shadowlords: Behind the Glass continues the story of the Shadowlords. Clyra and Brenac's prey is revealed as well what lies beyond the portal . . .
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