'Freedom or the Fire'- Chapter One, Memory of Birth

He dreamed, and found himself in the past.  The sun remained behind clouds in the sky over the land of Tamalaria, casting a gray haze over the hundreds of men and women encamped at the foot of Mount Toane.  Byron Aixler observed the overall effect the atmosphere had on his fellow Paladins and the other assembled combatants.  As he gracefully strode from group to group, he caught sight of almost every Race and Class to be seen in Tamalaria.

            Lycanthropes played roughly with one another in their animal forms away from the main camps.  Cuyotai, or rather Werecoyotes, numbered highest among the shape-shifters.  Byron didn’t see a problem with this. After all, the Cuyotai were the easiest lycanthropes to get along with.  Though tribal, they were an easy-going bunch.  Elves and Dwarves also walked about the camp, anxious and worried about the small army’s purpose in coming to Mount Toane. 

            All manner of magic wielder sat in the clear patches of scrub grass, meditating and gathering spiritual strength.  They would be pivotal in this final stand against the evil that lurked in Mount Toane.  Byron Aixler looked at the furrowed brow of one Pyromancer, the caster’s eyes squeezed shut, balls of fire circling his body in a protective barrier.  The heat that came off the man wrapped about Byron’s body causing fresh beads of sweat to drip down his rugged, wind-worn face. 

            At a little over six and a half feet in height, Byron was intimidating at first glance.  His silver, full plate armor shone in the brief glimpses of sunlight the clouds allowed, and his fluid movement even in such restricting armor only made him more frightening.  That is, if you didn’t know him.  Byron Aixler was a holy warrior, a Paladin.  His handsome smile flashed frequently when among his companions or when he was among the common people he sought to protect.  To these people, comfort and ease of mind settled like blankets on their hearts and minds when Byron came near.  But to the wicked, the unjust, and those consumed by darkness, his was a terrifying visage. 

            White light, the holy power granted to him by his faith, wrapped itself about his body.  His blade would appear in his hand as if by magic, and if you were a servant of chaos or evil, you generally had as long to live as you had tricks up your sleeve.  There had only ever been, in Byron’s time, two such persons who eluded him, the warlock, Tanarak of Sidius, and his apprentice, whose name no one knew.

            Those foul servants of the Pit sit in Mount Toane, coiled vipers waiting to strike, Byron knew.  This was the central command for Tanarak’s forces.  For years, the warlock influenced the land of Tamalaria in subtle ways, taking control and wreaking havoc slowly but surely.  Recently, Tanarak’s tactics had changed, however.  The warlock had sent waves of undead creatures and assorted Orcs, Ogres, and Lizardmen to assault major cities and Order of Oun outposts.  The damage caused had mounted quickly, and the number of innocent lives lost skyrocketed. 

            No Race was exempt, no group, no Class.  The Order of Oun, an organized militia of Paladins to which Byron belonged, had stood against Tanarak since the warlock first began his reign of terror. The free creatures of the land were attacked from all sides at all times.  Tamalaria had quickly fallen under Tanarak’s shadow.

            The warlock had even manipulated several political leaders over the years, and his forces met no resistance from these men of power.  Entire platoons of warriors were told to hold their position, to not resist what was going on.  By the time someone got up the courage to inform the Order of Oun, it was almost too late.  Tanarak had spread his evil to many places in the lands of Tamalaria, and few civilized cities or kingdoms stood against his new world order.

            Ultimately, Tanarak’s rise to power had brought Byron Aixler to where he was at that moment.  For two years, he led a resistance against Tanarak and his apprentice, gathering together all who sought to destroy the evil that had enslaved the land.  Most who joined the resistance were Werewolves, Cuyotai, Humans, Elves, and Dwarves.  A small handful of Gnomes joined, bringing their natural knack for strategy and magic to bear.  Almost every Class was represented in the resistance.

            Then, in the year 824 A.F., the resistance encompassed nearly every Race as well, including some that were less than nice or, Byron thought, trustworthy.  He didn’t particularly care for the Minotaurs, but their brute strength and willingness to fight to the death gave him good reason to keep a few in his own battalion.  Lost in all of this thought, Byron didn’t realize there was someone trying to address him until the squat Gnome kicked him in the shin-guard. 

            The little, white-haired man jumped around, holding his foot and cursing loudly.  It was Lee Toren, a Gnome Pickpocket and informant to Byron.  Lee only stood about three and a half feet in height, as did most of his Race.  His hair stood out in wild, unkempt white tufts on his head, and his bright green eyes squinted shut as he held his injured foot in his hand, leaning against Byron’s thickly built body and armor for support.

            Byron’s brilliant blue eyes bored into the back of Lee’s head, waiting for the Gnome to speak up.  After all, he had kicked Byron to get his attention, or so the Human Paladin had assumed.  When Lee finally looked up, he cleared his throat in a most uncomfortable and awkward fashion, as if to apologize without saying so.

            “Sorry abou’ that there, Byron,” he muttered.  “Some o’ the gents in the third battalion just want to know when exactly you all are going in.”

            “Soon enough, Lee Toren,” Byron said, patting the little man amiably on the head.  “Tell them, soon enough.  The Final Push cannot be rushed, for we enter into our enemy’s home territory.  None among us knows the layout of the inside of Mount Toane quite as well as its masters.  We must be properly prepared, my friend.  Go tell them that.  Especially Christopher Gray, as I know he is becoming impatient.”  He turned brusquely away from the thief, his thoughts shifting from his own comrades to questions about the dark warlock they all sought to defeat here.  Would he be able to do it when the time came? 

            Byron always regretted taking life but knew that sometimes it was necessary.  If he had the chance to grant mercy to the warlock and his apprentice, would he grant it?  He thought of his wife and son, left behind in a city safe from Tanarak and his minions.  Would Tanarak grant his family mercy, if he were given the chance?  Byron knew the answer even before he asked himself the question.  It would have to be the answer to his first question.

            But there occurred there, on the fields of Tamalaria and in the peaked colossus of Mount Toane, events to which the Dread Knight Byron of Sidius had not been witness.  In the shadows of a deep and lofty chamber within Mount Toane, Tanarak of Sidius prepared his traps for the impending assault on his mountain spire fortress.  Serpentine shadows coiled around pillars of rock as they jutted toward the ceiling from the floor. The spikes of stone were set in the tunnel leading to the throne room through the use of dark Gaiamancy, a form of earth-based magic that Tanarak twisted to his own ends.  Around these pillars, his apprentice had meticulously laid pockets of deadly Pyromancy, fire magic.  As soon as one of Byron Aixler’s companions approached, the magic would unlock, releasing a devastating cone of flames.  The fire would shoot like a column to the ceiling of the tunnel totally engulfing its victim.

            Yet, the magic was manipulated such that Byron Aixler himself would be unaffected.  No, the apprentice thought, smiling to himself smugly, the Master has other designs for that Paladin.  A thorn in our sides he has been and for too long.  The apprentice crept along the tunnel, further and further from the throne room and closer to the hubs and corridors that led throughout the rest of Mount Toane. 

            Into the center of the first large chamber he crept, pooling massive amount of magical energy, mana, into himself for use.  The apprentice threw back his hood to reveal a gruff, hard-lined face to the empty chamber.  Empty, he thought with the slightest hint of humor. Not so much so.  There were the skeletal remains of scores of warriors from ages gone by strewn about.  Mount Toane glowed with evil energy from without, and it had attracted many a hero to their deaths over the centuries. 

            The light in the chamber began to dim as the apprentice chanted in a low sort of hiss and began drawing runes in the air.  The symbols lit up in the air and seemed to solidify.  He chanted on, speaking in a strange tongue, long since dead to the world, but very alive to Necromancers.  With a final rune drawn, the apprentice threw his arms up, shouting as loudly as he could, “Arise!  Ye fallen ones, you are mine to command now in death!” 

            As the magic took hold, the mountain shook.  All of the remains began pulling themselves into vaguely human forms.  Some creaked, some smoked, and some others laughed.  All had a single purpose now, and the viper of satisfaction drew itself across the apprentice’s face. That purpose was to kill all intruders except for Byron Aixler.  Not that they would be any match for Byron, but they would be useful against the other troops.

            The day would be theirs.

            Byron Aixler looked out over the crowd of assembled warriors.  Paladins, Knights, sorcerers, mercenaries--it was certainly an impressive force to be reckoned with.  But, Byron felt the skittering, festering vermin known as doubt crawling around in his heart and soul.  Even with the magic at their disposal and the skills and technique of skilled warriors, he somehow knew that Tanarak had the advantage. 

            “Edgar,” he yelled, summoning his second-in-command.  Edgar Cesar was a Human Knight, well experienced in mass combat.  A rough-edged fellow, he had served for years as a Commander of the Parun Kingdom armies.  When war came to the Kingdom’s doorstep, courtesy of Tanarak’s forces, Cesar took his men and women to the battlefront with a fury and strategy that was unrivaled.  The warlock’s Orcs and Ogres numbered two thousand strong when they attacked the capital. Cesar led only eight hundred.  After six hours of battle, no Greenskin remained, and Cesar’s forces numbered five and a half hundred.

            But there had been spies throughout the capital for months doing the warlock’s bidding.  Some were in a position of power, and some were just assassins working as servants.  While the Commander defended the crown, the king and all of the ruling nobles were killed in shadows and silence.  Tired and fearful of a second attack wave, Cesar had his troops fall back into the captial itself.  They were ambushed by all manner of sorcerer and creature, and many fell in the assault.  Cesar removed himself from the carnage and ran to his king.  He expected to find his majesty surrounded by his Elite Guard.  What he found lying about were butchered men and a dead king.

            Now the battle-scarred and war-hardened veteran stood before a man of even greater experience in personal combat.  But Byron had little tactical expertise.  He relied on Cesar in the large-scale battles against Tanarak’s forces.  Yet again, he would need the tactical skills of the Commander.  “You called for me, Lord Byron?”

            “Indeed, Edgar.  I fear the situation looks easier than it should.  Any thoughts?”

            “Well,” said the Commander, looking off to the entrance of Mount Toane.  “The warlock Tanarak and his apprentice have the advantage insofar as position.  There is only one known way in or out of the mountain, and the path immediately bottlenecks once inside.  Our men will be forced to advance at a maximum of three abreast.  Of course, for the lycanthropes, the going shall be even tighter.  Once inside, we will have to assess the situation further.  I know little or nothing of the inside of the mountain, so we shall have to feel it as we go.”

            Byron looked into the stony countenance of the Commander, whose eyes said everything with a look.  This is going to be a massacre, they said. 

            “What of the mages?  How is the magic at our disposal divided,” Byron asked, looking at the legion once more.  Some were fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters.  All of them were someone’s children.  Some were close with their parents, others not so.  Many would never be heard from again.  None would be the same. That was for sure. 

            “Well, my lord, we have a host of Pyromancers, some Gaiamancers, a small handful of Aquamancers, and a few Q Mages.  Also, we have a single Summoner.”

            “Is she well guarded?” asked Byron, raising an eyebrow.  He didn’t care much for Summoners. Their Guardians seldom cooperated to the fullest measure and often didn’t give heed to their master’s allies. 

            “Actually, sir, it is a man.  And yes, he is well guarded.”  Byron gave this detail considerable thought.  A Guardian could be a useful tool in the fight, but inside Mount Toane, the creature might do more harm than good.

            “Have him removed, Edgar.  A Summoner is devastating out on the field, but the risk to our own men is too great.  Bring him a horse, and send him on his way.”  Edgar Cesar gave a mute nod and salute.  Within minutes, he had returned.

            “The Summoner has gone, sir.  Also, some of the mercenaries are complaining that they want better pay for this assignment.  How shall I deal with them?”  Byron smiled broadly.  He knew the value of most mercenaries rated fairly low, but he had brought in these particular men specially.  A contact of his, Lee Toren, if fact, had given these particular men a high recommendation.  They were little more than bandits and rogues and wanted fliers hung in many a province and kingdom, each depicting a separate member of this group.

            “Deal with them by giving them some coin from my personal tent.  Whatever they ask, supply it.”  The Commander winced ever so slightly.

            “Are these Black Vultures really worth so much, sire?  They are asking for a hefty pay increase.  Mightn’t it be best to reserve any payment until the battle is over?”  Byron caught the sign of a serpent’s smile creeping across Cesar’s lips.

            “Don’t worry, Edgar.  You know what they say; ‘Gold is easiest earned when taken from a dead man.’  Besides, it will raise their morale.  Now see to it.”

            “Of course, sire.”  His face returned to the stony, stoic gaze of a soldier. Cesar went about the business of paying the mercenaries.  Byron gazed at the gap in the mountain that made the only entrance and exit to Mount Toane.  Strange lights and noises flashed on and off from that cold, dark, forbidding archway.  It was time.  Byron strode towards the Generals’ tent, stepping into the center of the assembled leaders under his direct command.

            “Gentlemen, ladies,” he added with a slight bow to the two female Generals.  “It is time for the Final Push to begin.  Rally your men and women, break down camp, and make final preparations.  After all that, get them into formation.  I shall speak with them once more before we begin the siege.”  Byron looked from face to face.  Stern, taciturn countenances met his gaze, and each said roughly the same thing: so this is it.  Each of these Generals had come together for the same purpose, and that was to dispose of the warlock who had the realm of Tamalaria in his grip.  All were prepared to die for the freedom of their lands and peoples. 

            Dwarves, Elves, Lycanthropes, Humans, and even a tribe of Minotaurs had banded together to stand against the might of Tanarak of Sidius.  Many Trades of man and woman made camp here, waiting for the chance to take action.  Sorcerers, warriors, clerics, and even some thieves had come to join the fight.  All people in the lands of Tamalaria were under attack of some sort by Tanarak’s minions.  The people as a whole had a common enemy, and he was holed up like a rat with his right hand man in Mount Toane.  Revenge was the order of the day, and everyone wanted a heaping plateful. 

            “Lord Byron,” said Morek Rockmight, the leader of the Dwarven city of Traithrock in the Western Mountains.  “I don’t mind telling you that I’ve a bad feeling about this whole thing.”  Byron turned to the Dwarf and took a good look at him.  Morek was tall for a Dwarf, standing four and half feet in height, and the traditional beard and chain mail of his race hung on his person like trophies.  The only thing missing was the great iron war axe.  There was a good reason for this. Morek preferred the Trade of Boxing.  Silver gloves wrapped his hands, deadly heavy when striking, but light as a feather to the Dwarf.

            “I know you don’t like it.  Few of us do, really.  But we are here, and the time to strike is now.  I expect you will be ready shortly?” he asked, addressing them all.  A silent group nod and salute met him, and he walked out of the tent.  Already messengers were running about, giving the word to break camp and prepare for the battle ahead.  The Werewolves, Cuyotai, and Dwarves were the quickest to prepare for several reasons.  One, they did not observe the ages-old tradition of using tents and that sort of thing.  Cooking pits and some blankets were well enough.  Also, since they hunted for their food on a day-to-day basis, the packing of foodstuffs didn’t need doing. 

            Despite having several mundane tasks of preparation to worry about, most of the camp had been broken down and ranks formed within an hour and half’s time.  The army stood before Byron and his officers at the ready, a mix of fear, rage, and anticipation flowing from every pore in every body like a miasma.  The time of truth was at hand.  Byron strode up to the front of the lines, inspecting the men and women for any signs of weakness.  Everywhere he looked, he could sense fear, dread, and panic.  But he could also sense courage, determination, and a sense of acceptance.  Those who knew full well they had seen their last sunrise had come to terms with the truth of it.  A good sign, if Byron was any judge of character.  There would be no deserters. 

            He strode up to the top of a hill twenty or so yards away from the legion.  With a whip-like motion, he drew his sword and raised it over his head towards the heavens.  A mighty war-cry went up from the masses assembled.  The earth trembled, and the air took on an expectant atmosphere.  The smells of sweat and earthen loam rose up to meet the Paladin on the hilltop.  “Men and women of Tamalaria,” he shouted, starting his speech.  All went silent around him, even the birds that had been happily hooting meaningless sing-songs hushed up They too could sense something grand was about to begin.

            “We are banded here together today, for a single purpose,” he shouted, lowering his sword to his side and pacing back and forth.  “Men and women of all Races and Trades have come together under a single banner, under a single goal.  I see before me Elves, Humans, Dwarves, several breeds of Lycanthrope, Minotaurs, even a Dragon-kin Draconus or two!  Some of your Races and Trades have made war with each other before, and I know this is especially true between the Knights and the thief Trades,” he said, to which laughter met him as a response.  “But no matter your profession, you are here, wielding your tools, weapons, and skills not at each other, but at a common enemy!

            “I am proud to be leader of a motley bunch such as this!  As a Paladin, I have come to see the usefulness of some of those individuals I formerly jailed or silently disliked.  We shall need everything that every person here can offer us to win this battle!”  Another cheer went up from the legion, and Byron remained silent until it was over.  “I will not lie to you, though, or sugarcoat the truth of the matter.  Many of you will die today.  Some will die swiftly, some slowly.  Some will fall to the sword, and some will undoubtedly fall to magic of some sort.  But you know that already, don’t you?  You will go on to see your chosen deity, for truly you serve a good and noble purpose in being here. 

            “Some of you have families who shall never see you again, but you are here to ensure they are safe and free for the rest of their lives.  When the warlock falls, this land shall once more be free.  Now,” he said, clearing his throat.  This would be the final part of his speech, and it was familiar to him and all of the Paladins who belonged to the Order of Oun.  “I want you all to repeat after me; this statement is used by us of the Order of Oun, and I believe it applies to you all today.

            “’We, who stand against the darkness, shall see it banished by our holy light.  No matter the cost!’”  The legion repeated this, and began to chant the last four words as a battle mantra.  No matter the cost, no matter the cost, no matter the cost, they shouted.  “Stand by your comrades, carry out the orders of your officers, and if you should have to die, take your enemy with you!”  With a final thrust of his sword towards the sky, Byron turned and charged towards Mount Toane, the rumble of a thousand pairs of feet sending a wave through the earth from behind him.  He rode that wave all the way to the entrance of Mount Thuder.  It stood silent, the mountain spire in the midst of the northeastern plains that would forever be a grim monument to the free peoples of Tamalaria what the price of freedom truly was.

            Tanarak and his apprentice gazed into the bowl in the center of the throne room, watching as Byron Aixler led his armies into the entrance of Mount Toane.  From under his hood, the apprentice looked into the face of his master.  He saw there a quality he had yet to ever see, doubt.  He looked back to the image and watched as the legion broke ranks and flowed into the mountain with surgical precision and speed.  The assault appeared to be quite organized.  This came as little surprise, now that he thought about it.  After all, Tanarak had made many powerful enemies, men of experience in the arts of war.  Many of them likely ran behind the mighty Paladin into Mount Toane.  “What is your wish, master,” he inquired of the warlock.  Tanarak turned and stalked towards the entrance to the tunnel that would lead to the chamber that held Byron’s fate. 

            “Unleash the Shadowbeasts,” he hissed.

            “But, my lord,” complained the apprentice, taking a few steps toward his master.  “We were going to reserve them for the second stage!”

            “We cannot afford to dally around with the Greenskins and slaves, my pupil.  You have seen the determination in those men now, especially Byron.  Orcs, Ogres, and Goblins would stand no chance against the onslaught they are bringing us.  Give the order and begin calling to the undead warriors you have raised.  They are to show mercy only to the Paladin.  The rest must die, my apprentice.  When you are done,” he said, turning away from the pupil.  “Meet me in the chamber.  Let the fools come.”

            The first wave of skeleton warriors met the full force of Byron's legion, and despite their otherworldly presence, they powdered and flaked into dust swiftly, the mortals’ weapons destroying them utterly. Little else could be done to slow the progress of the mighty legion, until the Paladin Byron Aixler led them into the first large chamber.  At nearly a thousand men strong, the cave allowed many of the fighters into its expanse.  Edgar Cesar moved to the front, and he and Byron walked a short distance from the foremost ranks of their army. 

            "Sire," Cesar began, his face flushed from the exertion of running and charging, but not, curiously, from battle.  "There are four ways to go from this chamber.  Shall we send scouts?  There are Hunters to be put to use, sir."  As he panted, Byron looked his right-hand-man up and down, thinking over the situation. 

            "What is our head count, General Cesar," Byron asked, casting about at the entrances to the tunnels that lay on all sides.  For just a moment, he thought he spied a suspicious movement just off to his right.  That would be the tunnel he took, he decided, as he spotted a black cloak whipping up as someone ran away. 

            "We are nearly one thousand strong, sire," said Cesar, his eyes going cold and steely again.  Only the heat of a real challenge would break that sometimes disconcerting look, Byron knew.  He would give the General a chance.  It was only a matter of finding Tanarak, and thus, his more worthy creatures.  Byron's mind returned to the matter of splitting the army into smaller legions.  Though it stood to reason that dividing forces would be the more logical and time-efficient way of dealing with the battle, Byron didn't care for it one bit.  Cesar had been correct about one thing above all else: Mount Toane was home to Tanarak and his apprentice.  Therefore, it could be assumed that the advantage lay with the warlock and his lackey.  How they would turn that around, he didn't know.

            "One thousand, you say?" he asked, looking sidelong at Cesar.  "Very well.  Divide the men into five forces of roughly two hundred each with a General at the lead.  One group to each tunnel."  Cesar looked at Byron curiously, his hand on his helmet visor. 

            "Sire?  You seem to have miscounted.  There are four tunnels, sire, and five groups.  What is the purpose of the fifth group?"  Byron set his teeth and his gaze.  Once again, he saw movement in the tunnel to his right.  There was something about that figure that suggested leadership, power, and wickedness.  It poured from the creature in waves, and Byron knew without a doubt what the creature was. 

            "The last group will hold this chamber for one full day's time," Byron announced aloud.  "If we do not return by then, they will retreat to the nearest city and report to that area's leader that we have failed."  Byron slowly turned his head, his eyes boring into those of Edgar Cesar.  "Is that understood, General?"  For the briefest of moments, there was a flicker of an emotion present in those cold, coal-like eyes: doubt.  It festered for a moment in the back of Cesar's mind, dank and pungent.  With an effort, the Knight submerged it under the waves of duty, honor, and courage that he had fostered for so many years.

            "It is perfectly understood, sire.  Shall I prepare the divisions personally?" 

            "Yes," said Byron, taking a measured step back from Cesar.  "And, assign one to your command, one to mine, one to Morek Rockmight, one to Ugin Moag.  The division that remains behind will consist of the youngest fighters, and will be led by our young friend Christopher Gray."

            "He is Rimzan's son, is he not?" asked Cesar, referring to Rimzan of Gray.  Rimzan was well known as one of the mightiest Paladins the lands of Tamalaria had ever known.  Presently, however, Rimzan was engaged with creatures on the Isle of K'aolu.  But that is another story for another time.

            "Yes," said Byron.  "I think he would be most displeased with you and me, if he returned and found that his first born child had not been protected during this final fight against the dark warlock Tanarak.  Of course, if we were to die too, we wouldn't be too worried about it, would we now," he asked with a chuckle. 

Edgar's face had pinched up into the look of someone who is both confused and horrified, usually in that order.  Byron often spoke in this manner when he felt the odds were against him.  Yet somehow, this time seemed more, well, final.

            "Yes, sire," Cesar croaked.  He cleared his throat, and said, "I imagine the worst he could do is curse our eternal souls, or some such thing as Paladins are prone to doing.  No offense meant, of course, sire," he added a bit sarcastically.  If Death had ordained to come for him that day, then the least he could do was be something other than a soldier for a few minutes.

            "Why, none taken, thou blasphemous heathen," shot Byron with a grin.  The two warriors smiled at one another for a minute or so, and then nodded, their faces blurring for a moment as they turned from each other.  A collage of feelings ran their course over both men, but as they faced their legion, their faces were once again cast in stone.  Cesar moved about, informing the Generals of their posts and assignments, and then assigning squadrons to their leaders.  Once the commotion settled, Cesar returned to where Byron stood, just at the edge of the tunnel he'd been staring at.

            "Sire, the formations are complete.  When you are ready, give the word, and we shall set out."  Cesar seemed to hesitate, that worm of doubt crawling into his voice and eyes once again as he looked deep into Byron's eyes.  "And sire?"

            "Yes," asked Byron, a hint of a smile on his lips.

            "If we do not see each other again, I should like you to know that it has been an honor serving with you."  The stoic soldier extended one gauntlet towards the Paladin, placing the other on his helmet visor.

            "The same can be said for you, Edgar.  Let us go into battle, then, with clear conscious and ready body.  And may the Great God Oun protect you as he does me," Byron finished, shaking the offered hand.  With a snap, Cesar shut the visor of his helmet and turned away from the Paladin.  It would be the last time they would see each other alive.

            "Byron leads a separate battalion our way, my lord," rasped the apprentice into a small black orb.  Smoke plumed from the surface of the object, and he could hear Tanarak's reply.

            "Good, my apprentice.  Are the other battalions near their demise?"

            "Indeed, my lord," cooed the apprentice to the orb.  "They shall meet their dooms soon enough.  But there are a few who disturb me, lord."

            "Oh," asked the voice inside the orb.

            "Indeed, my lord.  There is a Dwarven Boxer by the name of Morek Rockmight.  He is mighty, and from what I have seen in my mirrors, he is also very thorough.  Even the Shadowbeasts fall before him easily."  Silence hung in the air.

            "Are there others," asked Tanarak via the orb, sounding the slightest bit testy.

            "Also, there is a Human Knight by the name of Edgar Cesar.  He is quite skilled, but unlike the Dwarf, there is fear in him.  I can smell it as one can smell sweat in a brothel.  It is very evident.  Lastly, lord, there is a Cuyotai by the name of Ugin Moag.  He seems to have some sort of enchanted bow and arrows, from what I have seen."

            "A Hunter, hmm," asked the voice of Tanarak through the orb.

            "Yes, lord.  And like any other Hunter, he is making some poorly judged moving on his own.  He commands a battalion, but they are having quite the time trying to keep up with him."

            "Good," echoed Tanarak's voice through the misty sphere.  "Get him alone, separated, and finish him off.  The others will follow as more of our forces are able to converge.  When the other Generals are dealt with, inform me.  I shall be waiting."  The pools of fog swirled once more in the orb before dissipating into nothing.  The apprentice smiled a knowing smile, and crept off into the tunnels once again.

            There seemed to be no end to the waves of undead creatures and Shadowbeasts, the black, humanoid-shaped demons from the upper layers of Hell.  Though considered minor demons, the Shadowbeasts tore through dozens of Byron's men at a time, and with mounting anger he realized that the creatures taunted and leered at him, but only struck his comrades.

            The pattern had become more apparent as his battalion pressed forward.  There would be a tunnel filled with skeleton warriors and zombies, and then a tunnel filled with Shadowbeasts.  In several of the chambers they passed through, there would be an amalgamation of both.  He and his legion cut through the warlock's minions like a scythe through a field of wheat, but because of the sheer number of creatures, it seemed an awfully large field with a quickly dulling blade. 

            Another factor that conspired against the battalion was their lack of knowledge as regards the inside of Mount Toane.  Not even Byron knew which way to go next; his instincts called softly out to him from the void, giving him directions and insight.  How much he could trust said instinct he knew not, but he wasn't being presented with any other options. 

            Once or twice, he thought he could see movement at the entrances to other tunnels that led further down into the mountain.  Something observed the battle taking place in the chamber he and his battalion fought in, but remained hidden by shadows and the flashing of steel.  Byron had a hunch what, or rather who, had been spying on him.  But why spy on him, he wondered.  Why not simply attack me while I am engaged as I presently am, he thought, blocking a blow from a Shadowbeast and plunging his blade into its skull. 

            It should be noted that Shadowbeasts do not bleed when struck, they sort of ooze shadows and turn to ashes.  As a result, the chamber had become enveloped in a black sort of fog that swirled throughout the available space.  A few of the remaining creatures under Tanarak's rule fled the battle, leaving only Byron and his battalion in the fog.  A soft, rhythmic beating flowed through the air, and Byron spun about to find its source.  Magic, he thought.  Something is using magic on the entire chamber, but what?  "Brothers," he shouted to the chamber at large.  "Prepare yourselves!  There is a wicked magic being used against us!"

            There came a flash of orange light from the passageway Byron had spied movement in during the fight in the high chamber.  Banshee wails rose up from the ground itself, screeching and moaning at such volumes that Byron was forced to his knees.  A great billowing wind rose up as well, swirling the ashes of the fallen Shadowbeasts into a black wall through which the Paladin could see nothing.  Yet still, despite the ear-splitting wails, the cone-wall of blackness, and the sudden shaking of the ground underfoot, Byron stalked towards the tiny shine of orange light coming from his enemy.  What he did not know, however, was that every other member of his battalion was seeing the same thing, from a different direction.  Before anyone knew it, Byron had been cut off from his allies.

            From somewhere deep in the mountain, a dry, whispery voice uttered a single sentence: "We have you now, Byron Aixler."

            The Cuyotai Hunter with the mystic bow and arrows had not been as foolish as he seemed, thought the apprentice bitterly.  Upon his fiery demise in a deep pit, which had been ingeniously disguised as a good sniper point, the magical weapon had unlocked some other spell.  This had sent the weapon hurling out of the pit, and indeed, out of the mountain, back to his village.  No matter, thought the apprentice.  That's one less magical weapon for us to deal with, at any rate.

            The Human Knight, the one called Edgar Cesar, had been a bit more of a challenge.  His battalion had consisted almost entirely of mercenaries and fellow Knights, and as a result the creatures in the next chamber they entered stood little or no chance against their onslaught.  But the apprentice had carefully arranged several Illusion spells to guide them into a trap-laden passageway, in which many of his locked spells laid in wait. 

            "Temis," called Cesar to one of the mercenaries.  "Move ahead and check that our path is clear," the Knight had called.  The mercenary had given a brief, obligatory nod before moving off.  He hadn't gone fifteen paces before he made a misstep, and triggered a Blasting Furnace spell.  Cesar watched as a dragon's head made of smoke blasted up from around the unsuspecting mercenary's feet, coiling about the small tunnel until it was face-to-face with Temis.  The stunned mercenary drew his sword and swung, but the spell could not be defeated so easily.  The mouth of the great smoke dragon opened, and a wave of blistering, searing heat washed down the tunnel, turning Temis and twenty more Knights into smoking heaps of seared muscle and organs in armor.

            Cesar had seen the spell once before and knew well enough to run back through the tunnel a way.  When the damage had been done, he returned to the front, and continued on, leading his battalion over the charred, mangled corpses the spell's victims.  Rarely had Cesar seen so many warriors killed by a single spell, but there seemed to be a great deal of magical power spent on making the Blazing Furnace spell work so well, and quickly.  A warlock of great power could cast such spells during battle, but there didn't seem to be any enemy present. 

            The spell, Cesar realized all too late, had been locked.  Locking a spell was a process by which a magic user could expend extra mana in order to leave a spell on an object or surface.  The spell would have a trigger condition, like someone stepping on a particular tile, or saying a certain phrase-

            "Or walking down a certain tunnel," he whispered to himself in horror, drawing his steps up short.  Before he could think to act, someone ahead of him stepped between two oddly shaped stalagmites, and a whole host of Pyromancy spells scoured down the length of the tunnel, feasting upon the flesh of nearly two hundred men.  Shouts turned into blood-garbled squeals of pain, heavy plates of armor became heating plates, and for one or two men, helmets became cooking pots in which their skulls bubbled and congealed into a fine, pasty stew. 

            As his left eye erupted in a shower of pus and blood, Edgar Cesar could barely squeak out the words, "Good-bye, Byron." A few minutes later, the only sound that could be heard in the tunnel was the hissing and steaming of burnt flesh.  Among the smoke, a shadowy form crept toward the fallen Knight.  Clean up, thought the Knight with his last moments.  As the creature reached him, he plunged into a cold, empty darkness.  We have failed.

            As for Morek Rockmight, he wasn't having any of that sort of thing.  Any Dwarf worth his weight in salt (which would have been a lot of salt) would be capable of seeing an ambush from a mile off.  Morek could see one from further than that.  And another thing Dwarves are noted for, is their keen ability to detect magic in almost all of its forms.  As a result, Dwarves are the most difficult Race to pass off an Illusion spell on.  So when Morek and his battalion entered a chamber with two passages, one of which had a strong Illusion spell trying to make it look like barren rock, he led nearly two hundred men through a wall.  At least, that was how the non-Dwarven soldiers saw it.

            His battalion had fought for a good while against the warlock's forces, and showed little or no sign of letting up.  While this troubled the apprentice, he found he could adapt to the situation quite nicely.  With a minimum of effort, he used a few simple Gaiamancy spells to shape a new tunnel in the mountain; one that led outside of Mount Toane.  Morek followed the tunnel, thinking the throne room to be at the end, where the light was.  But as he got outside, he saw that he had led his men straight out of Mount Toane. 

            When he turned around to lead them back in, the mountain had closed up.  "Blasted sorcerer," he muttered under his breath.  But there was no help for it.  His battalion would meet up with Gray's group, and they would in turn wait for Byron and his men. 

            Now all that remained for the apprentice to accomplish was luring Byron Aixler into his master's trap.  It wouldn't take much to bait the Paladin, thought the apprentice.  Just something to kick up his rage.  The apprentice ran through the catacombs of Mount Toane like a rat in a maze, one that knows exactly where the cheese is.  Bait, he thought as he hustled along.  What would make good bait for the Paladin?  As he stepped over the charred, blackened remains of one of the legion's members, he sniffed the air.  The putrid scent of burned flesh lingered in the air, hovering about in an invisible fog.  Despite the obvious method of death, a chill wrapped around the tunnel's walls, much as some snakes coiled around their victims. 

            There came a sudden movement from the floor at the apprentice's feet, and he leapt back, cat-like, from a single outreached arm.  Said arm was the color of used coals from a military cooking fire, and appeared to contain all the strength of the average domesticated house cat.  Was this creature one of his, he wondered.  Had something survived this magical trap that none of the others had?  If so, how?  Curious, the apprentice cautiously approached the outstretched arm.

            As he came to a halt over the body, the apprentice threw back his head and cackled with maddened glee.  Edgar Cesar, the Knight!  Though the man's eyes were no longer in his own head, he was clinging to life.  "Wh, wh-, who's there," whispered Cesar to the invisible world around him. 

            "I am the humble servant of Lord Tanarak," said the apprentice in his best 'I'm just the butler' tone of voice.  A strangled gargling noise escaped Cesar's mouth, and what little blood was left to his body came slowly dripping over the edge of the man's lips.  "And you appear to be a very unfortunate little soldier who has been rather nastily injured, my good man.  Would you like me to make the pain go away," the apprentice asked, cooing sweetly and sarcastically.  The sheer amount of pain and suffering Cesar was experiencing filled the apprentice's mouth with the taste of his own saliva; he savored every bit of agony the Human Knight lived through.  It would be worth keeping the man alive, he thought, if just to feed his own dark powers and tastes with the pure torture of the man's mind, body and soul.

            Something had grabbed his leg, tightly, and when the apprentice looked down, Cesar had managed to get a good grip on him and a short, curvy sort of dagger.  "There, will be, justice," moaned Cesar as he swung the blade around.  The apprentice deftly grabbed the offending limb by the wrist and twisted, breaking the bones and disarming the Knight.  He stood to full height, muttering words of the oldest tongues, used only for dark magic.  A ripple like a shock wave distorted the air, and the faintest sound of breaking glass echoed out in the tunnel before a single bolt of Toane magic blasted from the apprentice's hand down through the already-ravaged body of the Knight.

            "Such heroic nonsense," the apprentice growled, a sadistic smile curling the corners of his mouth.  This body, he thought.  I'll drag it along.  Surely Byron Aixler will come after his friend and ally! 

            There comes a moment in every great game of chess, when the winning player realizes, quite clearly, that they have the game set and won.  For the apprentice, that time was now.

            Throngs of undead creatures and Shadowbeasts assailed Byron from all sides as he chased after the shadowy figure that remained always a little ahead of him.  But these creatures fell aside like so much hacked brush as the Paladin charged ahead, a single task burning in his head and in his heart.  I must catch him, thought Byron.  The apprentice will know where the master is, and when I have found the master, this shall all be over.  His course of action set, Byron allowed no one thing to get in his way.

            After some time, when he began to despair that he was running a wild goose chase, he entered into a high, empty chamber.  The only distinguishing feature was a sort of throne hued from the mountainous rock itself, and what appeared to be bones.  On the far side of the chamber, the apprentice could be seen in full light.  Shadows wrapped about the man's face, a sort of magic Byron realized was used to conceal his true identity.  He had heard of such magic, but saw little use for it, unless one made their living by less than honest means. 

            The apprentice seemed to be holding something behind him.  As the blue-cloaked figure stepped forward, Byron could see a man. It was Edgar Cesar, scorched and blasted beyond hope of survival, held by the apprentice.  "Byron Aixler," the apprentice hissed softly across the chamber.  "Do you recognize this man?"  The question mocked him, for Byron could tell by the tone of voice that the apprentice already knew the answer.  "His fate has been decided, as you can see.  The Grim Reaper waits with baited breath for this man to give up the fight.  Do you see how his chest still rises and falls," the apprentice asked. 

            Byron squinted hard, and could see the slightest rise and fall of Edgar's chest.  He's alive, Byron thought.  There may be a chance to save him yet!  "Yes, I can see this, foul servant.  Unhand him, and I shall spare you your miserable life!"  Byron brandished his sword, mentally preparing a host of Paladin spells in his mind.  He would have to be swift about this.

            "If you want him that badly, come and get him!"  With a single motion, the apprentice darted down the tunnel he stood in front of, Edgar Cesar's body following behind on a wave of magic.  Surely this is a trap of some sort, Byron reasoned.  But I cannot leave him to his fate.  No Paladin, regardless of their chosen God, would allow an ally and friend to be dragged to certain death.  Sword in hand, Byron chased after the apprentice.

            Several minutes earlier, the apprentice had informed Tanarak that his task had been completed, and he would be arriving with Byron Aixler in tow.  As the warlock's right-hand man charged towards the chamber his master had prepared for this, he felt the rush of adrenaline stampede through his body, an unstoppable bull trampling over all of his fears and doubts.  The master's plan had worked; but then again, if it hadn't, he would already be dead himself.  This thought and all others not directly associated with the task at hand flew from the apprentice's mind, and he focused on the tunnel ahead. 

            For twenty solid minutes they ran, the Paladin chasing his query with unrelenting purpose.  On one or two occasions, Byron risked sending a bolt of holy energy hurling towards his prey, but each time the spell was nimbly avoided.  Finally, as the apprentice passed through a narrow doorway of a sort, Byron stepped into a chamber filled with all manner of alchemy devices.  Tomes of dark lore lay open on a bench off to his right, and as he took his first full step into the chamber, a dozen bolts of magical lightning surged into his body.  Pain swept through his body, the power of Toane magic coiling through his muscles and seeping through his veins like venom. 

            His body twitched and cavorted, wracked with pain that few men could ever withstand.  As the last bolt released its grip on him, Byron fell flat to his chest, his weapon falling from his hand.  He hit the stone floor with a mighty thud of metal armor and the slight smacking noise of his forehead connecting with the floor.  Darkness crept in on the corners of his vision, and spread, plague-like, to cover all he could see.

            When he awoke, Byron found himself strapped to a wall, facing a mirror.  The bonds that held him appeared to be simple shackles, but he could sense the dark magic laying dormant, waiting for just the right trigger.  The sweet scent of wild flowers lingered in the air, but the metallic taste of blood in his mouth contrasted this.  Just as he felt ready to test the limits of his bonds, a shape appeared to stalk out from the shadows across from him.  Two shapes, to be exact.

            The first he knew already to be the apprentice, for he had confronted and chased the man.  The second he knew by process of elimination.  "Tanarak of Sidius," he growled, spitting at the warlock's feet. 

            "Byron Aixler," hissed the warlock, pulling back his hood.  The face revealed by that action was as pale as a sheet of parchment, the flesh sullen and waxy.  Blue lines laced the framework of a pitiless face, with eyes so dark and devoid of mercy that they seemed depthless.  "You have been a thorn in our sides for some time, young Paladin.  I wonder, how shall we punish you for your insolence?"  The warlock took a step forward, and reached a hand out to caress Byron's cheek.  The contact with his flesh made Byron's mind shriek with rage, and his own skin crawled at the chill of Tanarak's touch. 

            "You may torture or kill me if you like, warlock, but there shall always be someone to resist you," Byron whispered, trying to maintain his calm.  "And the next time, they may not be so foolish as I.  I allowed myself to be lured into your little trap, but the next warrior may be possessed of less heart than I.  Your apprentice has served you well."  Tanarak smiled widely, revealing a set of razors in his mouth where teeth should have been.

            "Indeed, he has," Tanarak cooed, stepping back and patting the apprentice on the shoulder.  "And so shall you, Byron Aixler."  Byron looked around the chamber, a cold sweat breaking on his brow.  Was that what these two had had in mind all along?  To try to use some form of Alchemy to bend Byron's mind and spirit to their ends?  He would die first, he decided.  The Great God Oun would greet him in Heaven, and there he would be able to take rest and refuge in the holy light of his being.  Yes, he thought, I shall die before I serve one such as him.

            "My lord," said the apprentice, as he reached for one of the tomes on a bench.  "Shall we begin?"  Tanarak said nothing, but instead began directing a coil of purple energy into Byron's chest.  Strangely, there was no pain, there was only a spreading sensation of wet coolness, like a river in midwinter. 

            "What do you intend to do, warlock," Byron screamed at Tanarak, surging forward against his restraints.  "Do you intend to turn my body into one of your monstrosities?  Ha!  My soul shall ascend into the Heavens of the Great God Oun, and from that height I shall watch as your pathetic and corrupt essence is dragged kicking and screaming into the fiery pits of the Hells!"  Tanarak, not moving to disrupt his ritual, smiled a mirthless grin.

            "No, Byron Aixler, you are wrong.  For with this spell I shall imprison your very soul in the thing I make of you!  You shall be forced to watch for all time as I command your new being to lead my forces, and crush all who oppose me in my name!"  For a fleeting moment, Byron panicked.  But no such magic exists, he thought.  I shall die, and my body shall be used as his puppet, nothing more.

            It was at this point that the apprentice began channeling mystic force into Byron's body.  Now the sensations of pain and agony spilled into him with the weight of a war hammer.  Never before had the Paladin experienced such a feeling.  But the pain only lasted a moment, and as he watched, Byron felt himself being somehow locked inside of his own mind.  He could still see the warlocks, the chamber around him, he could still smell the stench of burning flesh and black magic.  Yet, somehow, he felt detached from it all.

            Without willing it to be so, Byron's view had become locked on the mirror across from him.  His breast plate had become blacked, and where his cross should have rested in the center, there sat the crest of Sidius.  Also, he saw now why he smelled burning flesh; his head had become a bare skull, his eyes nothing more than two red pinpoints of light in their sockets.  He appeared to have physically grown as well, and spikes of bone shot forth from his shoulder plates.  Byron watched with mounting dread as he saw himself, or rather the thing he had become, lurch forward once the shackles were removed.  Try as he might, he could not get his own body to do anything he wanted it to.  He wanted to thrust his sword, placed in his hand by the apprentice, into said man's stomach and twist.  Yet, he could not.  All he could do, was watch and listen.

            "Now," cooed Tanarak in a voice edged with pride.  "You are Byron Aixler no longer.  What then, is your name, my newest General?"  Byron mentally refused to answer, but though there were no ears to hear with, he nonetheless heard the response.

            "I am Byron of Sidius, master.  General of Tanarak's armies, and servant to he and his apprentice."  In his mind, Byron screamed a banshee wail.  How could this happen?  Such magic should not exist!  And yet here it was, staring back at him through a mirror, evidence that Tanarak possessed the blackest soul on the whole of the land.

            "And remember this," hissed the apprentice, stepping forward just a bit.  "Our life force is tied to yours.  Even if you gain the slightest control of your body again, Byron, you cannot raise your hand against us.  To do so will mean your death.  Now, be a good little boy, and go take care of the ones who await your return at the foot of Mount Toane.  When you are done, return here to us.  Do you understand?"

            "Yes," growled Byron of Sidius.  "I understand."  Weapon in hand, the creature that Byron Aixler had become set off into Mount Toane, to kill his former allies.